In my wildest dreams, I never thought the day would come when I could sit down with Emily and be civil. In the first place, she’d never been quick about admitting her mistakes, and I couldn’t believe she was actually coming around, even under the laughable auspices of catching up with “friends.” In the second place was how we’d left things after the property transfer. That whole affair had been acrimonious thanks to the fact she’d stiffed me for several months of mortgage payments despite promising to pay her half until we found a buyer.
So why am I even doing this? Because I’m lonely. I didn’t even realize how much until the other night when I saw Mari Tirado out with her friends. I want a life like hers, and I’ve done nothing to get there. My only real friends outside of work are Edith and Mordy, and I haven’t had a single date since Emily left.
Of course, none of that means anything unless Emily shows up tonight ready to admit all of the crap that happened between us was her fault. One hundred percent.
Rush hour traffic had thinned by the time I pulled onto the Dolphin Expressway, so much that my plan to arrive fashionably late required driving around downtown for a few minutes. What I hadn’t counted on was a new set of construction barricades on Biscayne Boulevard that forced traffic into one lane, and I soon found myself even later than I’d intended. It was no surprise when my cell phone rang.
“I’m stuck in traffic,” I said, not even checking to see who it was.
“Is this Daphne?”
The husky voice shocked me so much I forgot to keep up with the car in front, prompting an outrageous horn blast from behind.
“This is she.”
“Mari Tirado. How are you doing?”
“Great…great.” Pretty damn great, actually.
“Is this a bad time?”
There was no such thing as a bad time for Mari to call. “No, I’d much rather talk to you than kill someone with my car.”
“That’s you, always dangerous. I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight. I know it’s short notice, but Pepe gave me a couple of tickets to the Arsht Center. The Hungarian Philharmonic is doing Mahler’s Fifth.”
“Oh, my God! That’s one of the greatest symphonies ever. It sold out in like fifteen minutes.”
“Think you can make it by six forty-five?”
I was eight blocks from home, only three minutes if I cut over to a side street at the next light. If I had to, I’d park the car and run.
We set our meeting place and I turned left in front of an oncoming BMW with what prosecutors would have called “callous disregard for human life.” I was already home when I remembered my dinner plans.
“Edith, you guys go ahead without me. I’m not going to be able to make it.”
I juggled the phone from one ear to the next, noting that getting undressed with one hand requires skills I haven’t used in years. In my dream world, the practice I was getting right now would come in handy later tonight. But if I wasn’t out the door in twelve minutes, nothing would ever happen at all.
There was a long silence before Edith answered. “I came outside because it’s so loud in the restaurant. Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Edith, I have a date.”
“With a woman?”
No, with a cockatoo. “Yes, the woman I was talking to the other night at the Wallcast.” She and Mordy had urged me to ask her out, but I played it down, saying she was only someone I knew from work.
“I thought you said you weren’t interested in her that way.”
“I lied. She’s taking me to Mahler.”
“What should I tell Emily?”
I couldn’t imagine sending a clearer message than the one she’d get from being stood up. “Just…to have a safe trip back to Sarasota.”
A night out at the Arsht Center called for the most elegant thing in my closet. Now if only I knew what that was. Somewhere I had a pair of black silk pants that tapered at the ankle. They’d look nice with my highest heels, even if they were only an inch and a half tall. Now all I needed was something sparkly or fluffy or tiger-striped. Except I didn’t own anything like that. The best I could do was a tight-fitting dark purple top, V-neck with three-quarter sleeves.
Wait! I had a sparkly belt somewhere, black with gaudy rhinestones. That left earrings. The dangly black ones…or the silver hoops…dangly black ones…silver hoops. I got it all put together with about three minutes to spare.
The concert hall sits only two blocks on the other side of the Omni so I spent that extra three minutes walking slower than usual. The last thing I wanted was to get there dripping sweat from racing through the sticky night.
I spotted Mari from behind as she stood talking on the phone just inside the door of the grand lobby. She wore another cocktail dress, this one a wraparound teal green number that looked like it was made for her. I entertained myself for a few seconds with the idea that she was telling someone about the exciting date she’d lined up for tonight, but then she turned and I saw that same look she’d worn when describing the investment instrument to Carlos Moya.
She dropped her phone in her purse and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I nearly swooned. I’m many things, but hard to please isn’t among them.
“I’m really sorry about the late notice. I had to go all the way to the Gables to pick up the tickets and I didn’t want to call until I had them in my hand. Then I started freaking out because US 1 was backed up to the Grove and I remembered how you hated it when people were late.”
It was almost unfair that someone so hot had a voice that sexy too.
“I would have forgiven you for something this great.”
She held out both hands to my ears and smiled. “This is an interesting look.”
Son of a St. Bernard. Dangly black on one ear, silver hoop on the other. “Couldn’t decide, but I drew the line at carrying two purses.”
“I think it works.” She presented the tickets. “Pepe did us right. You’re not going to believe where these seats are.”
Front row, box seats on the second mezzanine, stage left. Deep Joyful Sigh. According to the program, Mahler would come after the intermission. The prelude was described as a medley of Hungarian composers I’d never heard of, but it could have been salsa music for all I cared. Front row, box seats with Mari Tirado in a teal dress.
I was in such a state of bliss that I didn’t even go berserk when dozens of people, including four others in our box, were seated by the ushers well into the first piece. Only in Miami did performance venues actually cater to the late-arriving crowd. Anywhere else they barred the door when the curtain went up.
Mari’s low voice rumbled in my ear, sending shivers up my back. “Are you comfortable? Can you see everything?”
“I’m perfect. Everything is perfect.” The music, the setting and especially the company.
As the violins softly swept into the second selection, my stomach loudly announced it was empty. The subject of eating had never even crossed my mind.
“Sounds like someone else skipped dinner to get here,” Mari whispered.
“It was food or Mahler. Not even a contest.” Anything that brought her lips that close to my ear was bearable. Except the gurgling continued, and as my luck would have it, seemed to be worse during the quieter passages.
When the lights went up for intermission, the man behind me tapped Mari on the shoulder and immediately launched into a conversation in Spanish, the only word of which I caught was Pepe. Apparently these seats were Pepe’s season tickets, which meant most of the people sitting in the box were regular patrons, perhaps even friends of his. I tried to catch a word of the conversation, if only to reassure myself he wasn’t complaining about my noisy stomach.
I was still in awe of the whole evening, so much that I didn’t even bristle at hearing practically everyone around me speaking Spanish. Thanks to Mari, I have a newfound admiration for those who can transition between two languages so easily. She wasn’t bilingual be
cause she hadn’t assimilated. She was born here, and as much a product of Miami culture as anyone could be. I’m the one who hasn’t assimilated to Miami.
She wrapped up her conversation by kissing both the man and his wife on the cheek, another Cuban habit I was coming to appreciate. She then took my elbow and guided me to the exit. “Just making sure you don’t fall out of the box. That would be hard to explain.”
“Not really. If you ever have the urge to kill me, you can just push me over the railing. With my history, a jury would never convict.”
“I’m taking a break from felonious behavior just now.” There went that dimple again.
I couldn’t believe this was the same woman who had once irritated me so much I had sentenced her to hard labor. Everything about her was fascinating, and I was rapidly rethinking every disparaging opinion I’ve ever had of Cubans in general, and her in particular.
“Let’s find something to eat so we don’t get thrown out by the usher.”
Quite frankly, I didn’t care about food at all, but the rumbling had to stop before Mahler. The best we could do was a small bag of something ironically labeled “gourmet” chips, and a couple of glasses of white wine.
“Mari, this is by far the most exciting event I’ve been to in years. I’m so glad you invited me.”
“It’s great you were able to make it at the last minute. When Pepe first called me, I turned him down because I didn’t have any friends who were into this kind of thing. Then I remembered you liked it. A classical music geek, if I recall.”
I was ridiculously pleased she had stored that detail about me, enough that I parked her use of the word friend on the back burner of my brain. “And you said this type of music really wasn’t your thing, so I appreciate even more knowing you’re suffering through this just for me.”
“Now, now. I never said I was suffering. I’m not saying I’d want to sit through a concert like this every night, but it’s good to do something civilized every now and then.”
“A little cultcha never hurt anybody.”
“I suppose not,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ve always tried to cultivate a variety of friends so I won’t get stuck doing the same things over and over.”
Okay, that was the second time in the last thirty seconds she had used the F-word. Was she saying this wasn’t a date?
“I get so tired of the club scene,” she went on, oblivious to the spear she’d just thrown through my heart. “It’s loud and pretentious, and you spend half the night fighting off guys whose greatest goal in life is to make it with a couple of lesbians. You know the kind I’m talking about.”
“Oh, yeah.” No, actually.
“So I’m perfectly happy for the chance to have a little cultcha.”
The lights flashed and we headed back to our seats. Two friends, out for a casual evening of Mahler.
How fitting the symphony opened with a funeral march. I was dying inside. How could I have thought this was date? Exciting people like Mari don’t date boring people like me.
Though I was painfully distracted by her crushing denial of our budding romance, I refused to let it dampen the thrill of an absolutely rapturous “Adagietto.”As corny as it sounds, I actually felt tears stinging my eyes. The final movement, an uplifting rondo, gave me time to pull myself together.
When the concert ended I leapt to my feet and joined half the audience in thunderous applause. The other half—in one of the most detestable of Miami traditions—broke for the doors to beat the crowd. From the way Mari snatched up her purse and stepped into the aisle, it was clear she wanted to do the same thing but I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
“Mari, that was breathtaking.”
“Very nice,” she answered, smiling politely but still clearly eager to leave.
“Very nice? That’s all you’ve got? You can’t call something like that very nice.” I lowered my voice to make it sound like hers but it came out more like a voice-over for a cemetery commercial. “It was exquisite.”
“Exquisite! That’s the word I wanted. I’ve never been so moved by a movement.”
I turned away from her and continued to applaud, determined now to be the last one cheering. She eventually got the message, dropping her purse in her chair so she could clap along.
“I’m sorry if I rushed you,” she said when I finally acquiesced to leave. “I should have realized you’d want to stay.”
“It was so beautiful, Mari. I just hate to see people run out without giving the musicians their due. People in Miami always do that and it makes me feel embarrassed.”
“You’re right, absolutely right.”
Here she was charming me again, all the more reason to be sorry this wasn’t a date.
We followed the crowd onto the plaza at Biscayne Boulevard, where I braced myself for that awkward end-of-the-evening moment where Mari would blurt out a few pleasantries before kissing me on the cheek and walking off to hook up with one of her other “friends” for something more to her liking.
“Look, Mari…I know this wasn’t your thing, but honestly, it was a night I won’t forget for a long time. I’m really glad you thought of me.”
“Too bad I didn’t know about it sooner. We could have grabbed dinner or something. There are some nice restaurants not far from here in Wynwood.”
Oh, that would have been precious—walking into WKB with Mari and tossing a friendly wave over to Emily. “Maybe there’ll be another time, except now I owe you and I have no idea what you like.”
“Monster truck rallies.”
“That…would not have been…my guess.” How could someone so cosmopolitan and—“You’re lying through your teeth!”
“But I had you going for a second there, didn’t I?”
“You’re lucky there’s a limit to my gullibility. If I’d surprised you with tickets, you would’ve had to go with me.”
“And sit there to the bitter end.”
“Until the very last car was pancaked.” I like her a lot. I even like her as a friend, though I couldn’t see myself fitting in with her South Beach party crowd. But I could sure handle being part of her rotation when she was looking for something a little different. It wouldn’t hurt me to have someone around to keep me from taking myself so seriously. “What if we just do the dinner we missed tonight?”
“Works for me. You have my number now, right?”
I nodded, remembering I’d captured it on my cell phone.
“Thanks for meeting me. It was fun.” She kissed me on the cheek again, and I caught her arm as she started to step away.
All that cheek kissing was nice but what I really wanted was a hug, and I didn’t give her a chance to turn me down.
Chapter Nine
Marvin the cat makes me a nervous wreck every time Edith or Mordy open the sliding glass door. I have visions of him lunging for a bird or mosquito and plummeting fifteen floors, but Mordy always says he’s far too lazy to jump as high as the railing on the balcony, let alone chase something. It’s true I’d never seen him even run across the floor. I guess he’s satisfied to have Edith do all the hunting and fishing for him, as long as he never misses a meal.
“She’s changed her hair,” Edith said, making a face that gave away what she thought of Emily’s new ’do. “But it’s not the same length on both sides. I don’t think I could hold my head up straight if my hair was long on one side and short on the other.”
Mordy chortled. “Should have left her hair the way it was and changed her personality instead.”
Edith rolled up her magazine and smacked him. “Did no one ever teach you to keep your mouth shut if you couldn’t say something nice?”
“There’s nothing nice to say. She’s a scumbag who walked all over Daphne and now she comes sniffing around because she got dumped on her ass.”
Edith closed the sliding glass door and began lighting the candles throughout the living room in anticipation of nightfall, since it was Friday and they wouldn’t turn on t
heir lights again until tomorrow evening. “And what if they get back together someday, Mordy? Did you think about that? How’s Daphne going to feel to know you think the person she loves is a scumbag?”
“Daphne isn’t going to get back together with her. Emily’s a whack job.”
“Hello, everyone. I’m sitting right here. I can talk for myself.” Although Mordy had done a pretty good job of summing things up. Emily lacked the one thing I value most in a person—integrity—and that was a deal breaker. But instead of running away from her as fast as I could, I was still drawn to her latest drama like a rubbernecker driving past an upside-down beer truck.
My night out with Mari had been loads of fun, but not the ride back down to earth after she’d made it clear we were just friends. With that being a dead end, I found myself back to entertaining Emily’s renewed interest.
“My date last night sort of fizzled.” I shared my humiliation over discovering it wasn’t a date after all, but to save face with Mordy and Edith, I finished the morbid tale by saying I was still glad I went because Mahler was fantastic and Mari could turn out to be a friend. All that was true, as was the fact I wasn’t ready to see Emily again just yet anyway. “I’m not going to put myself at her beck and call just because she happens to be in town. If she wants to see me, she can go out of her way a little bit.”
“But you’re open to seeing her again?” Edith asked.
It seemed Edith was cheerleading for our reconciliation, but I couldn’t figure out why. Like Mordy, she knew all the sordid details about Emily’s infidelities and mortgage arrears, but somehow came to a different conclusion. “What do you think I should do?”
“Tell her to take a hike,” Mordy said.
“She asked me.” She smacked him again, but gently. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but I don’t think you’re happy by yourself, Daphne. A woman like you—young, pretty, full of life—shouldn’t be spending so many nights at home alone. It’s a waste. You and Emily used to go out all the time, but even when you stayed home, the two of you had fun. We could hear you talking and laughing on the balcony every night, and your lives just seemed so full. If there’s a chance you can get that back, don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
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