Good thing.
“I never do business with my friends. They all want discounts and insider tips that would send me to jail. Besides, investing is risky, and friends don’t like it when you lose their money.”
The sound of a throat clearing startled me but Mari seemed nonplussed about holding me in her arms as the receptionist handed her a folded slip of paper.
“Sorry…I took a message.” Her voice was decidedly apologetic, and I got the impression it was for the message itself rather than the intrusion. She didn’t wait around for Mari’s reaction.
Mari glanced at the note, rolled her eyes and dropped it into the wastebasket. “I know I said we’d eat at Truluck’s but then I got a better idea. Hope you don’t mind.”
“You should know by now I’d skip dinner for the right distraction.”
We walked out the main entrance and crossed the street to the mirrored SunTrust Bank building, where Truluck’s occupied the ground floor.
“I thought we weren’t going to eat here.”
“We aren’t.” She went through her usual animated greeting of the hostess, who took her credit card and handed her a large paper bag. “I figured we’d eat in.”
I like a girl who keeps secrets. And wears tight skirts.
One thing I truly adore about Hispanic women is their habit of walking arm in arm with other women. I’d see them all over South Beach or Bayside and wonder if they were lovers or just family or friends. So it was no surprise when Mari hooked her elbow with mine once we started down Brickell Bay Avenue to her condo building, the Plaza at Brickell. Whereas I considered my building moderately luxurious, her place was the whole enchilada. Or since we’re in Miami, let’s call it the whole arepa. The lobby looked like a grand ballroom, with marble floors, fountains and crystal chandeliers as big as my car. Mari pressed the button for the forty-ninth floor and I braced for having my ears pop.
Walking into her apartment was like stepping onto the cover of one of those urban home magazines, the kind that make you realize there’s more to interior design than where to put the furniture. A single spot shone down from above the kitchen island, revealing one of the most elegant living spaces I’d seen in all of Miami. The brown and gray of her granite countertops set a muted tone for all her décor, which included a low-profile sectional sofa, wall-mounted electronics and a plush rug. Floor-to-ceiling glass formed the far wall, beyond which I could see the lights on the gantry cranes at the far end of the Port of Miami.
“This is incredible.”
“Nice, isn’t it? When I first went to work for Pepe about ten years ago, I’d look over here every day and dream about buying something in this building. Then one day at lunch I walked into the lobby and there happened to be a realtor standing there. Her appointment had stood her up, so she showed me this and I didn’t even negotiate. Pepe could have killed me.”
“You don’t negotiate for your dreams. You just go get them.”
“That’s exactly what I told him.” She set the bag on the counter. “Show yourself around while I get dinner ready. My cleaning lady came today, so I shouldn’t have any embarrassing messes.”
I wandered first into the near bedroom, obviously the one where Mari slept. Two entire walls of glass offered the same view as the living room, giving the impression of endless space. A king-sized bed draped in a gray coverlet and stacked with pillows dominated the suite, which included a walk-in closet as large as my guest room and a bathroom fit for a queen. It was all I could do not to riffle through her rack of designer clothes, but I didn’t even try to resist counting the shoes—twenty-six pairs.
When I returned to the living room, Mari was nowhere in sight but the door out to the terrace was open. I walked past the dining table to what turned out to be a second bedroom suite, not quite as large as the other, but equally elegant because it had its own private terrace. What it didn’t have was a bed. A futon—perfect for putting up guests you hope won’t stay long—sat against one wall, but a desk, credenza and computer dominated this room.
“Mari, if I lived here, I’d never want to leave. It’s gorgeous.”
She came in from the terrace and waved me out. “You haven’t even seen the best part.”
Right she was. Nestled on the terrace was a bistro table draped in a white cloth, two chic place settings, a bottle of wine and a pair of flickering candles.
“Wow.” I didn’t dare say what I thought, which was that it was the most romantic scene anyone had ever set for me. I was more than happy to get romance from Mari, but I didn’t want to read too much into it because we hadn’t traded any words to that effect. All we had between us was one actual date and a night of hot sex. Really, really hot sex. For all I knew, dinner on the yacht or terrace was her idea of foreplay, not romance.
She’d probably be mortified to know how far my fantasies about her actually went. I joke in my head all the time about marrying every beautiful woman who gives me the time of day, all the while knowing that’s my end game when I finally meet the right one. Not that I’m saying Mari’s the right one, but if she is, that’s where I expect romantic love to go. The moment she realizes she loves me madly and can’t live without me, I’m sure I’ll be ready.
“I assumed you liked stone crab,” she said, pouring each of us a glass of Louis Jadot’s Pouilly Fuisse, something I’d seen on menus but never ordered because it’s out of my price range.
“Mari, this is wonderful, better than any restaurant could have been.”
“Yeah, I probably should have cooked something, but I leave things like stone crab to the pros. I haven’t eaten out here like this in a couple of years.”
The math was easy on that one. It would have been right around the time Delores moved in. “I’d probably be out here every night, even if I was eating a Happy Meal by myself.”
“What’s not to love about it? Miami’s the most beautiful place on earth.”
I wouldn’t go that far, but it was hard to argue from her perspective. It was a perfect night—eighty degrees with a balmy breeze, a half moon over Fisher Island, and no one else’s music assaulting our ears. The only disturbance, if you could call it that, was the intermittent rumble of a low-flying jet on its way out of Miami International. For me, they have a certain cosmopolitan appeal, especially when they bank right toward South America. I picture exotic people like my neighbors Ronaldo and Tandra jetting back and forth to Rio or Buenos Aires.
“I’ve had some trouble adjusting to Miami, I have to admit. I feel like a total outsider most of the time.”
Mari shook her head and leaned across the table to squirt lemon juice all over my cracked crab claws. “You do that to yourself. Miami opens its arms to everyone. All you have to do is walk in and make it yours.”
“Which is a whole lot easier if A, you speak Spanish, and B, you have a boatload of cash.”
“Have you tried to learn Spanish? They teach it practically everywhere.”
I wanted to snap that I shouldn’t have to learn another language to get along in America, but not at the expense of marring this perfect night. “I studied it in high school but I forgot most of what I learned. And even if I were fluent, there’d still be that little cash problem. I know I shouldn’t complain because I’m better off than a lot of people in Miami, and I’m lucky enough to live in a good neighborhood.”
“Even if you can’t afford it,” she added with a wink.
I thought she’d push me again to let the bank foreclose, but that single teasing jibe was all she had. We spent the next thirty minutes savoring stone crab and fresh greens salad, and then she cleared the table of all but the wine.
“When my family first came to Miami,” she told me, “they lived together in a small house in Little Havana. Everyone found work, even my father and Pepe, and they were just kids. Fifteen years later, Mima owned a dozen convenience stores and a huge house in the Gables. They went from having everything in Cuba to having nothing here, and then having everything again. This is a land
of opportunity for those who dream big.”
I remembered her explaining how even Saraphine could build a comfortable nest egg for retirement, but that wouldn’t work if she got sick or her company sold the supermarket chain to someone who didn’t keep up her benefits. Mordy was right when he said the rules don’t work for workers anymore.
So while I didn’t want to sound argumentative, I didn’t share her optimism. “I used to believe that too, but it’s not as true as it was even ten years ago. The game’s rigged now in favor of people who already have money. Don’t take this the wrong way—I’m not judging you or what you do—but these people who make billions of dollars and then try to squirrel everything away in offshore accounts so they won’t have to pay taxes are killing the rest of us.”
“I’ll give you that—some people are just plain greedy—but they aren’t the only ones gaming the system. People of all income levels work off the books so they won’t have to pay taxes. And we’re all complicit. I saw you write a receipt to that guy from the hardware store for two bathroom cabinets when one of them was damaged. It was nice they donated but they got an extra tax break they didn’t really deserve because you gave them credit for two and threw one away.”
Moses on a moose! I couldn’t believe she remembered that. “But I didn’t do that for myself.”
“I know. I’m only pointing out that hiding from the taxman is a widespread problem, something that’s become normalized across all of society. It just shows up more among the rich because it’s obscene to want tax breaks when you have more than you could ever spend.”
“Do you think I’m a hypocrite?”
Mari reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I’m not judging you either. I like how passionate you are, and we don’t have to agree on every little thing. Like I told you, I think you’re classy. You have no idea how refreshing it is to talk to someone who isn’t totally wrapped up in herself.”
A compliment for me and another dig at Delores, who must have been a real piece of work. To her other unpleasant traits, I’d have to add stupidity for letting someone like Mari get away. “I don’t even know Delores and I think she’s an idiot.”
She huffed. “She’s been calling me…wants to meet for dinner. That’s what that message was at work.”
“The one you threw in the trash?”
“Yeah, my friend Gladys—one of the girls I was with at the Wallcast—says she wants to smooth things over because we have all the same friends and it makes people uncomfortable. But then Clara thinks she wants to go out again, which is absurd. What, she thinks it’s all okay now since I got my record expunged? That’s insane.”
Except there was something in her voice that sounded more like hurt than incredulity. I would have preferred foaming-at-the-mouth fury, especially after experiencing firsthand the siren’s song of familiarity when Emily had called. If I could entertain the idea of taking a sleaze like Emily back, Mari could do the same with Delores.
Just as Mari had saved me from myself by asking me out to Mahler, I was obligated to return the favor. “Yeah, it’s crazy to even think about it. Why would you want to give her another shot at your client list?”
“Exactly!”
“Okay, Mari. What are you not telling me?”
“Beg your pardon?”
I started counting her attributes off on my fingers. “You like romantic dinners on the terrace, intelligent conversation…and you help people like Saraphine when there’s nothing in it for you. You’re an incredible kisser, to say nothing of your other talents.”
She rolled her eyes indulgently before draining her wineglass.
“I just don’t understand how you can be single. There ought to be a dozen women out here trying to toss me over this railing.”
“I could say all those things about you too, you know. And yet, here we are…the two of us, all alone and desperate.” She poured another touch of wine in both glasses, and then corked the bottle. “I’ll fess up if you will.”
“You want me to spell out why Emily dumped me?” I could offer excuses and my elaborate rationale, but I own what I own. “I guess I stopped being fun. I tried really hard to like it here, but after she started working long hours, we quit doing all the things that make this a cool place to live. My whole life was driving to work in gridlock, fighting with people at the deli counter and coming home to eat dinner by myself. I complained…a lot.”
“Sounds like you had a right to.”
“I certainly thought so, but she said that’s why she”—trotting out my dramatic voice—“sought comfort in the arms of another.”
Mari huffed. “Le ronca el mango.”
“Mango?”
“It’s a Cuban expression—literally speaking, it snores the mango. Mima says it all the time. Don’t ask me why, but it’s what you say when you think something’s ridiculous. It’s never your fault when your partner is unfaithful.”
Snoring mangos means something is ridiculous…works for me. “She was probably right about the complaining. I’m sure it was a real drag to listen to it all the time, so I’ve tried not to be negative about everything, at least out loud. I don’t want that to define who I am.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you, Daphne. You own up to your problems and try to fix them. Everyone should do that instead of blaming others. I still get mad at Delores for having me arrested, but I’m the one who lost her cool. I need to own up to that.”
I have a special fondness for conversations that include things a beautiful woman likes about me. It’s true I’m in a constant state of fixing myself, and I’m not above specifically fixing things to appeal to Mari. That said, learning to speak Spanish probably isn’t on my list.
“What about you, Mari? What’s your fatal flaw?”
“My fatal flaw…” She slowly twirled the stem of her wineglass. “I’ve been told I can be a bit…clingy.”
“Clingy?”
“Apparently I don’t give people enough space. I personally think being in a relationship is all about sharing space, but some people don’t see it that way.”
“Some people…you mean Delores.”
“Let me give you an example. We both saw clients in the evenings sometimes. No big deal. But she used to get bent out of shape because I wanted her to call me if she wasn’t coming home for dinner.” She gestured at the table. “The last time I set a table like this out here, she didn’t even get home until ten o’clock. No call, no text, and my calls kept going to voice mail. Then when she got home, she realized I’d been waiting for her. Instead of apologizing—what a concept—she gave me grief for expecting her to be here…said she didn’t want to have to check in like a teenager with her parents.”
I was unbelievably tempted to tell her she could cling to me all she wanted, and that I’d happily call and text her a dozen times a day to tell her exactly where I was. “It’s just common courtesy.”
“Right, but she said it felt like a leash. And to be honest, my girlfriend before Delores told me kind of the same thing, so there must be something to it. Maya said she was worried about losing herself, that she wasn’t ready to be a single entity with someone else. She was only twenty-two, so that’s reasonable, but still…I guess I just have a different view of relationships.”
“I get what you’re saying. When you’re partners with somebody, you really do turn into one entity. You can’t make decisions just for yourself anymore because you have to consider the other person, even if it’s just dinner.”
“Exactly, because when you don’t, you start taking each other for granted.”
“I don’t know, Mari. As fatal flaws go, that one’s not much to write home about. Tell me the truth. Do you sleep in your socks? Snore like a mango?”
That drew a laugh at first, then a serious tease from that deep, sexy voice that turned me into jelly. “I can’t reveal everything at once. I’m like a present you have to unwrap slowly.”
With that one simple declaration, I reali
zed Mari Tirado was mine to lose. She liked me as much as I liked her, and despite all the things she had going for her, she was every bit as insecure about romance as the rest of us. We wanted the same thing—a loyal partner who was truly a partner. All that remained was ordering the invitations and planning the honeymoon.
“In that case…” I pulled her wrist closer to unfasten her bulky gold bracelet. “Why don’t you pick out the room where you’d like to be unwrapped?”
Chapter Thirteen
Skirted leggings. Who even knew they made such a thing? It was the perfect cover for the skirt-averse like me, since it was actually a short, tight band of black spandex wrapped around brown tights that came to just below my knee. It looked especially good with my off-the-shoulder white Lycra top. Not actually me, but hip. That says a lot.
But this was absolutely the last outfit I was buying until next spring. Or until I won the lottery. Lucky for me, I’d scrounged it from the sale racks at Loehmann’s, the mother of all discount stores. The only way I can pick up well-made expensive labels is after they’ve been shipped out and marked down at least sixty percent from when they were outrageous at Saks, Bloomingdale’s or Nordstrom. Finding this outfit on the clearance rack meant it had lingered even longer. In a nutshell, that’s why my fashion sense lags several seasons behind everyone else’s.
Without my last-minute shopping spree, I’d have been forced to turn down what was probably my only chance ever at getting past the ropes into a trendy nightclub on South Beach. The DJ on Saturdays was the current boyfriend of Felix, Mari’s gay uncle, and that was good enough to get us into the VIP section with whatever Hollywood or sports stars were in town this weekend.
But this hitting the stores for a new outfit every time we went out? That has to stop. My budget can’t handle it, even at discount prices, and I could run out of fashion sense at a moment’s notice and humiliate myself forever. Tonight, however, I was determined to have another brand-new experience of a lifetime.
Mari had promised to go with me next door to formally meet Edith and Mordy, who were feeling positively parental about making sure I didn’t fall in with the wrong crowd or get my heart broken by someone who thought of me only as a plaything. I didn’t tell them the plaything part didn’t particularly bother me.
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