by Sera Taíno
Nati grinned maniacally, and Val realized she’d have to fight off not one, but two harpies. “I bet she was with that guy she was texting before.”
“Traitor,” Val scolded. “I’m not talking about Philip with you two.”
“Philip?” Rafi asked as he wandered over, wiping his hands on his apron. He was the spitting image of his father, except for a sharpening of his cheekbones and jaw, which was entirely their mother. “Who’s Philip?”
“A guy your sister spent the night with,” Olivia answered.
“What the hell, Olivia!” Val retorted. Nati and Olivia cackled while Rafi straightened to attention, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Did you get your freak on, big sis?” he asked, his tone more serious than his words implied.
“No! I did not get my freak on. We hung out. I mean, I just met him last night.”
Rafi put his arm around Val’s shoulder, squeezing her to him. “You don’t have to be ashamed of a little hit-and-run every now and then.”
Val threw her hands up in the air. “This conversation cannot be happening.”
“No pierdas la cabeza, bonita.” Nati sang her usual admonishment for Val not to lose her head. “We like to tease you because you give such good game. So, are you going to see him again?”
The three of them stared at her bug-eyed, as if they were waiting for the next scene in a telenovela. Val deflated. She couldn’t fight them, any more than she could stop the sun from setting. “We’re going out next Saturday.”
“Not gonna lie,” Olivia said. “He’s good-looking, in that all-American, Wonder Bread sort of way, you know? The total opposite of brooding Luke.”
“Why do you guys always bring up Luke?” Val huffed. To her relief, Papi appeared, arms crossed, giving the group a stern look.
“Qué pasó aquí? Are we holding a family meeting instead of working?”
“Nothing, Papi.” Val threw them all a look of pure venom, heading off anything Olivia or Nati might say to embarrass her.
“Good, because those customers aren’t going to serve themselves.”
“Yes, sir,” Nati said, tugging Rafi behind her. Olivia gave Val a smirk that promised more teasing before she picked up a free newspaper from the rack and took a seat at the lunch counter.
Her father put an arm around Val’s shoulders, and she melted into his hug. He was as tall as she was, his face lined but handsome. He’d worked hard all his life, first in his family’s plantation fields on the island, then at the restaurant, and had a slender but strong body to show for it.
“So, this guy you went out with. Does he have any money?”
“Don’t tell me you were eavesdropping.”
Her horror softened when he tweaked her nose. “Just kidding. I’m not too old to joke around.”
“Obviously not.” She scowled when he released her.
“As long as he’s not like that other guy, I don’t care how much money he has,” he said with uncharacteristic vehemence. Val and her father worked side by side in Navarro’s most days, but it was only then that she understood what her brokenhearted condition of the last several months must have seemed like to him.
They went to their separate workstations, Val only too happy to end that discussion. She wasn’t ready to put Philip in the same headspace as Luke. In fact, thoughts of Luke were best left out of her head altogether.
* * *
By the time the restaurant closed and the family prepared for their own dinner, Val was sure she would never regain feeling in her thighs again.
“Too much dancing?” Nati teased as she set a table for them in the closed dining room.
Val rubbed the muscles of her hips. “I’m out of practice.”
“I got a bachata workout routine that I do at least three times a week.” Rafi set the seafood ceviche in the middle of the table and plopped down on the chair. “You should try it.”
“You would think with all the running she does, her legs would be stronger.” Papi prepared each plate, serving them before setting one for himself. Val relished the aroma of lemon, cilantro and seafood that greeted her.
Rafi waved a finger in the air. “Not the same muscles. You’ve got to develop those again, sis.”
Why did every aspect of Val’s existence require a committee discussion? “I’ll work on that. Thanks.”
“Felicia wants to hold the community meeting at the restaurant after closing on Friday, and Papi said it was okay,” Nati interjected. Felicia Morales, real estate lawyer for the East Ward Fair Housing Coalition, had built a career advising community groups advocating for responsible development.
“Has she sent out the notice of the change to everyone?” Rafi said between bites. “I haven’t checked my email today.”
“Si. Just this morning,” Papi said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “She’s bringing in lawyers to offer pro bono consultations to the renters at the Victoria.”
Val tapped the table thoughtfully. “The rent hikes and evictions are disgusting, aren’t they?”
“It’s like when they put that expensive gym right next to the light-rail stop that no one in the neighborhood could afford, including me.” Rafi said.
Nati set a cup next to Rafi’s plate. “Your salary is bank compared to what most people make here. If you can’t afford it, I don’t imagine anybody else around here can.”
Papi served everyone another scoop of the ceviche over Rafi’s protests.
“Ay, por favor. Eat. You’re never gonna catch a boyfriend if you look like a skeleton,” Papi teased.
Rafi took the spoon away from him and placed it in the dish. “I haven’t heard any complaints so far, Papi.”
Papi pulled a face, which on him was extra adorable. “Malcriado.”
“Yeah, don’t be a brat.” Val took a long draft of water. After all this time, she should be immune to their banter. “Wagner Developments won’t be happy until they’ve taken over every building, every retail space and turned East Ward into a little hipster paradise. And where does that leave us?”
“Navarro’s will still be here,” Nati said.
“Yeah, but for how long? Navarro’s might not be shiny or chic enough for these new people. Seems all they really want is some funky veggie smoothie or something.”
“I don’t know.” Rafi picked up a colorful paper plate from the counter in the tiny kitchen and put it on his head. “We could push the whole multicultural angle.”
“That’s not a half-bad idea.” Nati folded the plate until it looked like a shipwrecked fishing boat and put it back on Rafi’s head. He posed, batting his long, dark lashes prettily at everyone.
“No sean necios,” Papi admonished, warning them not to be foolish. “We are not a cheap franchise. This is a family restaurant.” Nati and Rafi grew quiet at Papi’s change of tone. “Gabriela and I, God rest her soul, we made sacrifices so that you three could have a good life. We’re here to stay, and no company is going to tell us when to go.”
Nati nodded, her eyes losing focus while Rafi’s fork paused in midair. “Ay, Mami.” He shook his head, his handsome face marred with a frown.
Val patted both their hands. Sometimes, she forgot that she wasn’t the only one who’d lost a mother, or that her father had also lost a wife.
They finished their meal in silence. When Val was done, she rubbed her stomach in satisfaction. “That wasn’t half-bad, even without the pepper.”
“I tried to tell you,” Nati said. “But your head is as hard as concrete.”
“Concrete doesn’t have a chance against that rock on her shoulders.” Rafi scooped a forkful from the pile of seafood his father had sneakily dumped onto his plate, missing the look of satisfaction Papi gave him.
Stifling a yawn, Papi rose, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. “Bueno, I’m going up to bed.”
“
We got cleanup covered.” Val’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, and felt an automatic smile creasing her face.
“Gee, wonder who that is?” Nati teased, flicking the end of the towel against Val’s hip before carrying the dishes into the kitchen.
Rafi also stood with his now-empty plate. “You guys have known each other for what, five seconds, and look at you.”
“Zip it, both of you,” Val snapped.
Just finished dinner, she texted Philip.
I like when you talk about food. What did you have?
Ceviche. Do you know it?
Seafood salad? Sure, I know it. What was in it?
Crab, shrimp, onions, avocado and my special seasoning.
I think I might need this recipe.
Val chuckled, looking up to see both Nati and Rafi shaking their heads before leaving her alone in the dining room so she could continue her text exchange uninterrupted.
Sorry. Secret recipe. Can’t give away my trade secrets.
Are you teasing me?
It’s a distinct possibility.
Val snorted. She cracked herself up sometimes.
What’s your opinion on French cuisine?
The French seem to dig it.
He sent a message with several laughing emojis. She blushed, as if he’d only just invented them for her.
So Saturday. I pick you up and we go to a French place I know. Since you said you like experimenting.
Val closed her eyes. Her dream date was anyone other than herself doing the cooking.
I’d like that.
I’ll send over all the details. And you should reconsider sharing your recipe.
She could just make it for him, but that would be another date and she’d barely cleared their first one.
I’m going to look into getting some sleep soon. Someone kept me up all night.
Not sorry.
Val put her phone down, her breath shaky. Nati and Rafi’s banter floated over the sound of them loading the dishwasher. Philip had messaged her twice in one day, but she didn’t want to read too much into it. It was one night featuring hot chocolate and cake of all things. That was it. Nothing to see here.
She’d learned the hard way that getting too close to people too soon meant you risked being swept far away from yourself if you weren’t careful. The last time she’d done that, it had cost her two years of her life and another year putting it back together again. She wasn’t interested in repeating that mistake again.
Chapter Four
Philip leaned over the three-dimensional model of East Ward, comparing the Lilliputian-sized buildings with his design specs, and found them satisfactory. He had prepared himself for the questions that would soon come his way from the investor group his father was meeting with. But his mind circled around Val and their night together, settling haphazardly on a series of splintered images. Her strong hand as it cradled her coffee cup. Her eyes, which glittered whenever she was preparing to say something funny. The coconut and fruit perfume that had coiled like a steel cable around him.
He rested his finger over the model that represented her building. An average mixed-use sitting on the corner of Clemente Avenue and Muñoz Marin Boulevard. One building in an entire street full of inventory slowly being snapped up, ready to be converted into high-end housing to complement the waterfront project. It would keep Wagner Developments busy for years. And it had been Philip’s design that had carried the day.
Voices floated down the hallway outside the conference room. He straightened as he always did when his father was near.
“We’ve been awarded a contract by the city to develop the old pencil factory complex, and the lower East Ward residential opportunity zone,” his father narrated to a group of people in business dress who trailed behind him. Nodding to acknowledge Philip’s presence, his father continued, “Luxury condominiums, commercial space with a unified aesthetic.” He stopped before the model and swept his hand across the top, revealing his platinum and gold cuff links. “Let me introduce you to my son, Philip, the man responsible for the winning design.”
Philip basked in the familiar flush of pride that came with his father’s praise. He shook hands with the businesspeople, assessing each one as he did so before leading them into the conference room and making his presentation. He was the youngest in the group—he usually was. But at thirty-two years old, he had already established a reputation independent of his father’s, despite being heir apparent to the corporation. He had earned his position as EVP of Project Design not because he was Andreas Wagner’s son, but despite it. Unlike other sons of corporate giants, who enjoyed the fruits of their family’s businesses without exerting themselves on their own merits, he’d earned everything he’d ever achieved in his career, precisely because his father believed in a ruthless meritocracy that applied even to his only son.
After the Q and A, Andreas pulled Philip aside, leaving the group to admire the scale model. “After this wraps up, several of our investors will be joining us for dinner.”
Philip winced. “I have other plans.”
Andreas’s face darkened into a frown. He was tall—Philip had inherited his height from him. His thick gray hair complemented light, almost colorless blue eyes that contained the shadows of the forbidding Carpathian Mountains from which his family originated. “Let me guess. Étienne. How is your friend’s little activity going?”
And there went the pleasure of earning his father’s praise. “Little activity? You mean his award-winning photography, which is featured in every major art and fashion magazine in the world? That little activity?” Philip made the extraordinary effort to rein in the irritation toward his father that seemed to know no bounds lately. He used to admire the single-minded determination that made his father such a formidable businessman. Hell, Philip had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the family business in the hopes he could measure up to him.
But that relentlessness didn’t come naturally to him. He needed more, but he wasn’t sure what that more really was.
“Award-winning? Good, but are they paying him? He can’t live on awards alone.”
“He does well for himself.”
His father glared at him, the conversation an echo of so many they’d had in their lives. His father’s constant reminder that what mattered was completing the best project, making the most money and squashing anyone who got in the way. Philip had grown increasingly exhausted with hearing his father put down people just because he couldn’t see the economic value in the work they did. “Still, our investors would probably like to hear more about the project from the designer himself. You can go out with Étienne anytime.”
“I presented. I answered questions. Sales have never been my area of expertise. You told me so yourself.”
“Parents don’t like being reminded of every little criticism they make of their children.”
“Please extend my deepest apologies to everyone for being unable to attend this evening.”
Andreas opened his mouth but quickly closed it, rearranging his features to project the signature impassivity that marked his negotiation style.
“Philip won’t be joining us,” his father said, addressing the group. “He’s attending a charitable function, but he has a few minutes, if you’d like to ask him anything else.” Philip scowled at the easy lie, but let it stand, pushing down the flicker of anxiety that accompanied his refusal to bow to his father’s wishes, a Pavlovian response he only barely curtailed.
Philip’s phone vibrated, providing a welcome opportunity to break away. He excused himself to go to his office, closing the door behind him. When he answered, he couldn’t help but smile at Étienne’s gruff voice barreling through the telephone.
“Why are you still at work?”
“I keep normal business hours. I don’t have a glamorous job like you.” Philip still fe
lt the sting of his conversation with his father.
“Just because I’m not a corporate pirate, doesn’t mean I work less than you,” Étienne retorted. “I’m a creative. My brain is constantly engaged in the act of composition, which is something even you can’t say, boy wonder—”
Philip’s snorted, cutting Étienne off. He envisioned his friend, hand on his chest in heartfelt grievance. “Did you call just to rub my lack of work ethic in my face?”
“Never. I called to make sure we were still watching the game.”
“What game?”
“Don’t you dare,” Étienne growled.
“Kidding. I didn’t forget.”
“Good. Because the last time we had plans, I had to drag you out, with successful results, I might add.”
“It wasn’t precisely dragging—”
“Monk,” Étienne interjected.
“I’m not a monk.”
“You’re a monk. I’m going to start calling you Frater Philippe again.”
“Don’t start that.”
“I will do as I wish because you know it’s true,” Étienne answered triumphantly. The game of calling Philip Frater went all the way back to their college days, when Étienne had pinned the moniker on Philip during one of his particularly long periods of social withdrawal. “You live like a monk, even though you are young, successful and sometimes, I think, even good-looking.”
“I stayed out the whole night with a woman and barely got any sleep. Therefore, I am not a monk.” Philip leaned against his desk, smiling at his memory of the evening in question.
“Oh, so did Frater Philipe break his vows with the lovely Val?”
The gleeful shift in Étienne’s voice wiped the smile off Philip’s face. “No, that’s not what I meant—”
“All night, eh? But that is what you said.”
“Let me explain—I—we went to her restaurant after we left Aguardiente. I tried her dessert.”
“And was she, I mean, it, sweet? The dessert, of course.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “The tres leches was decadent.”