What Happens In Miami... Page 17

  Myles tossed a balled-up dishtowel, aimed at Sandro’s head. “What grandkids? I’m not having any kids, let alone grandkids.”

  “Your granddogs then.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “What’s going on with this place? It’s packed every night.”

  “It’s not my place, though, is it?” Myles said. “I put everything I have into it, but it’s not mine. I hear the owners are thinking of selling.”

  Ah... Diablo was just one of the many restaurants owned by a faceless conglomerate. Restaurants were risky business. Even rich people weren’t rich enough to carry the losses. But Myles had proven that he was bankable.

  Sandro had an idea, but first he got Myles up to speed on the Sabina affair. “My niece forged the paintings.”

  Myles’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

  “Absolutely none,” Sandro said, resigned.

  His friend took the wooden stool beside him. “What’s the plan?”

  “The plan is to shake down my agent and have her line up some endorsement deals. Cars, cologne, Fabergé eggs, I don’t care.”

  “Hey! You have to care!” Myles protested. “You’ve got a brand to protect.”

  Sandro waved off his concerns. “Part of that money is going to save my brother’s sorry business. And the rest, I could invest in another venture.”

  Myles face went taut. “I can’t take your money.”

  No one wanted to take his money and frankly he was sick of it. “If you want your own place, you need to raise capital,” he said. “Would you rather Sabina whip up a few paintings for you to sell?”

  Sandro could hardly finish the sentence, he was laughing so hard. Myles slapped him on the back. “You are one sick dude!”

  He had to laugh, even as he pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes to keep from crying. In the past few days, he’d experienced every emotion known to man. It was enough to crack a man in two.

  Suddenly, Myles pulled him into a hug that felt like a chokehold. “You’re a good friend and a great guy. Something tells me Angeline knows this and you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Twenty-Four

  Alessandro was gone. As Angel watched him speed away on the borrowed bike, panic surged inside her. Unsure that she’d done the right thing, she tried to imagine an alternate ending. None came to mind. She and Alessandro had rushed into something they were not prepared for. Attraction was there, intimacy and friendship, too, but fundamental trust was not.

  Back in her apartment, Angel crawled into bed and slept for hours. Her sheets smelled like him and, as the day dragged on, she was reluctant to leave her bed. He’d called on his way to the airport. Although he was up for an acting award, Angel delivered a stellar performance. She chatted happily and sounded upbeat when she wished him a safe trip.

  In the evening, she ate their leftovers straight out of the cartons. Call it a miracle, but the creamy, buttery mac and cheese revived her. Bottom line: she would see him again. At some point, he’d return to Miami. When that day came, she did not want to be the woman he’d left behind. She would use this time to change her life.

  Angel took a container of roasted brussels sprouts to her computer desk and fired up Google. Okay! Let’s see what’s out there for me.

  The first package arrived on Friday. The delivery guy knocked on her door and left the stiff envelope on her doormat. Running late for a job interview, she picked it up and tossed it onto the kitchen table. Later that night, while eating supermarket sushi, she noticed the envelope sitting on top of the stack of mail. She opened it, her fingers sticky with soy sauce. Inside was a single sheet of paper. She slid it out and blinked in disbelief. It was a simple ink sketch of a woman.

  Angel grabbed a napkin and wiped her hands. Then with the tip of a finger, she traced the wavy hair, wide-set eyes, long nose, and full lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. The drawing was not signed. She checked the envelope again. The sender was “AC Enterprises.” After a good laugh, she snapped a photo of the drawing and sent it to Alessandro. He called her right away. On impulse, she answered, forgetting the days of gut-wrenching silence that had followed his departure.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is this the CEO of AC Enterprises?”

  “Speaking.”

  “You drew this?”

  “Sabina didn’t get all the talent. I can handle a pen.”

  “You can handle more than a pen.”

  “The pen is mightier than whatever you have in mind.”

  Angel laughed. “I love it so much!”

  “I drew it that first morning, after I spotted you running along the dock to catch the ferry. Good times.”

  “I was so scared that morning,” she said in her defense. “The whole experience was too intense.”

  “Are you still scared?”

  “Yes!” she said.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  There was no way she could express how deeply and desperately she had missed him. She said goodbye and ended the call.

  Every Friday after that, an envelope arrived. Each contained a new sketch that pulled her back to the time they had spent together. He drew her laughing, sleeping, reading and sipping a cup of coffee. If she were critiquing this work, she would have noted the obvious pandering to the male gaze. However, in this case, she didn’t seem to mind.

  She didn’t mind when he started calling more regularly, at the start of his day. While he poured his first cup of coffee, Angel was on her second cup. He’d send her selfies at all hours and gave her virtual tours of the green rooms of every major show he’d booked. When bedtime came around, at least on her coast, they’d text until she fell asleep.

  One night, she decided to tease him.

  BEST MALE LEAD: So what are you up to?

  ANGEL’S PHONE: I’m peeling off my T-shirt because I’m so hot...

  Her phone rang immediately. “As much as I love where you’re going with this, I want to know what you’re up to regarding work.”

  “Oh.” She sat fully dressed on the edge of her bed.

  “I haven’t pressed you on this because I know you need space,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.” She hadn’t brought up work because there was nothing to bring up. She’d gone through a round of interviews and was waiting to hear back.

  “Angel, you can talk to me,” he said. “I’m not going to judge you. Remember those early years when I was working as a—”

  “Bartender/waiter/janitor,” she chanted. “Yes, I know.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “Going months between acting jobs was tough and humiliating. If I didn’t have friends to talk to I would’ve gone crazy.”

  Angel knew exactly how he’d felt. She was already dreading the holidays in Orlando.

  “I have a few promising leads,” she said weakly.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  She told him about her interviews for positions at two prominent art museums. These were entry-level positions and would not pay much. But either one would go a long way to erasing the stain of Gallery Six on her résumé.

  “Okay.” His voice held no trace of enthusiasm.

  “One of those museums is the Pérez,” she said. “I’d be lucky to get a job there.”

  “Maybe...” he said. “What would you really want to do, given the chance?” Angel closed her eyes, weary, while he continued. “What about your own art? Why haven’t I seen it yet?”

  “You’ve seen my paintings.”

  “The few on your walls? Weren’t you a kid when you painted those?”

  “Well...yes.”

  “Plus they’re paintings of a country you’ve never visited.”

  “What does it matter? I will someday.”

  “And I’ll visit Cuba someday. Maybe we’ll go on a pilgrimage together. My point is: I know what it’s lik
e to be haunted by a lost homeland.”

  More than anything, Angel loved how much they had in common. Their respective family trees had been violently uprooted from the Caribbean and planted on Florida shores without the benefit of a soil study or even fertilizer. As a result, they were hybrid individuals bearing all sorts of odd fruit. But that was where the similarity ended. Alessandro had the freedom to experiment. Angel was trapped in a box. In a desperate attempt to earn her parents’ approval, she had limited herself to producing the kind of art they admired and collected. And now she was stuck with the artist’s version of writer’s block.

  “As they say in LA, pretty angel, bloom where you’re planted.”

  She hated to break it to him, but they said that everywhere, though mainly online. “Are you suggesting that I paint Lincoln Road Mall?”

  “Or just the view outside your window,” he said. “Why not? We’re here now. Florida is home.”

  “Technically, you’re in California.”

  “But where is my heart?”

  Angel spilled onto her back and drew her knees to her chest. Oh, be still, stupid heart!

  Angel knew what Alessandro was doing with his sketches, texts, photos and phone calls and it was working. A few days ago, he’d asked in a soft voice whether she could ever forgive him. She’d said yes. Even so, she wasn’t prepared to toss caution in the wind and start up with him again.

  “Hey, it’s late,” he said. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

  “What if I try again and it doesn’t work?” she blurted.

  Her question had two layers. The pause before his answer told her that he understood.

  “What if it does?”

  “Okay, but what if it doesn’t?”

  “Well then you’d have tried. No regrets.”

  After they’d said goodnight, Angel tapped on the digital drawing app on her phone and scrolled through her portfolio. She considered sharing her sketches with Alessandro, but compared to her oil paintings, all neatly packed away at her parents’ house, these seemed so basic. Would he laugh?

  Her gaze drifted to her bedroom walls, which she’d turned into a gallery showcasing the drawings delivered to her door every Friday. Each quick sketch was precious to her. She would never judge them or laugh at his technique. They brought her so much happiness and sparked pinwheels of joy.

  Before Angel lost her nerve, she selected a few of her digital sketches and forwarded them along.

  Her phone rang immediately.

  THE RED CARPET STYLE EVOLUTION OF HOLLYWOOD’S LEADING MAN

  Alessandro Cardenas is nominated for acting in a supporting role; nevertheless, he remains our leading man. The Cuban American actor caused a stir the moment he stepped onto his first red carpet in Armani Privé. He has been turning heads ever since. Here are some of our favorite looks. (Click for slideshow)

  —@Vanities_Fashion_IG

  Twenty-Five

  No sketch arrived on the Friday before the Golden Globes. Angel assumed that Alessandro was busy with fittings, press junkets, dinners and after-parties. On Saturday morning, he called to say that he’d be MIA through Sunday. “It’s a crazy circus.”

  “I understand. And I’m rooting for you.”

  She had rented Black Market. His performance as a disillusioned cop had been flawless.

  “Thanks, Angel,” he said. “Love you.”

  Her belly tightened. “Love you, too.”

  Love you was the kind of thing you said to a friend and she refused to read too much into it. Plus, Angel had her own schedule to stick to. She had resumed waking up at six to paint, except this time she left her apartment with only an iPad and a stylus. Her new project was an expansion of her lunch break excursions, only now she ventured past Lincoln Road to Little Haiti, Little Havana, Wynwood and Midtown. She picked a street and drew her surroundings, rendering the buildings and the people as she saw them. The drawings were vivid in a way still life paintings of fruit could never be. In no time, she had developed quite a portfolio. Digital art was a dynamic field. There were no shortage of grants and residencies. Angel applied for a few. She was particularly excited about a residency at a prestigious institute. She could not bring herself to hope and told no one, not even Alessandro, out of fear of jinxing it.

  Angel spent Saturday in Coral Gables, sketching a stretch of Ponce de Leon Boulevard. But she could not stop thinking of Alessandro. Did he have a pre-award show ritual? Did it consist of a standard massage, shave and haircut, or was it more elaborate? She imagined him holed up in a Beverly Hills hotel with a team of professionals fussing over him. As his date, would she have received one of those famous goodie bags chock-full of designer items—or was that reserved for the Oscars? Finally, why had she passed on the opportunity to attend an awards show? Likely a once in a lifetime opportunity. By the end of the evening, she could have been hanging out with Tracee Ellis Ross and exchanging contact information with Amal Clooney. You don’t think, Angel. You just feel and react.

  That night, Angel fell asleep with her phone clutched in her hand. At two in the morning, she startled awake and found that she’d missed a text message.

  BEST MALE LEAD: You don’t know how much I miss you.

  On Sunday Angel couldn’t hold back. She called him. It was the morning of the Golden Globes and she wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to feel connected with him in some way. And she wanted to wish him luck one last time. She hoped he’d win.

  The call went to voice mail.

  Angel made breakfast and spent the morning searching the internet for scraps of information. Nothing! Most of the stories focused on what the actors would be wearing to the show, as if anyone cared. Why weren’t the tabloids doing their job?

  She was drizzling honey in her oatmeal when an email alert popped on her screen. She’d received a message from Art Tech, a resident artists program in Los Angeles. Oh, God! She crossed the room and plopped onto her couch. Finally! This was the message that she’d been waiting for, but to receive it on a Sunday... This couldn’t be good. Maybe this was the gentle, letting-you-down softly email. The thanks, but no thanks message. There was no way to know until she read it.

  Angel reached for a throw pillow and clutched it to her belly for support. What had started as a pipe dream had blossomed into so much more. She wanted this, or something similar. She wanted the opportunity to focus on her art, hone her voice and explore a new medium. If this turned out to be a politely worded rejection, she would howl with disappointment. For a moment, she fought the urge to toss her phone out the window. Angel quickly snapped out of it. She could survive bad news. A little disappointment never killed anyone, but dreading bad news could give her a heart attack.

  She held her breath and tapped on the message.

  Congratulations! You have been selected for a one-year artist-in-residency program at ART TECH in Los Angeles, California.

  Holy shit!

  Angel buried her face in the pillow on her lap and screamed. She screamed until her throat ached. At long last, something for her!

  I won! I won! I won!

  Alessandro won, too. A giddy actress opened a gold envelope and read his name off a card. Angel popped open a bottle of champagne. The overflow spilled onto her pajamas. The camera caught Alessandro’s stunned expression. He was seated next to beautiful Gigi Garcia. She drew him into a hug and kissed his cheek. Angel watched as he trotted up the wide steps to the stage. He looked incredibly handsome in a classic black tuxedo. And as happy as she was, as proud as she felt, she couldn’t beat away a sour feeling. This had been a big day for both of them and they should have enjoyed it together.

  Alessandro could be counted on to put on a show and give the viewers at home what they wanted. He kissed the trophy and held it high, earning more applause. When the cries died down, he spoke into the microphone.

  “This award is dedicated to
my grandfather, the painter Juan David Valero, who taught me to value my art.”

  Angel’s pajama top was wet with champagne, her face was wet with tears and she was turning into a pile of mush on the floor. But Alessandro wasn’t done.

  “My angel, I love you and I’m coming home.”

  The camera panned away. The next thing she knew, Angel was watching a commercial for the new Buick. She raised the champagne bottle to her lips with a shaky hand and gulped down a third.

  The 5:00 a.m. knock on her door sent Angel flying out of bed. She’d been in a champagne-induced coma. Was the banging on her door and the buzzing of her phone real or imagined? She tiptoed to her apartment door. Her vision was too blurry for her to see anything through the peephole. Another knock and she jumped back.

  “I’ll call the police!” she cried, unsure why exactly. For all she knew it could have been her elderly neighbor.

  “Oh, Angel, don’t do that.”

  That voice!

  Angel fumbled with the lock and swung open the door. There stood her leading man, a little disheveled but still devastatingly handsome in his classic tux. “Sorry,” he said, sheepish. “I couldn’t stay away a day longer.”

  She threw herself at him, any trace of shame gone. “I love you! So much!”

  “That’s a relief!” Laughing, he lifted her off the floor and carried her inside the apartment. He took care to lock the door behind them. “I love you, too. But are you alright?”

  She ran a hand through her messy hair. “I had a lot of champagne.”

  “Told you champagne was overrated. I never touch the stuff.”

  “Well, I was celebrating!”

  “Without me?”

  She pouted. “It wasn’t the same.”

  “I bet.”

  He swooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. They flopped onto her bed, laughing. As he peeled off his jacket, he noticed the framed sketches on the wall. “This is why I love you!” he exclaimed. “Those sketches are not worth the price of IKEA frames.”