As they embraced, the familiar scent of the older woman’s cinnamon and vanilla lotion wafted over Anamaría while her words echoed a hurtful memory.
How could you be like him. I thought you believed in me. In us.
Dios, how Alejandro’s unfair accusation had hurt. She had believed in his talent. The same with his mother, abuela, and brother.
He was the one who had given up on all of them.
The close ties she had maintained with his entire familia, despite her hurtful breakup with their son and brother, spoke of their strong connection. She had never understood how Alejandro could walk away from his loved ones so easily. Only seeing his mother, abuela, and brother if they visited him. Or how he could risk severing those ties for good. As he’d done with his father. And her.
“I should be on my way now,” Señora Miranda said. “But I know Victor would love for you to come by and sample something on your special menu. ¿Sí?”
“I will,” Anamaría promised as she slipped on her backpack and hefted her duffel over a shoulder. “I’ll try to go see him before I leave this weekend. If not, definitely early next week.”
“¿Adónde vas?”
“Sara and I are going to New York. She’s speaking at a social media influencer event on Saturday, and I’m planning to meet with her agent and do some networking.”
“Good for you.” Señora Miranda looped an arm through one of Anamaria’s, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “But you are not thinking of moving up there, are you?”
Anamaría shook her head with a vehement no that sent her long braid swaying across her shoulder blades. “Not at all. Not even Miami holds any appeal to me. My home is here. Siempre.”
“Always. I like the sound of that. And I’m sure your parents do, too. Bueno, I know you like to visit with Padre Miguel on your way out, but I must go help with the lunch rush. Dios te bendiga, nena.” Alejandro’s mom leaned closer to exchange cheek kisses, and Anamaría returned the familiar “God bless you” farewell.
She stayed in the doorway, waving good-bye as the woman who’d always been like a second mother to her pulled her gray sedan out of the parking lot onto Windsor Lane before turning onto Truman Avenue.
After locking the Fellowship Hall door, Anamaría did a quick merengue step and fist pump in celebration. Señor Miranda had finally . . . fiiiiiiinally . . . changed his mind!
The Miranda patriarch was not a man easily swayed. Victor’s unyielding temperament had benefitted him during his rise from a humble home catering business entrepreneur to a well-known and respected local business owner. Master chef of the restaurant created in the image of the one his father had built in Havana. Miranda’s was Victor’s homage to the memory of the father who, like many parents in Cuba when Castro took over, had given up much to provide his children with a better future. That same strong will that made him a success was in large part why the older man remained at odds with Alejandro. Both equally as proud and obstinate.
And yet he had changed his mind. The fact that Miranda’s now listed her recipes on their rarely altered, traditional menu was a huge coup for her.
Walking on a cloud nine of epic proportions, Anamaría made her way to the basilica.
Fifteen minutes later, after stopping to chat with Father Miguel, Anamaría set her duffel inside the back of her Honda Pilot and closed the hatch. Squinting under the bright midday sun, she opened the driver’s side door and was greeted by the trill of a cell phone ringing.
She slid behind the steering wheel and dug her hand in the side pocket of her backpack before it fully registered that the music wasn’t actually her ringtone. Strange. The high-pitched notes continued, and she twisted to give the empty back seat a quick glance. The music trilled on, coming from the open trunk area.
Climbing out of her SUV, she made her way to the rear.
By the time she lifted the hatch, the music had stopped. A light breeze cooled the sheen of perspiration on her brow as she perused the regular contents in her trunk. A basket of rolled yoga mats, another with aqua-colored foam yoga blocks, a battery-powered jump starter and air compressor for roadside emergencies. She grabbed her duffel to check underneath it, and the music started up again. As she slid the bag closer, the music volume increased.
What the hell?
Unzipping her duffel, she found a cell phone in a black protective case, its screen illuminated, wedged between a stack of towels. The words Victor Miranda—ICE flashed across the tiny screen.
Her stomach nose-dived.
The only person she knew who would have Victor Miranda as her “in case of emergency” contact would be . . .
No freaking way.
Anamaría slid her finger across the phone’s screen to answer, already suspecting the person on the other end. “Hello, Señora Miranda?”
“Ay, nena, I am so happy to hear your voice.” Señora Miranda breathed a huge sigh through the speaker. “Gracias a Dios my phone is safe with you.”
“Yes, I have it.” Ironically enough. Or maybe not.
Anamaría pulled the cell away from her ear, glancing from it to her unzipped duffel, wondering how the device could have gotten inside. Then she remembered Señora Miranda taking the tissue box from her and putting it inside Anamaría’s bag. Probably along with the cell phone.
Bemused, she shook her head as she brought the phone back to her ear. “I’m about to leave the church. Do you want me to drop it off at Miranda’s for you?”
“Actually, Victor needs me to run a few errands. Would you do me a favor and drop my phone by the house? I will swing by later.”
“You don’t need it now? I can meet you—”
“No, no, that’s okay. It would be better if you leave it there.”
Where she would run into Alejandro.
Surprised, and yet somehow not so surprised, by Señora Miranda’s blatant maneuvering, Anamaría plopped down on her SUV’s black bumper. She twisted the hair at the end of her long braid around a finger, contemplating whether or not the mamis would actually stoop this low. The meddling would never go to this bizarre extreme, would it?
“¿Hola, Anamaría, estás ahí?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.” Unsure whether she wanted to tip her imaginary cap at the inventive idea or shake her fist at the brazenness.
In the background she heard the usual cacophony of raised voices in the restaurant’s kitchen, Victor’s deep bass carrying over everyone else’s.
“I have to go, nena,” Señora Miranda said. “Thank you for dropping off my phone. Te lo agradezco.”
Oh, she might appreciate it all right, but what Anamaría would appreciate was the trickery coming to a stop.
The call disconnected and Anamaría sat there, scratching her head in disbelief. Clearly telling her own mother that her and her best friend’s plan to rekindle a romance between their two children was a fruitless idea had not worked.
Some way or another Anamaría had to make that message clear.
As much as she didn’t want to think of them as being on the same side, she and Alejandro might have to come up with their own plan for putting a stop to their moms’ matchmaking.