Confused by E’s vague description of what he had in mind, Alejandro took in the storefronts searching for some type of clue.
In a row of stores and businesses, the building’s butter yellow siding and white-trimmed windows invited passersby to peek inside and check out the various wares. The façade of the business they stood in front of was taken up by an expansive window and a glass door. The name Bellísima was etched in the window’s right corner and emblazoned in a flourishing black script on a rectangular ceramic tile hanging near the door. The eye-catching window display featured two vibrant watercolor paintings of well-known Key West landmarks. The first a teeming Mallory Square during the nightly sunset festival with its orange sherbet sky and wispy deepening purple sky. The second canvas captured Ernest Hemingway’s house with a smattering of tourists perusing the lush grounds. Propped on a doll-sized easel in between the framed paintings, a sign written in blood orange brushstrokes read: Local Artist.
“Before we go in, we gotta set something straight between us.” Enrique stepped out from behind the chair, then backpedaled to make room for a middle-aged woman power walking with a baby stroller. As soon as she passed by, he moved to Alejandro’s left. His back to the art gallery, Enrique lifted his black Ray-Bans to rest on top of his head. The bright noonday sun glinted off the dark lenses.
E’s pretty-boy face—the likes of which Alejandro knew could sell bottles of men’s cologne as easily as cold drinks on a hot day at Smathers Beach if Enrique wanted to go that route—turned sober. All signs of joking erased from his expression as Enrique crossed his arms and stared down at Alejandro.
“Here’s the deal,” Alejandro’s once partner in crime said. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. You’ve gotten me out of plenty of jams, and into a few.”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Alejandro held up a finger, compelled to point out the truth. “You have to admit, anything I instigated is now a comical remember-when story. And most of those were at least partly your idea first.”
Enrique clamped his mouth closed, neither agreeing with nor denying his ringleader status in their past antics. “Whatever. You know how this goes. My sister comes first. You’re familia, but she’s—”
“La Princesa.”
A corner of Enrique’s mouth quirked. “Word to the wise, she still hates it when we call her that. It’s grounds for a gut punch that, believe me, does not tickle. Our dad’s the only one who gets away with it.”
Of course he did. That fact spoke of the bond Anamaría and Señor Navarro shared. Still. Always. Alejandro’s mistake had been not realizing how that bond would keep her tethered here for good. Or rather, that she didn’t consider herself tethered by the tiny island like he did.
“I get it,” he told Enrique.
At least, the rational side of him now did. The emotional side that he channeled into his craft still hadn’t come to grips with her rejection.
“I’m glad busting your leg made you drag your sorry ass back here. It’s been too long,” Enrique went on. “But Anamaría’s in a good groove. Finally doing something about growing AM Fitness since she broke up with that loser who moved back to Miami. So, I’m saying this as fair warning—” Enrique hooked his thumbs in his front jeans pockets, his body language casual to anyone walking by, while his gaze hardened with a serious intensity. “Don’t do anything to hurt her or mess with her head. ’Cuz this time, it won’t matter where you fly off to. I will hunt you down. We clear?”
The assumption that Alejandro was the only one who’d done the hurting had frustration bubbling hot and frothy in his stomach, like milk for café con leche left in a pot on the stove to overflow.
No way would he admit that the sister his friend defended had done her own number on him. Doing so wouldn’t change anything.
And yet that dedication to your familia, the Navarros, all kept sacred, having each other’s back no matter what, accepting them for who and what they were . . . it was all Alejandro had ever wanted from his own dad. The one thing the old man couldn’t give the son whose dreams differed.
Despite his disappointment, Alejandro couldn’t begrudge Enrique looking out for his sister.
“Yeah, we’re clear.” Alejandro signaled his agreement with a chin jut. “Look, man, I’m here to heal and appease my mami and abuela’s desire to fatten me up. I plan on getting to know my niece and meet this new little one Cece’s about to have. Then, I am out of here. Chasing the next great photograph. Climbing the next waterfall.”
“Without doing another piss-poor cliff-diving imitation. Please,” Enrique wisecracked.
Their shared smirks broke the tension. Enrique leaned forward to clap him on the shoulder, and for the first time since he’d arrived back home Alejandro felt like his old self. When taking pictures had been about the joy of capturing the beauty around him, not the need to lose himself in his work to forget.
“You should join me on a shoot sometime. Maybe it would inspire you to paint something they’d let you show here.” Alejandro peered through the gallery’s front window, catching sight of a short man with shaggy black hair and a trendy vibrant blue suit peering at them from inside. The guy smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.
Enrique shook his head. “Naw. I don’t show my work any-more.”
“Sometime you’re going to have to explain to me why the hell not.”
“Doubtful. All that’s behind me. But you . . . big-shot National Geographic cover photographer . . . you are another story. Which is why we’re here.” Stepping behind the wheelchair again, Enrique pushed Alejandro toward the door. “I connected with Logan Summers while I was in art school. He and his husband, Marcelo López, co-own Bellísima. And, you’ll be pleased to know, Marcelo’s a huge fan of your work. Naturally, I told him you’re not a big deal. You put your pants on the same damn way we do. One leg at a time. And right now, even that’s not happening ’cuz your decision-making skills when it comes to cliff-diving landing spots need improvement. Marcelo’s opinion of you didn’t budge though.”
“I like him already,” Alejandro joked.
“Remember, I know your childhood secrets and most embarrassing highlights.” Enrique ducked down, whispering his idle threat in Alejandro’s left ear.
“Back atcha, hermano.”
“True. But I’m not the big shot with a rep to protect. You are.” Enrique grinned like the sly dog he was. “Anyway, when I mentioned that you were in town for a while, Marcelo and Logan thought you might be interested in having a show. Here.”
Alejandro craned his neck to gape up at Enrique, surprised by the unexpected offer.
“It’ll keep you busy,” Enrique said. “Out of the house. Away from meddling moms and abuelas.”
Alejandro settled back in his chair, considering. Enrique’s rationale made sense.
But a showing? On the island? It was something he’d dreamed of as a budding photographer. Wouldn’t that be like thumbing his nose at his papi’s expectations? Drawing attention to the work Alejandro had chosen over his abuelo’s legacy?
The questions ran circles inside his brain, so it took him a few seconds to note that the guy in the suit now stood at the gallery’s entrance, holding the door ajar. His pale blue eyes sparkled with excitement, their contrast with his deeply bronze skin creating a striking combination. Fingers splayed, he pressed a hand to his chest over his thin black tie and tipped forward in a slight bow.