“Hey, Ernesto,” she jumped in, plastering a smile on her face. “Good to see you. Cómo está Cece?”
Ernesto wiped his hands on the apron as he strode over, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. The smell of cumin, peppers, and onion clung to him. It reminded her of the years she’d worked as a hostess and waitress at Miranda’s because it meant she and Alejandro could spend more time together.
“I heard your New York trip went pretty awesome,” Ernesto said, though his attention was already on his brother, who stood stiffly at her side. “Ale, this is a nice surprise.”
Alejandro dipped his head in greeting. He pulled his hand out of Señora Gómez’s but grabbed hold of his crutches, his fingers tightening around the rubberized grips, instead of shaking his brother’s hand. Strange, because the two brothers usually got along as far as she knew.
Anamaría placed her palm on Alejandro’s lower back in a show of support.
He flinched, then slowly relaxed. “I did a shoot for Anamaría at Higgs this morning. The guy who’s working with her wanted Cuban food, and I couldn’t really let him eat anything but the best, right?”
“Damn straight,” Ernesto said, quickly ducking his head in apology for his language to Señora Gómez and her friends. “Perdóname.”
“Está bien, hijo, we feel the same way.” The older woman’s smile squinted her eyes with pleasure.
“The place is packed,” Alejandro said. “Business still going well, ha?”
“Yeah. New places pop up around town, but you can’t beat the traditional good stuff.” Ernesto clasped his older brother on the shoulder in a show of kinship Anamaría was happy to see. “It means a lot to have you stop in. Peak lunchtime might not be ideal. . . .” He eyed the kitchen door behind him, more than likely thinking about the looming unexpected father-son reunion and how badly that could go. Especially with the place packed.
Victor Miranda’s unyielding personality when it came to carrying on his father’s tradition and name through the restaurant and Alejandro’s unwillingness to follow his father’s old-school edicts had been fodder for post-mass Fellowship Hall whispering at St. Mary’s, countless community gatherings, and private parties among friends since even before Ale had cut ties and run. Many local Cubans currently dining in Miranda’s were aware of the Miranda patriarch’s fraught history with his older son. Including Señora Gómez and her lunch companions, two elderly women equally as active in their church. Meaning, also equally active in the chisme sharing, even if the gossip might be well intentioned. Now all three ladies watched the interplay between the two brothers with keen curiosity.
Anamaría bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from asking if they wanted some popcorn for the show. Snark rarely went over well with the elders in their comunidad. Experience, and enough whacks from her mami’s fan, had drummed that lesson in her well.
“You know what? I’m sure our table’s ready by now.” Anamaría craned her neck to scan the dining area, relieved when Sara waved to her from a table in front of the big window facing Bertha Street. “We shouldn’t keep Sara and Brandon waiting.”
The usual round of cheek kisses ensued, Alejandro’s a bit awkward as he tried maneuvering with his crutches amid a litany of “pobrecito” murmurs from the elderly women. Poor thing wasn’t quite the phrase that came to mind when Anamaría thought about Alejandro’s idiot move in El Yunque, but whatever.
“Dios los bendiga,” the women chorused the typical good-bye blessing they had all grown up hearing.
Right now, Anamaría was hoping God’s blessing would get them through lunch without Victor Miranda venturing out of the kitchen. With this crowd, the odds might be in their favor, since he typically stayed in the back ensuring everything ran smoothly during their busier hours. If he did step out for some reason, she hoped he came ready to break bread peacefully with his son.
Ernesto followed her and Alejandro through the sea of filled tables with their matte red laminate tops and aluminum edging. At the front, under the wide window that ran nearly half the length of the wall, Brandon and Sara sat at a table for six.
Her back to the dining room, Sara angled sideways to face Señora Miranda, who sat two seats over. Based on Sara’s amused grin as she sucked on a paper straw in a glass of her usual lemon water, and Brandon’s deer-in-the-headlights expression as he spoke to Alejandro’s mom, Anamaría was guessing the infamous Cuban mami inquisition had commenced.
Coño, poor guy. No telling how long Señora Miranda had been grilling him.
A gray-haired gentleman in a peach guayabera and tan slacks reached for a copy of the Key West Citizen and his bill as he scooted away from a table on Anamaría’s right. She paused for him to step ahead of her.
Alejandro bumped into her from behind, his chest colliding with her shoulder blades. She felt him wobbling on his crutches; then one of his hands gripped her waist to steady himself. Warmth spread across her belly at his touch.
“I hope you warned Brandon about my mother on your drive over.” His low whisper tickled her ear, and a brushing of goosebumps shimmied across her shoulders.
“Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind. I was more worried about you and your dad and avoiding World War Three.”
“Yeah, well, that’s probably unavoidable,” he grumbled. “Thanks, though.”
She arched her neck to look up at him, only to find his angular jaw closer than she realized.
His earthy patchouli scent blended with the smell of spices and sautéed onions and peppers redolent in the restaurant’s contained space, and somehow she knew she would always seek this special blend whenever she was here. Seek but wind up disappointed when she didn’t encounter it because he was gone.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly slid up to meet hers again. Longing arced through her at the heat slow boiling in his eyes. Unfortunately, her rash kiss in the parking lot had done little to satiate her appetite for him as much as she had hoped it would.
Alejandro cupped her elbow. A move to draw her closer? Remind her of their whereabouts and the nosy audience watching? Señora Gómez’s flip comment about him stealing Anamaría’s heart again taunted her with the unavoidable truth. Whatever this was between them, Miranda’s was not the place to delve into it. If she even should.
Turning back toward their table, she made a promise that history would not repeat itself. He would leave again, but this time she expected it and would be fine. More than fine. Staying busy chasing her own dream.
“Oye, hermano, that friend of yours looks like he’s sweating through his workout clothes,” Ernesto chimed in from the back of their caravan of three. “Mami must be in rare form. You better get over there and save him.”
Anamaría squinted at the bright noon sun streaming through the wide window. It turned Brandon’s blond hair a burnished gold and glinted off the silverware neatly laid out on the red laminate tabletop. Brandon swiped a hand over his forehead in a nervous gesture.
Knowing how intrusive the mamis’ questioning could be, Anamaría hurried past the last few tables, intent on rescuing Brandon.