“I love it, Ale,” she gushed. She grabbed his lapels to tug him in for a real kiss, not the friendly chaste kind they had exchanged when she arrived.
Alejandro’s smile broadened. “Good, because I lov—”
“There you are!” Her mami’s exuberant cry cut Alejandro off.
Cursing her mom’s terrible timing, Anamaría smoothed his lapel and turned to greet her parents, all the while wondering if Alejandro might have been about to say the words neither one of them had said to the other in years.
Arms outstretched for a hug, her mami rushed toward them. “Ay, Alejandro, your work is magnificent. We are so proud of you, aren’t we, José.”
Anamaría’s papi kissed her cheek, then clamped his hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “Yes, we are. Very proud. And this”—her papi jutted his chin at the parade photo—“this one is your best, verdad?”
“Ay, Papi, we all know you’re biased. Pero I love you.” Anamaría hugged her mom, already forgiving the interruption in the face of her resounding approval of Ale’s photographs.
“Have you made it to the back of the gallery yet?” she asked, knowing that’s where they would find the Mi Cuba collection in a semiprivate viewing area.
“No, little José and Ramón held us up with the animales,” her mami answered. “Alejandro, por favor, tell me you use one of those zooming-in cameras when you are out there con los leones y los elefantes.”
Alejandro chuckled, assuring her he was always safe when shooting animals in the wild. He motioned to the gallery’s far back corner across from the office. “Ven, I would like to show you what I hope will be your second-favorite area, after this one, of course.”
Her papi clapped him on the shoulder again. “You are learning, hijo. There is hope for your generation after all.”
When they reached the private viewing area, they found Alejandro’s mom standing a few feet away from the black curtain hanging in front of the room’s opening.
Señora Miranda’s red-rimmed eyes and splotchy face had them all quickening their pace to reach her.
“¿Mami, qué te pasa?” Alejandro handed his crutch to Anamaría’s dad, then wrapped his arms around his mother.
She sniffled, tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated, pulling back to gaze down at her. “Did you and Papi fight again?”
Again? Anamaría frowned. What did he mean by that? She looked to her mami, who shook her head, indicating she was in the dark, as well.
“No, no, hijo, I blame you for mis lágrimas,” his mami said on a sniffle as she wiped the tears she, for some reason, attributed to him. “These I shed with pride.” Cupping his face with both hands, she gave him a watery smile. “What you have done here, what you have gifted our familia and our generation with inside this room . . .” Her voice broke and she finished on a raspy whisper. “Gracias, hijo.”
Alejandro hugged her tightly, his worried expression melting into relief.
Knowing how badly Alejandro had feared his mother’s reaction to these specific photographs, how much her words must mean to him, Anamaría gently rubbed the area between his shoulder blades, offering support.
“Where’s Abuela?” he asked.
“She was feeling a little tired. Marcelo took her to his office to rest in the quiet. We can show her this room once the crowd has left, okay?”
He nodded, but Anamaría caught his gaze flitting to the office door, a tiny groove marring the space between his brows with his frown.
The curtain blocking the private viewing area’s entrance brushed aside and two teenaged girls exited. Señora Miranda grasped the material to hold it open, and the teens shuffled past, one leaning toward the other with a murmured, “That was pretty cool.” Then, her round face beaming with pride, Alejandro’s mom invited Anamaría and her parents into the private viewing area.
Just as the curtain fluttered closed behind them, Natalia poked her head inside.
“Excuse me for interrupting.” Her sharp gaze politely paused on each of them before stopping with Alejandro. “There’s a gentleman interested in purchasing a piece in the Nature and Wildlife collection, but he’d like to speak with you first.”
“Vete, hijo. Go on!” His mami shooed him with a flick of her wrist. “José, Lydia, and I will reminisce about our Cuba while I share our familia historia through your fotografía maravillosa. Go take care of your business. We will be here waiting for you.”
She gave him another watery, pride-filled smile before clasping Anamaría’s mami’s hand and leading her best friend toward the far corner. Seconds later, the two moms were gushing over a picture taken along the Malecón in Havana. Her father’s deep voice joined theirs with his own awed exclamation.
Beside her, Alejandro cupped her elbow, an apology shadowing his dark eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She ran her fingers down his lapel, as close to a caress as she would allow herself in front of their parents but still wanting to soothe his worry.
“Why are you apologizing? This is fantastic, Ale. Plus, the more pieces you sell, the more you’ll be able to help your . . . um . . . those who are in need.” She picked her way around the words, speaking in code since Ernesto had admitted that their mom was still not aware of the issues Miranda’s was facing with the bank and their previous insurance policy lapsing.
“Thank you.” He pivoted on his good leg and took a swing step away, then suddenly turned back to her. “All the work and planning and preparing for tonight, while dealing with the tension at home, I wouldn’t have made it through without you.”
Reaching out, he snagged a lock of her hair, then let it sift through his fingers. “I want you to know—”
“Alejandro, the buyer doesn’t have much time,” Natalia called. Her arched brows wrinkled her forehead as she mouthed, Sorry, to Anamaría.
Anamaría waved off the apology with an understanding smile. The woman was doing her job. And doing it well by the sound of things.
With a muttered, “I’ll try to hurry,” Alejandro strode from the viewing area, leaving the curtain fluttering behind him.
Twenty minutes later, Anamaría still waited by the entry as her parents and Señora Miranda stood, mesmerized, staring at the grouping of images titled Mi Familia. Three smaller pictures hung on both sides of and above a larger one. The courtyard fountain photograph Anamaría had seen the first night Alejandro shared his Cuba pictures with her hung on top. The one on the right featured a modest cream stucco church with a wooden steeple rising into a soft blue sky dusted with wispy clouds. In the last of the trio, two older women in worn batas that hugged their round bellies stood side by side, their arms laden with mangos from a sprawling tree behind them as they mugged for Alejandro’s camera, smiles wide and friendly.
But the pièce de résistance holding center stage, the one that had Señora Miranda’s hand covering her trembling lips, was the large photograph of a dilapidated one-story corner building, its windows pieces of jagged glass or boarded-up completely, red graffiti decorating the planks. Its wooden sign tilted and weather-beaten, a faded capital M in a flourishing script its only identifier.