“My presence has caused problems for you and Mami. For that, I am truly sorry, Papi. That has never been my intent.” Standing shoulder to shoulder, he caught his father’s shift and interested glance his way. Bolstered, Alejandro continued. “What you two have together, it’s beautiful. I admire and, hell, even envy, your relationship. I don’t want to be a problem for you two, but Papi, I can’t stay away anymore. I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want that, either. None of us do, hijo,” his father said, his voice thick with emotion. Turning back to the photographs, his chest rose and fell on a shuddering breath. His fingers shook as they hovered inches away from the protective glass covering the portrait of the original Miranda’s.
The blend of nostalgia and longing stamping his jowled face looked similar to the throat-clogging, chest-tightening ache Alejandro had always felt, but rarely admitted, in those rare moments over the years when he had allowed himself to think about home, his familia. Anamaría.
“What you have done here, hijo. These pieces of us,” his father said. “Of nuestra historía.”
Our history.
Not my, but ours.
Hope sprouted a tiny bud in a dark corner of Alejandro’s soul.
“And here. The way you honor those of us whose parents sent us with little more than faith and dreams and determination.” His papi ambled over to the images of Pedro Pan children, all now adults. He pointed at the photograph of Alejandro’s uncle, his father’s older brother, tall palms and verdant bushes surrounding him in his backyard in Miami. Tío Juan clutched an old yellowed photograph of the two brothers taken moments after they had landed in Miami. Scared. Uncertain. Already missing their parents and abuelos.
“When did you visit your tío Juan?” his father asked. “Él no me dijo nada.”
“He didn’t say anything to you because we both felt you didn’t care to know,” Alejandro answered truthfully. Though the words hurt him to admit. “I mean, my work, even a passion project like this one, has never been of much interest to you.”
His father’s broad shoulders sagged on a heavy exhalation. He hung his head, reaching up to rub at his nape as if the same tension gripping Alejandro held him in its clutches, too. “I have not made it easy for you, hijo.”
The gruff admission was a gross understatement. And yet Alejandro had to accept his own fault in their rift. Guilt weighed on him as he hobbled closer to his father. “I gave you good reason to be angry . . . worse, disappointed . . . in me.”
“You were—”
“Immature. Full of youthful ego and ignorance.” A mistake he had recently come to realize would only be rectified if he stopped acting like a child, blaming others and taking the easy route by running away. Never turning around to follow that route home.
“Bueno, I will not argue that.” His papi turned to face him, his expression inscrutable under the muted gallery lighting. “But your work. In your own way, hijo, you honor us, our familia. The legacy my papi wanted for us.”
That tiny bud of hope grew bigger, gaining strength in the sunlight of his father’s praise.
Gripping his shoulder, his father pulled Alejandro closer, wrapping him in a tight bear hug.
“Gracias, hijo. Your work brings my papi and what we left behind to life in a way I never expected. Me da tanto orgullo,” his father rasped.
Stunned by his father’s admission of pride in his work, it took Alejandro a moment to return the unexpected, long-awaited paternal embrace. Relief flooded him, elation dragging pent-up words from his lips as he hugged his father.
“Perdóname, papá,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean it. I’ve only ever wanted to make you proud, in my own way.”
“Lo sé. I know that now.” His large hand pounded on Alejandro’s back, a reassuring weight that knocked away the guilt and self-reproach. “I should have tried to understand, instead of pushing you away. But you are home now, hijo, where you belong.”
Tears pricked Alejandro’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut, overwhelmed with gratitude.
A shocked gasp had him and his father turning to find Alejandro’s mother standing in the curtained entry. Señora Navarro stood at her side, an equally astounded expression on her lightly lined face.
Tears pooled in his mami’s eyes, spilling down her round cheeks. She hurried into the small space, her low heels tapping against the faux-hardwood flooring. Arms wide, she wrapped her husband and son in a hug as a sob tore from her lips.
They held each other for several moments. Then his mother cupped her husband’s face, rising up on her toes as he bent to brush his lips against hers. They murmured apologies and shared another soft kiss while Alejandro looked on with relief.
She spun to Alejandro, cupping his face like she’d done with her husband, whispering prayers of thanks as she pressed her cheek to his.
When she finally released him, Alejandro couldn’t help but peer past her toward the entrance, searching for the one person who would understand better than anyone else what this moment meant to him.
Disappointment soured his mouth when Anamaría didn’t appear behind her mother, who still hovered near the curtain.
As if she read his intent, Señora Navarro shook her head with a sad frown.
“She hasn’t come back yet?” he asked, having touched base with Señora Navarro earlier while skirting the crowd looking for her daughter.
“No, mijo, I’m sorry.”
He dug his phone out of his pants pocket. A growl of frustration rumbled up his throat at the blank screen. No text message replies. No returned phone calls.
“Enrique?” he asked.
His best friend’s mother shook her head again.
“¡Coño! I don’t understand what happened?” Frustrated, Alejandro drove his fingers through his hair. “I have no idea why she left or where she went. Or how to find her.”
“I do.” A hand on her elbow, Señor Navarro guided his wife into the now-crowded viewing area. “Elena, saca tu teléfono, por favor.”
His wife unzipped the black purse hanging at her left hip. Dipping her hand inside, she extracted her phone as he had requested.
“I am assuming you still make the kids share their location, ha?” the Navarro patriarch asked.
Both mamis exchanged knowing grins.
Understanding dawned in Alejandro like the bright orange sun peeking over the Atlantic horizon at Higgs Beach.
Impatience clawed at him while Señora Navarro tapped at her cell screen. Her red nail skimmed over the surface before she tapped one final time. Her head slowly rose, her gaze meeting his. Trust . . . and a clear warning . . . flashed in the hazel eyes her only daughter had inherited.
Straightening his shoulders, he faced Anamaría’s parents—humble, hopeful, determined.
“La quiero,” he said, going on to repeat the words he hadn’t allowed himself to think, much less say out loud, in over a decade. “I love her. I’ve never stopped.”
Her lips curving in a gracious smile, Señora Navarro handed her phone to him.
Chapter 20
Anamaría kicked the sandy playground dirt, grimacing when tiny grains dusted over the front of her sandaled stilettos, wedging uncomfortably between her toes.