Fun was dinner under the stars, playing bluffing games, talking to the point of revealing too much, holding back only to spill everything out with no regrets. Fun was a first kiss under a manmade waterfall followed by a mad race to the bedroom on bare, slippery feet.
Angel lowered her head in her hands. Bernadette was right. The last thing she needed was fun. Her fun career in the arts was a flop. The fun ride of her last relationship had ended in a ditch. For the sake of her sanity, all the fun she’d had last night had to be shelved away.
In a few days, you’ll forget me.
Oh, how she wished that were true.
Five
Angel was gone. Sandro woke up sure of it.
He shot up, sent the sheets flying and scrambled out of bed. In a move that ended up saving him time, he yanked back the thick curtains to let in some light. From his bedroom, he could see as far as the marina. He caught sight of her tiny frame racing barefoot along the dock, shoes cradled in her arms, hair in the wind.
This little angel is bad.
He watched the ferry fade into the distance and sighed. It was for the best. Sandro had an eye for beauty, and sometimes it led him astray. Right now he couldn’t afford the distraction. He was on a mission in Miami, an unpleasant one that required a level head. Yet, as distractingly beautiful as Angel was, she had not wasted his time. She had delivered the painting and the certificate of authenticity that wasn’t worth the card stock it was printed on.
It surprised him that for all her keen-eyed observations, she was clueless regarding the nature of her errand. She had not connected the dots between him and the artist Juan David Valero. Sandro liked her all the more for it.
Alessandro David Cardenas was the grandson of Juan David Valero. His favorite grandson, by all accounts. At his death, Sandro had inherited the bulk of his paintings. A fire had destroyed half and Alessandro made it his mission to preserve the rest. He had repurchased anything he could find on the market, which wasn’t much. His grandfather had not been, by any stretch, a commercial success. And yet new pieces kept cropping up. It wasn’t until a friend had very proudly unveiled a Valero original purchased while on a fishing trip in Miami that Sandro began to suspect these new pieces were fakes. The painting of the Havana Harbor at dusk had all the trappings of his late grandfather’s work—the broad brushstrokes and the muted color palette that Angel had so beautifully described—but there was something “off” about it. That was all he could say. Sandro’s friend, a Cuban attorney from New Jersey, had all the best intentions. He had not wanted to embarrass the guy, so he kept his suspicions to himself. He did get the name of the Lincoln Road art gallery that had sold him the painting and made some inquiries.
What role, if any, did Angeline Louis play in this? None, he’d decided, and shut the door to any doubts.
Sandro went to the old wood desk that used to belong to his grandfather, flipped open a notebook and drew her face from memory with an ink pen. He did not want to forget her. He sketched her angular face, almond-shaped eyes, flared nose, and heart-shaped mouth. What that mouth had done to him...
He dropped the pen, the memories flooding back. The attraction between them had been there, whole and intact, the instant they’d met. He thought her beautiful from the start, but once she had started describing his grandfather’s work, from the muted color palette to the emotional undertones, he found her riveting.
The scripted speech had irritated him. He’d held the hands that had mixed those paints and didn’t need a lecture. Still, he’d appreciated the way she went on to present his abuelo as a person, not merely a signature on a canvas. She’d looked for nuance and meaning in the composition, color palette and even the brush strokes. Then he’d reminded himself that what she was so poetically describing was in all likelihood a cheap fake. His reaction had upset her. He liked that she cared so much.
He just liked her.
For all her good intentions, Angel was wrong about his grandfather whom she’d painted as a romantic figure, struck with nostalgia—the classic affliction of the Cuban exile. Juan David, JD to the family, had fled Castro’s Cuba in 1970, leaving behind his country, his family, and a fiancée whom he loved. That was certainly enough to cripple any man. It took years for Sandro to acknowledge the deeper truth: his grandfather was flat out depressed. He would have benefited from therapy and medication if his machismo hadn’t prevented him from seeking help.
It certainly didn’t help that the old man felt like a failure. Having dedicated his life to his art, JD never made a penny from it. And that was why Sandro was determined to prevent anyone from exploiting his work after his death. He would protect his legacy no matter what.
Sandro slipped on shorts, grabbed his phone and went to the kitchen for coffee. Maritza was there and had already poured him a cup. She was spooky like that.
She put the cup on the island counter before him. “Your friend is gone.”
“Ah!” he said. So that’s how she’d managed it, with Maritza’s help.
“She is a very nice girl, very pretty, very polite.”
There was a not-so-subtle reproach in her voice. “And I’m not nice?”
“You are a Hollywood playboy.”
Did she think he’d kicked the very pretty, very polite girl out of bed? “She left me! I was sleeping and she took off. You helped her.”
Maritza joined her hands as if in prayer. “I am not telling you how to live your life. I only said that she is a nice girl.”
“Who’s a nice girl? You can’t mean me.” His niece, Sabina, entered the kitchen. She was wearing the same outfit that she’d worn when she’d left the day before. “What did I miss? Did Tío have a girl over?”
“Good morning,” Sandro said. “And never mind that.”
Maritza poured Sabina a cup of coffee and discretely backed out of the kitchen. He had the suspicion that his housekeeper didn’t think his niece was “nice.”
Sabina stirred sugar in her coffee and confronted him. “What’s that in the living room?”
“What’s what?” Sandro asked.
She brushed a lock of black hair away from her face. “The painting by JD. Where did you get it?”
Sabina was his half brother Eddy’s daughter, but she looked more and more like her mother who had tragically passed away when she was twelve. Eddy had since remarried and moved to Tampa. Sabina did not get along with her stepmom and stayed on Fisher Island whenever she was in Miami. Her official occupation was travel blogger.
Sandro put down his mug. “Why do you need to know?”
Sabina continued her interrogation. “Why did you buy it? What’s your plan? To put it away with the others?”
The “others” were in storage, except for the few in his LA home. “Does that bother you?”
“Art is supposed to be on display for people to love and admire,” she said. “JD wouldn’t want you to hoard his work like that.”
He wasn’t hoarding anything. And what would she know about it? His grandfather died two years after she was born. “If you have so many strong opinions, why don’t you paint yourself? You used to back when you were in high school.”
“I used to pole dance back in high school, too,” she said. “For the exercise.”
Sandro sipped his coffee. This conversation had taken an odd turn.
“Daddy thinks it’s selfish of you to hide JD’s work, and I agree.”
So it was Daddy now? She hadn’t called her father that in a while. Interesting that his niece’s change of heart coincided with the one time that she and Eddy were taking sides against him.
“So I’m selfish,” Sandro said. “I can live with that.”
She slammed down her tiny spoon. “You’re a big deal now! Why not use your platform to promote his work? Let people discover it. You’d be surprised how much they’d pay—”
“No.”
/> “Okay,” she said. “If you’re not interested, let me try. I’ll never be as big as you but—”
“No.”
As the eldest grandchild, Eddy had happily inherited their grandfather’s fishing boat. Sandro had inherited the valueless art. There had been no formal reading of a will, but as boys they’d agreed to this. The boat had been sold for scraps years ago. The art, however, would outlast them all.
“Why?” Sabina snapped. “You do it for your friends? Why not your family?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Myles’s restaurant! Jordan’s DJ gigs! You promoted them and they blew up!”
If he were petty, he’d add her travel blogging career to that list. “I don’t promote them. I attend their events on my own time. I can’t help it if my friends are talented.”
“So what do you call going live on Instagram at Diablo’s grand opening or at Club TENTEN when Jordan has a set?”
“I call it living my life.” What would be the point of promoting his grandfather’s paintings? He had no intention of selling them. His hope was to pass them on to his kids...and his niece. Anyway, it was much too early for this conversation. “Sabina, I can’t deal with you right now.”
“You won’t have to. I’m only here to pack a bag.”
He had been looking forward to spending time with her today. “Don’t go. You just got here.”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s work. Soho House is hosting influencers this weekend for Art Week. And spare me the sad puppy eyes. Sounds like you won’t be lonely.” She grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl Maritza kept full and swirled out of the kitchen. “Catch you later, Tío!”
Sandro felt the stab of heartburn. This day wasn’t supposed to have started with him arguing with his niece over his grandfather’s paintings, and no amount of coffee was going to fix that. It should have begun in bed with Angel. But he’d been cheated of that experience and it was making him cranky. There was no other way to put it, really. He’d been cheated.
The door to Sabina’s bedroom slammed shut. What was he going to do about the growing gulf between him and his family? He hated to draw this parallel, but since bringing home the Oscar two years back, his relationships with his few remaining family members had deteriorated. His brother rarely called and now he was filling Sabina’s head with ideas. It saddened him. With his father long dead and two-thirds of his relatives back in Cuba, many he would likely never meet, Sandro didn’t take family for granted.
His phone buzzed with a text message. He welcomed the distraction. At least he could always count on his friends. Georgina Garcia, better known as Gigi, was the daughter of a former Dominican baseball star. Sandro was lucky to count the trust fund baby–turned–film studio head as one of his best friends. He had worked on one of her first projects and his performance had earned her studio its first Independent Spirit Award. It had also gotten him a meeting with the director of Shadows Need Light, the biopic of Cuban cinematographer and activist Néstor Almendros. He’d cinched the role of Julio, one of Néstor’s lovers and a fellow gay rights activist.
Gigi was in Miami for the same reason everyone was in Miami. The text message read:
Tonight’s itinerary: Cocktails at Pérez Museum, Basel event for one hour tops, dinner at the Mandarin and after-party at the Aston Martin Residences. Are you in? Or are you in???
Sandro was about to reply when his agent, Leslie Chapman, called with the classic combo of good news and bad news. A standoff between the director of his next film and the production company had resulted in more setbacks. Rehearsals were delayed until after the holidays.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. This was meant to be his first big budget fantasy movie in which he played a space pilot.
“Money is the problem.”
“What’s the good news?”
“You’ve got some time off,” she said. “Yay!”
“Come on, Leslie! What am I going to do with time off?”
Sandro knew that most people didn’t react this way to the prospect of free time. However, he wasn’t wired like most people. He worked. That’s what he did. Day in, day out, around the clock, he worked. On short breaks like this one, which were few and far between, he connected with friends and partied hard. That was how he liked it. Everything in balance.
“For God’s sake, man! You’re home on a private island in Miami. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. Plus it’s December and before you know it, the—”
“The holidays? If you tell me to spend time with my family, so help me—”
“Boy, please!” Leslie cried. “I was going to say the Golden Globe nominations are around the corner. I’ve got a good feeling. Take some time to relax. It’s going to be wild after that.”
It was Leslie’s job to dream big. Sandro had no reasonable expectation of a Golden Globe nomination for his supporting role in a series that had aired on a new streaming platform. He’d been snubbed for the Emmy, after all. That didn’t bother him too much. His pride in his work wasn’t contingent on winning a gold statue. Leslie was right on one point: he was home. A little solitude wouldn’t kill him. There was the pool, and if not the pool, the beach. And Angel... Don’t forget Angel...
“I’ll send you scripts to read and look out for a television appearance on a holiday special. Or maybe a late-night talk show. How about Fallon? Would that cheer you up?”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m going to take your advice.”
Leslie hollered over the line. “Am I dreaming or what?”
“It wouldn’t kill me to slow down.”
“Damn straight! And I like to keep my clients busy. You know my motto.”
Sandro chanted, “You make money, I make money.”
“And we all go home happy, baby!” Leslie chimed. “Except today I recommend that you stop working. Just. Stop. There’s such a thing as burnout.”
As a black woman in Hollywood, Leslie understood the business better than most. She knew how hard it was to break past stereotypes and score the types of roles that got an actor noticed. Sandro was a trained actor, but he would have been stuck playing the bad boy boyfriend or “some kind of Latino” for life if he hadn’t signed with Leslie. Now that his career was on track, he was in a strike-the-iron-while-it’s-hot frame of mind. When you came from a long line of starving artists, to be at long last bankable meant everything.
He said goodbye to Leslie. Maritza returned, cleared away his coffee cup and put a glass of water in his hand. He was no match for the women in his life today.
Sandro left the kitchen for the rooftop deck. Leslie’s words echoed in his mind as he climbed the stairs. You’re home. In recent years, he’d felt most at home on a movie set. That left him feeling adrift when he wasn’t at work. Nothing balanced about that.
He grabbed a net and scooped out a few leaves floating on the pool’s surface. He hadn’t come up here for pool maintenance. He needed a visual aid to relive last night.
May I touch you?
Please.
He stretched out on a lounge chair and finally replied to Gigi’s message. He was all in. Except for the drinks at the museum part. They could count him out of that. He had something else in mind.
Meet up with you at Basel.
Six
Art Basel, Opening Night
For four days in December, Miami Beach was the epicenter of the art world. Art Basel drew a wealthy, well-heeled crowd with money to waste on or to invest in, depending on whom you asked, modern art. A convention center the size of a warehouse was divvied up into viewing rooms, similar to booths at any bazaar worth wandering in. Each exhibitor’s room rivaled the other, some were stark and spare, others were kaleidoscopes of colors and light. But each showcased carefully curated collections from around the world. A Picasso, a Warhol, a Lichtenstein print, a bedazzled Buddha, a mini
ature porcelain toilet, or a bust of Columbus made entirely of chewing gum—it all counted as art. And Angel was here for it.
Too bad she was too distracted to appreciate it fully. With every blink of the eye, she was back in paradise, kissing Alessandro Cardenas under a waterfall. The memory was tangible; she could feel the water rush and swirl between her breasts and his hard body pressed against hers.
Angel massaged her temples in a fruitless effort to erase the memory. Oh, God! Please. Let me forget.
Her mental state wasn’t lost on her boss. “Angel! You’re as shaky as a Chihuahua! Please calm down.”
Perfect! The night had not yet begun and Angel had managed to piss off Paloma. As the newest member of the Gallery Six team, she wasn’t part of the elite sales force led by the flame-haired Paloma Gentry. Angel was meant to stay behind and man the Lincoln Road shop like a sad and sorry Cinderella while Paloma, Justine and the rest had twirled in the Basel spotlight. Justine’s accident had thrown a wrench in that plan. Paloma (real name Paula) was so brittle, you’d think Angel had ordered the hit on her top salesperson. It was unfair. What had she done except be helpful? She’d successfully closed Justine’s last deal, getting top dollar for the Juan David Valero painting. And here she was tonight, looking damn good in Miami’s answer to Millennial Pink and glowing like never before. She’d gone the extra mile and added some temporary golden highlights to her wavy brown hair. Bottom line: she was ready.
Was she just going to gloss over the part where she had sex with the client straight after closing the sale? Yes, as sure as the sun set in the west.
Paloma clapped to get her attention. Wearing all black and a ton of gold jewelry, red hair pulled into a severe bun, she had gallerista style down pat. “We are competing with galleries from Europe and all over the world. We have to measure up. Celebrities can smell nervousness. It’s a turnoff.”
“We wouldn’t want to do that.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Paloma said. “Listen. I know you’re a bit rough around the edges. That’s understandable. A degree in fine arts doesn’t prepare you for the art world. But you’re going to give me an ulcer if you don’t calm down.”
What Happens In Miami... Page 4
