“Just you, me and my driver,” he said. “Is that alright?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you sure you want to be out with someone as basic as me?”
She heard him snap to attention, or had he dropped the phone? “Why would you say that?”
“It was a joke,” she said. “Someone left a comment on an Instagram post and—”
“No me digas, Angel!” he said. “What are you doing reading comments?”
Increasingly, he broke out in Spanish. Angel wondered if this meant that he was more comfortable around her. She hoped that was the case, even though now he was clearly exasperated.
“It was right there. There was no missing it.”
“I pay someone to monitor social media,” he said. “It doesn’t look like I’m missing out on much. Who would call you basic? You’re so beautiful, half the time I can’t even look at you.”
Angel hadn’t been fishing for a compliment, but Lord, she’d caught Moby Dick. “It didn’t bother me, really. My self-esteem is rock solid.”
“Alright,” he said, although he didn’t sound convinced. “So...you, me and my driver. Sounds good?”
She rose from the bench. Her break was nearly over and Paloma would kill her if she returned late again. “Sounds great.”
“Angel, have you met Gus?”
“We’ve met,” Angel said. “You were waiting at the dock when I arrived that first night.”
Gus was bearded, bald and built like a linebacker. Angel understood that “driver” was code for “bodyguard.” For Alessandro to venture into the city on a warm December night, he needed security. Was this something that she would have to get comfortable with? No, Angel! Stop! Dead end ahead! Alessandro would be leaving soon enough. She’d register with a dating app and find a nice boyfriend who did not need an armed guard on a date. The end.
Was Gus armed?
Alessandro took her by the waist and guided her into the car. “First stop Wynwood?”
She agreed. “I don’t know where you’ll park this beauty.”
“It’s arranged,” Gus said. “We have a spot in a garage.”
By “garage” Gus had meant an actual mechanic shop owned by a buddy of his and located one block away from the popular Wynwood Walls. The Alfa Romeo pulled up to a metal drop gate smeared with graffiti. It rose to allow them passage and fell like an iron curtain behind them. The garage owners rushed forward to greet Alessandro and escorted their trio through the front of the shop and out onto the sidewalk. Although it was dark, Alessandro slipped on sunglasses. They were like any other couple, strolling hand in hand, with a bodyguard in tow.
Every square inch of Wynwood was coated in spray paint. Every back alley brick wall was a street artist’s canvas. The murals varied in style, but the point was to provoke. Whether it was a pair of widespread angel wings or a play on a political slogan, all that mattered was that it stood out. With so much art on the streets, they avoided the galleries, preferring to stroll the sidewalks.
Angel squeezed her date’s hand. She was of average height when surrounded by average people, but at his side, she felt small and dainty. Then Alessandro popped the traditional third date question: “Your place or mine?”
“Well...mine, obviously. Yours is an ocean away.”
“It’s across the bay, not the straits,” he said. “I can get you back in time for work in the morning if you’re concerned.”
That was always a concern. But she had an idea. “I open the gallery in the morning, but I have the next two days off.”
He pulled her into a side street—with Gus standing guard. “Two whole days? No obligations?”
“None.”
“Then what’s to stop you from coming with me to paradise?”
His gaze lingered on her mouth, anticipating her answer. Angel couldn’t help licking her lips. “Nothing.”
He kissed her full on the mouth. “Pack a bag. But don’t pack too much—you won’t need it.”
They’d made it to the main attraction. “The Walls” was an outdoor grand scale art space for graffiti and street art. Securing a wall was a competitive process and some of the world’s most celebrated artists had been featured. Alessandro mentioned that he’d attended the grand opening. “No one thought it would take off like this.”
They stood before a mural of a bird perched on barbwire. The bird had blood-red feathers and his eyes were dots of coal. The opposing wall was painted pink with the words I’m beautiful, damn it! Mothers and daughters, sisters and girl squads waited in line for a chance to pose for photos, using the mural as a backdrop.
“This is how people consume art now,” Angel said. “It’s more immediate and interactive. Much better than a stuffy gallery.”
Alessandro looked at her, his expression soft. “Do you like your job at Gallery Six?”
Angel laughed nervously. “You asked me that already.”
She’d done a competent job for the gallery these last few days. Was he picking up some other vibe?
“Your answer was bull, and you know it. I want the truth.”
She scrounged around for some scraps of truth. “Let’s just say, it wasn’t my first career choice. I’m still new at it. The gallery itself is a bit much and a little too concerned with its celebrity clientele—no offense.”
He took none. In fact, he seemed relieved.
“Look,” she said. “I just need something to work. Okay?”
“Okay.”
They migrated to the next mural, a dazzling geometric abstract which, upon close inspection, was composed exclusively of stick figures in various sexual positions. Angel could not focus on it. She was stuck on something he’d said. How had he known her first answer was BS? At the time, they hadn’t known each other that long.
“How do you know me so well?”
He shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, feigning boyish innocence. “Reading your body language is not the same as knowing you.”
“You always get to the heart of me.”
He cocked his head, coal black eyes steady on her. “That’s the objective.”
He was so damn sexy! Angel forgot where she was and, more importantly, whom she was with. She took his face between her hands and drew him into a kiss.
Their audience swooned.
They were not an average couple on an average date. They were tropical fish in an aquarium, floating around to the amazement and astonishment of a crowd. Someone shouted: “That’s Sandro!” A woman screeched: “I knew it!... Who’s the girl?”
Alessandro groaned. “Blown cover. Let’s go.”
That proved to be difficult. The crowd pressed around them. Gus tactfully drilled a tunnel for them to move forward. Armed security guards rushed forward to assist. Sandro appeased his fans with handshakes, smiles, and kisses blown into the air. Angel was in shock. Up until now, their public outings had been limited to controlled environments where celebrities like him were free to roam outside of their gilded cages.
The garage was not far. They were able to duck in and disappear.
“This doesn’t always happen,” Alessandro said apologetically. “Most times I blend into a crowd.”
Angel was doubtful. Could this be his one blind spot? Once upon a time, he might have blended into a crowd like this, but not anymore. She wondered who among his friends would volunteer to tell him the truth.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“You’re up for more?”
“Baby, the night is young!”
The endearment tossed out casually set off a glitter bomb in her chest. What has this man done to me? Angel had to do better. She couldn’t let him get to her like this. What was she going to do when their love affair ended with a great big Hollywood kiss?
They all climbed into the car.
“Where to?”
Gus asked.
“Papaya on Northwest Second Avenue,” Angel replied. The gallery showcased Haitian art and she would be remiss not to stop by during Art Basel week.
“I know it,” Gus said. “Let’s go.”
“We call Gus ‘GPS’ behind his back,” Alessandro said.
“And to my face,” Gus chimed good-humoredly.
It was the last Angel heard his voice during the ride. The city was marred with traffic and the short drive took longer than it normally would. Nestled close to Alessandro in the back of the car, fingers intertwined and speaking softly, Angel didn’t mind.
“Before we were so rudely interrupted, you were going to tell me all your secrets,” he said, speaking in that quiet way of his that made her tremble.
“Funny. That’s not how I remember it.”
“Here’s your chance,” he said. “Tell me something real. Not the stuff I can guess at, but what you keep hidden from everyone.”
There were no skeletons drying out in Angel’s closet, only her twin pet demons: inadequacy and failure.
Gus turned onto 2nd Avenue. Located at the corner, Papaya was as colorful as its name. The exterior walls were painted a rich apricot hue. Hand-painted palm trees soared up its facade from the ground to the roof. The one-story building blended nicely with its surroundings. The mini-mart next door was peacock blue with the words BON APPÉTIT BONNE SANTÉ stenciled in gold, a neighboring property’s privacy wall featured religious iconography in primary colors, and the restaurant across the street was a vibrant red.
It occurred to Angel that there was something she could share with Alessandro. Papaya, her favorite art gallery, was the appropriate place to do it. But now that they’d finally arrived, Angel had second thoughts.
Fifteen
The goal was to get to the heart of her. Yet whenever he tried, asking direct yet simple questions, she looked as if she might crawl out of her skin. Whatever she was hiding behind her painted facade was tormenting her, and he hated it. To force it would be a mistake. So he let questions go unanswered and tried to read the coded messages in those steady brown eyes that still got to him, even now.
So far, he’d gathered that deep inside she felt like a failure. Tonight, he learned that she desperately needed something to work. Having been there himself, he knew it was a dark place to be.
They’d arrived at the gallery. “Let’s go.”
She grabbed his arm just as he prepared to bolt out of the car. “Wait! I should walk you through this.”
The neighborhood was hosting an art walk. She stared out the window at the lively party scene. Sandro was slightly offended. Did she think the Little Haiti crowd would scare him? Or did she worry he’d reject the art she took so much pride in? Either way, he had to stomp those fears.
“I grew up in the Little River area just miles from here,” he said. “You’re not going to explain anything to me.”
“Wow.” She released him. “Is there no situation you can’t spin with a folksy tale of your humble roots?”
“Apparently not.”
Angel was actually wringing her hands. “I might have hyped it up a bit,” she said. “This is not a fancy gallery by any stretch. But I want to support them.”
“Okay, let’s support them.”
“Whoa!” She gripped his arm again, tighter this time. “By support I mean showing appreciation for their work. Please don’t think I brought you here to buy out their inventory.”
“Angel! You’re taking the fun out of this.”
“I’m just saying! You tend to show off a little.”
He tended to show off a lot. That was the performer in him. But he didn’t have to buy out a business’s inventory to show his support. “If I like something, I’ll buy it. Plus, there are other things I can do.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see.” He opened the car door, stepped out and assisted Angel. She was dressed simply in a silky blue top, which she wore with fitted jeans and barely there sandals. Her brown waves gathered at the top of her head with a clip. Although she was not one to layer on clothes, he had already formulated a plan how to best undress her when he finally got her alone. The jeans would have to go first. The top would fall away once he tugged at the ties at the nape of her neck. Then he’d snatch away that hair clip. He imagined her waves would cascade around her shoulders. Only then would he work on the lacy strapless bra that he’d gotten glimpses of earlier.
But first they had to get through this gallery tour. It meant something to her, and he was going to show up for it.
The glossy Alfa Romeo standing idle at the curb had drawn some attention. When Alessandro and Angel emerged from it, excitement crackled through the gathering crowd. He was not as famous as Angel seemed to think. He was nowhere near a household name. Most people struggled to remember his name or recall which movie they’d seen him in. He hoped his next movie, a big budget adaptation from a popular fantasy trilogy, would change that. He could have ducked into the gallery before anyone had figured out who he was, but he gave it a minute. Soon enough, a young woman cried, “I love you, Sandro!”
Without missing a beat, he called out, “Love you, too!”
And that triggered an uproar and a blaze of flashing camera phone lights. Before they got swamped, he grabbed Angel’s hand and headed inside. A security guard ushered them into the reception area and locked the door behind them. He turned to Angel and met her knowing gaze.
“I know what you did there.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tomorrow’s headline will be Hollywood Discovers Artsy Gallery in Little Haiti.”
He bent forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “Or something like that.”
She mouthed the words thank you. Sandro wanted to kiss those lush lips. He could hardly wait to get her back on Fisher Island. All that time alone together, he might die of happiness.
When they entered the first viewing room, the gallery owner nearly fell off the stack of wood crates where he sat, drinking beer from a bottle and chatting with friends. He knew Angel and extended a warm welcome. He gave them the tour and explained the objective of the space was to promote up-and-coming artists, boost the culture and build community. The paintings were not unlike those his grandfather might have painted, scenes of Caribbean life, beaches, gardens, outdoor markets, women in recline, women at work, women dressed in white, dancing to bongo drums. Sandro took a moment to speak with the night’s featured artist who was eager to share that he had been to Cuba last year as part of a cultural exchange program. Sandro posed for photos with the artist, the owner, the security guard and nearly everyone else who’d found themselves locked in the small gallery space with them. All the while Angel was beaming at him. He’d do it all again if it made her look at him like that.
When the frenzy died down, she asked the owner if they could have some time alone in one of the smaller viewing rooms. The space was immediately cleared out. As soon as a pocket door slid shut to offer them ultimate privacy, she backed him against a wall and kissed him fiercely. His hands found their way under the hem of her silky top, in search of skin. Was a gallery tour all it took to get her hot?
“You are so easy,” he said when she broke away.
“And you were so good out there!”
“I wasn’t putting on an act,” he admitted. “This art is more accessible than half the things at Basel. It’s the sort my grandfather would make.”
“It’s the sort my parents would hang on their walls.” She pointed to a still life of tropical fruit. Bananas, oranges, pineapples, watermelon and mangoes were lumped into a large basket. The colors were subtle, all shades of yellow and green. “As a kid, I used Crayola paints to copy still life portraits like this one. I made copies of the art in my family home. That’s how I taught myself to paint. I worked hard to re-create them, almost obsessively. They wer
e more beautiful and interesting than anything in my coloring books.”
Copy... Re-create...
A question fell from him. “You paint?”
“I have a masters in fine arts to prove it,” she said with a sad little smile. “Not that I’m doing much with it.”
“Those paintings in your apartment...?”
She turned away from him, nodding.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“What’s to say? The thing I dedicated my life to is nothing more than a hobby now.”
“Why did you quit?”
She did not answer. Could this be the secret that she had been hiding so deeply? A hidden shame? He took her gently by the shoulders and made her face him. Tears glazed her eyes.
He pulled her close. “Don’t cry, my angel. It’s okay.”
She spoke into his shirt. “This is stupid! I’m over it. Really, I am.”
Sandro couldn’t let her lie to herself. “No, you’re not, babe.”
She gripped at his sleeves. “Why can’t you lie to me?”
Sandro held her tight, laughter rumbling through their bodies. He kissed her hair. Later, he’d ask for more details. He might suggest that she had given up too soon. He’d encourage her to try again. For now, though, he’d rock her and make her laugh. He’d quiet the voice repeating her words.
I worked hard to re-create them, almost obsessively...
The emotional heavy lifting had taken its toll. They dropped Gus off at his downtown condo and drove to her apartment in silence. Back at her place, Angel poured him a glass of ice water and straightened things out in the kitchen. Then she headed to her room, promising to slip into something more comfortable if he were good.
“I’ll be good!” he assured her.
Sandro circled the living/dining/home office area while he waited. She kept the light to one source, a table lamp near the entryway. Like last time, he was drawn to a framed painting on the wall over her desk. It was a seaside landscape brought to life in swirls of blue. A few palm trees. A little boy crouched on the sand.
What Happens In Miami... Page 11
