Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

His Excuse me? wilted on his tongue when Natalie turned his iPad around to show him what had her so enthralled.

  Shit. His stomach dropped as he realized what she had found.

  Anamaría’s face stared back at him in black and white. Her silky, nearly waist-length hair loosely fanning over her shoulders. The top three buttons of his white shirt left undone, the loose material teasing him with a peek of her black lace bra and the curve of her delectable cleavage. The gray headboard in her master bedroom filling the background.

  Those details paled in comparison when you stared into her expressive hazel eyes. Wondered at the smile tickling the faintly curved edges of her mouth.

  Natalia slid her finger across the screen to bring up the next picture.

  Anamaría. Same location, same setup.

  This time, her head was tipped back in laughter, her hair mussed, cascading down her back in dark, silky waves, wispy strands falling across half her face. Pure joy exuded from her pores, flashed in the sly glance out of the corner of her eyes. Her beauty mark teased him, reminding him of the times he’d kissed it, traced it with his fingertip.

  He’d been scrolling through the pictures earlier and neglected to close the file titled “Her” that normally would have required a password to access.

  A title that made absolute sense because there would only ever be one her for him.

  A title that no one questioned on the off chance they were looking over his shoulder as he searched for a file.

  A title he may want to consider changing to “Keep Your Mitts Off.”

  Or “Stay the Hell Away.”

  Or, even better, “Mine.”

  “How come I haven’t seen any of these photographs?” Natalia asked, one brow arched in a confident challenge.

  This might only be the second time they’d met in person, but they had exchanged enough emails and conference calls over the past six weeks that Alejandro knew she wouldn’t back down until she had an answer that satisfied her.

  Dropping the paper with the rendering marked Mi Cuba, he sank down into the black leather high-back desk chair, considering how best to pacify her interest. Without opening a can of worms he refused to fish with.

  “Those are not for display,” he answered.

  “Unacceptable.”

  “Nonnegotiable,” he countered.

  Her lips curved in a smug smile. “Word to the wise: When you wave a red flag like that in front of me, telling me something’s impossible, it only makes me dig in, even more determined to do it.”

  Natalia’s physical stature might be a petite five feet two inches, but while working with her Alejandro had realized that her personality was large enough to fill the body of a seven-foot-plus professional basketball player. Large, commandeering, able to get the job done—well.

  “Tell me your concerns,” she directed, her posture deceptively relaxed. “And I will allay them. That way we can move on with my brilliant idea.”

  If he weren’t so freaked out by her suggestion, he would better appreciate her cockiness. She was good. But what she asked of him? No way.

  Elbows propped on the chair armrests, Alejandro steepled his hands in front of him, considering how best to outmaneuver an outmaneuver-er like Natalia.

  “Those are personal. The subject . . . she’s . . .”

  He pressed his fingers to his lips, unable to voice the priceless value of the photographs without revealing more about himself than he cared to in this professional setting.

  “She’s personal. She means something. To me.”

  When they went their separate ways, those photographs and his memories were all he would have of Anamaría. Intimate touchstones from moments the two of them had shared together. His connection to the world, the woman, he couldn’t have.

  Natalia stared at him for several seconds, her expression pensive. Then she turned the iPad around so she could view the screen again. Setting the device on her lap, she methodically scrolled through his collection. It was a mix of oldies from his and Anamaría’s youth and more recent ones since he’d been back home.

  “This one,” Natalia said firmly. “This is the featured image for the People of the World collection.”

  He sat forward in the leather seat, leaning across the mahogany desk to get a look at the iPad. Natalia lifted the far side, angling it for him to see better.

  It was Anamaría, of course.

  Walking in the Gay Pride Parade this past Sunday. Head high, shoulders tall, her long braid twisted on top of her head like a crown. The black short-shorts she wore showcasing her gorgeous legs and the white block letters on her purple tee announcing the City of Key West’s official philosophy: “One Human Family.”

  In her left hand she waved a rainbow flag, the ocean breeze pulling it taut in the exact moment his Canon clicked. Her right hand tightly clasped that of Ormond Jones, her Red shift partner at the station.

  The affable Black man who rode with her in the ambulance, or the Box as they affectionately called it, was 250 pounds of broad-shouldered pure muscle fueled by a good-hearted dedication to the people he served and having his shift partner’s back, on and off the job. That alone made Alejandro his fan.

  On the other side of Anamaría’s partner, strode Jones’s husband, Eddie, a math teacher and track coach at Key West High. Hands interlocked, the camera had caught a moment when both men looked at each other, joy evident in their broad smiles, love shining in their glistening eyes. As she marched alongside her friends, Anamaría’s tanned cheeks plumped with her Cheshire cat beam, proudly part of a human chain proclaiming solidarity and the need for social justice.

  Above their heads, a blur in the background with the camera’s focus on Anamaría and the two men, a mix of Pride flags waved in the breeze and a bystander held aloft a poster with the word LOVE scrawled in rainbow letters.

  Love, respect, friendship, familia—

  They swirled around and from them. Visible in Anamaría’s, Jones’s, and Eddie’s physical and emotional connections. From their linked hands to their shared smiles. The confident jut of her chin that said, I hear you. Jones and Eddie’s adoring expressions that said, Lean on me; I got you. The conglomeration of people, signs, and flags sending the clear message We’re all in this together.

  Staring at the photograph, Alejandro heard her deep, throaty laughter. Felt the love shining from her golden hazel eyes.

  Natalia was right. It was the epitome of his exhibition, his brand. But Anamaría’s pictures were different from the others. He saw it. Sensed it.

  Putting her on display was like cutting open his chest for the world to see. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t lay himself bare before the eyes of his familia, their comunidad, complete strangers. He needed to leave with at least a little bit of his pride still intact. It was all he would have.

  That and his talent.

  Because he would leave. No matter how amazing his time with her had been, and despite a few ideas he had considered that might allow him to stay in Key West while working, it had become distressingly obvious at his parents’ house that him being here could very well destroy their relationship.

  The memory of the argument between his parents he overheard a couple weeks ago was like an ice pick to his chest. Alejandro had left his room for a late-night glass of water when he came across his parents squared off like two prizefighters in the kitchen.

  “¡Es nuestro hijo, Victor!” his mother had whisper yelled, reminding Alejandro of the times she had reprimanded him or Ernesto in the middle of mass.

  It hadn’t taken him long to figure out this argument between his parents was not a minor one. Nor, it turns out, had it been their first since his return.

  “I know he is our son,” his father had grumbled.

  “Pues, tienes que apoyarlo,” his mom had insisted, as if simply telling her husband he had to support his son would be enough to convince him to change his ways. “¿Qué te pasa?”

  “What is wrong with me?” his father had sneered. “M
ore like, what is wrong with him, ingrato. He is too good to dirty his hands in my kitchen or serve those who come to our restaurant for food, laughter, and familiar faces? Que se vaya.”

  His mother’s gasp almost had Alejandro hurrying around the partial wall separating them to ensure she was okay.

  “Con cuidado, Victor. Be very careful. If you tell my son to go again, you will have to go, too.”

  “Elena!” His father’s shocked voice had matched the trembling shock vibrating through Alejandro at his mother’s ultimatum.

  Alejandro had stumbled back to his room dazed and dejected. He had heard his parents argue in the past. Hell, all kids did at one time or another. But this, a threat to kick his father out, that had never happened.

  Alejandro had made many mistakes in his life, but he refused to be the wedge that drove his parents apart.

  As it stood now, his mami was nearing two weeks of minimal conversation with his papi because of their fight over his refusal to attend Alejandro’s opening night.

  A miserable development Alejandro had not shared with Anamaría because he was too ashamed that his presence had created a rift in his parents’, until now, solid thirty-five-year marriage.

  No, Key West was too small for him and his papi to coexist. It could irrevocably fracture their familia if he did.

  But Anamaría couldn’t go with him. He wouldn’t be selfish and ask her to.

  Time and time again, he’d seen or heard evidence about how she thrived here. How she helped others thrive.

  The fitness programs she regularly organized for firefighters, their families, and the community. Classroom visits in her gear to talk about fire safety. Free healthy cooking and Zumba classes at St. Mary’s. Races and other events she volunteered with, raising money for local charities and organizations.

  They shared one common truth he hadn’t understood in his youth and could no longer discount: Like the mangrove forests growing in the salty waters of the Florida Keys, Anamaría’s roots were complex, protective, life-giving, and strong. She was fully anchored here.

  While he . . . he thrived on the adventure and experiences his profession provided. For a brief time, he’d started to wonder if he could make Key West his home base. Returning to Anamaría in between gigs. Spending time with familia.

  But after overhearing his parents, he knew he had to go.

  Dejected, Alejandro collapsed into the leather desk chair. The vivid image of Anamaría at the parade, marching for love, was barely visible to him from this angle. Leaning his head on the top edge of the soft seat back, he closed his eyes, blocking her photograph out completely.

  “This one is going into the exhibit precisely because it is so personal,” Natalia announced with finality.

  “No, it’s not,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep his frustration on a tight leash.

  Natalia didn’t know what she was wading into here. This wasn’t the warm, gentle waves lapping the Higgs Beach shoreline. More like dark, cold, shark-infested waters.

  A bone-weary sigh pushed through his lips.

  He heard rustling, the slide of material, and figured she was unfolding herself from the comfortable channel-back accent chair. A light clunk on the desktop alerted him that she had approached.

  “I get that we don’t know each other personally. Yet,” she qualified, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. “But I do believe that, based on our work together thus far, I have earned your professional respect. And, I hope, a measure of your trust.”

  Fuck, she wasn’t going to let this go.

  His gut tightened. She was right. He did respect her as a professional. Down to the most minute detail thus far, she was batting a thousand for his exhibit.

  But he wasn’t able to go where she pushed him to go.

  “You’re freaking amazing behind a camera,” Natalia went on. “Your talent is undeniable. And yet, these photographs.” Her finger jabbed the table. “Every single one with her. Whomever she is. They’re real and raw and fucking brilliant. Whatever you tapped into when you took those personal shots in Cuba. That’s here. Amplified. Trust your talent, Alejandro. Damn it, trust mine!”

  When he lowered his hands from his face, Natalia loomed over the desk. Her hands splayed on its surface. Her face mutinous.

  “I do trust you,” he answered. That was the easy part in this whole scary scenario.

  “Okay, that’s good.” She straightened, spinning on the ball of her bare foot to pace toward the wall facing the desk, with E’s painting.

  “So what’s the problem then?” she pressed. “Is she an ex and she might show up with her new lover? Or, shit, her husband?”

  “No. We’re actually friends.”

  “Ha!” She spun around, her chignon jarring loose. “You are so more than friends. But”—she held up a hand as if to stop an argument he planned to give, which he didn’t—“that’s for you and her to figure out, not me.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing to figure out. She lives here. I don’t.”

  “But you’re from here. You have familia here. ¿Cual es el problema?”

  “Part of the problem is, my job takes me all over. However, that also happens to be an aspect that appeals to me about my job.”

  “Is this why you were picking my brain about a coffee table book of your photographs? An idea I’ve already said is genius. Or why Marcelo has been talking about you putting together a Keys Life exhibition?”

  “Yes. And yes. But those are both moot points now.” He heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, massaging his left eye and socket where a jackhammering headache throbbed. “Even staying part-time isn’t going to work. There’s an issue with my family that makes it impossible.”

  “Time-out!” She speared her hands together to form the letter T as if she were an NBA referee stopping play on the basketball court. “As much as I happen to like you as a person, I do not have the patience to become your relationship or life counselor. I’m too blunt. Trust me, I’d suck at it.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She gave him a droll look. “The thing is, Marcelo and Logan hired me to do a job. And I’m going to do a kick-ass one that blows the roof off this joint because you allow us to showcase the best of the best. Didn’t you say you’re willing to sell some prints to put toward your family’s restaurant?”

  “Hers will not be for purchase.” He placed his open palm protectively over Anamaría’s image on the iPad screen.

  A triumphant gleam flashed in Natalia’s eyes, and he realized what he’d just said.

  “No, they won’t be for sale,” she agreed. “But at least one will be shown. Respectfully. Artfully.”

  Head bowed as he stared down at Anamaría peeking through his splayed fingers is the screen, Alejandro nodded, trusting Natalia’s word as much as her experienced eye.

  Many of his pictures of Anamaría were exhibit caliber. It was crazy for him to be afraid of showing his best work because of what it might reveal. Maybe it was time for him to stop hiding behind his camera.

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  Never in his life had he held back when it came to his art. Hell, that’s how he wound up fracturing his tibia in the first place. Why start now?

  Meeting Natalia’s gaze, he slapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.

  “Go big, or go home,” he said.

  Natalia grinned as she pumped her fist in the air. “That’s what I like to hear!”

  His problem: he wanted to do both, go big and go home.

  If he could reach his papi, big if, Alejandro just might get both.

  Chapter 18

  “You look fine; what’s with all the primping?” Enrique asked.

  Anamaría scowled at her little brother, who responded maturely by giving her a bug-eyed “whatcha looking at me for” glare.

  Ignoring him, she flipped down the sun visor in his SUV to inspect her makeup in the lighted mirror.

  “This is a special night,” she tol
d him, using a ring finger to lightly rub at a mascara smear under her right eye. “The least you could have done was dress up.”

  She flicked a glance at his typical slender-fit black jeans and tight black tee, its short sleeves cuffed to show off his muscular biceps. At least, they weren’t ripped jeans.

  “What are you talking about? I put on a pair of dress shoes.” Raising his left knee between the steering wheel and the gray leather door interior, he gestured to his black lace-up Oxford sneakers. “See?”

  “Real nice. Your best friend’s finally having his first gallery opening night here, but God forbid you put on a pair of slacks. Or maybe a sports coat?”

  Enrique blew out a breath between his lips. “Look, Mami, quit your nagging and finish touching up your lipstick or whatever you gotta do so we can go already. You’re the one who said she didn’t want to be late.”

  Leaning back in his seat, Enrique checked his watch, adjusting the black leather strap more comfortably on his left wrist.

  She didn’t say anything, but Anamaría noticed that her little brother had gotten a trim today. His jet-black hair, cut tight on the sides, left longer and naturally wavy on the top, was even styled with a bit of product. No way he’d readily admit that he’d done his own primping before leaving his place.

  Giving Enrique a hard time was mostly to keep her mind off the swarm of bees in her belly. And silence the ticking clock in her head.

  Reaching for her trusty backpack between the two front seats, her hands met with her small envelope purse instead. Small being the operative word. It was a wonder how some women relied on a purse this tiny on a regular basis. Where the heck did they put Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment? A protein bar or hand sanitizer?

  After only adding some cash, her ID and credit card, plus her cell phone, she barely had room for her plum lip stain. Not that she would share her grumbling disbelief with her brother. He’d only give her a hard time about it. Instead, she wiggled her evening bag at him playfully.

  “See, this is what it means to be an adult, dressing appropriately for an occasion,” she teased.

  He shook his head. “Yeah, not happening. It clashes with my outfit.”