South Beach Love

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Tony did a quick look at his watch. “Me too. I promised my manager I’d call him at two to discuss how things were going at the restaurant.”

  She sensed worry in his voice. “Is everything okay?”

  With a shrug and a huff, Tony said, “Apparently everything is going just fine.”

  A big blow to his ego, finding out he’s not indispensable, she imagined, and she tried to soothe it. “It wouldn’t be that way if you hadn’t trained them so well. You should be proud of the job you did and enjoy the freedom that gives you.”

  She regretted adding the last little bit, imagining what he would infer from it.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. As for the freedom... I guess that’s one way to look at it. I’ve enjoyed being in Miami with family and friends. You. I’d love to spend more time with you,” he said, gazing at her in that way she’d wanted from him since she was a teenager. It felt amazing to be seen like that by him.

  “I’ve enjoyed sharing time with you as well, Tony. It would be nice to spend more time with you,” she admitted, but then quickly changed the topic. “What if we do yuca fries with some kind of dip?”

  With a disappointed shake of his head, probably at her redirection of the discussion, he said, “I like that idea. Maybe we can try those and the deviled ham sandwiches tomorrow?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

  “Sounds like a plan.” Why was her throat tight? She’d always known he wouldn’t stay in Miami.

  He stood and held out his hand for her to take. “That’s wonderful, Sara.”

  She slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it gently and took a step toward her. Brushed away one of her bangs that had slipped forward into her eyes. “I’m sorry again for all that’s happened.”

  His gaze was so intense, so warm and inviting, like the welcome of the Miami sun, that she had to look away.

  “There’s no need to apologize, Tony. We just got caught up in things,” she said and forced herself to look back up at him.

  When she did, she realized he was closer. Almost too close.

  He stepped back, jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I think I can manage to find my way there. Besides, you should probably clean up the mess we made before your mom gets mad.”

  Tony glanced back at the relatively clean counter and sink. As professional chefs, keeping things neat and organized was part of who they were. Still he teased, “You’re an evil woman to leave me the pots and pans.”

  “Remember that,” she said with quick tap of her index finger on his lips, and before he could say or do anything else, she hurried from the room.

  After she said goodbye to his parents and walked out the door, she hugged her arms around herself to keep from doing a happy dance. She had to stay positive but also not read too much into what had just happened. She needed to take it one day at a time because only time would tell whether there was a future for her and Tony here in Miami.

  Roberta Lane surfed from one social media account to another, checking the data to see how her postings were going. Although they were doing relatively well, none were performing as strongly as her original write-ups about the competition between the two chefs.

  She checked her notes, found the number she wanted, and picked up the phone. She dialed and waited patiently until Dolores Kelly answered.

  “Good afternoon, Dolores. It’s Roberta Lane.”

  An awkward pause followed. “Good afternoon. How can I help you today?”

  “We had wanted to get some photos of the girls in their dresses for the article. I understand you’re making both. It must be very exciting for you,” Roberta said.

  “It is. I hate to rush you, but I’m at the salon and really need to get back to work,” she said and in the background, Roberta heard the sounds of activity.

  “So sorry. What time is good for me to come over and get photos?” she pressed, needing to write the kind of feel-good story she hoped would make up for her earlier actions.

  There was another hesitation before Dolores finally said, “Tonight. I’m doing the final fittings for the girls.”

  “Wonderful. How is seven? Should we meet at your salon?” she asked.

  “At my home workshop. I’ll text you the address,” Dolores said.

  A few seconds later her phone chirped to confirm she’d gotten a text. She checked the message and smiled. Dolores’s address was in a middle-class suburb of Miami. Not anything like the area where she was sure the wealthy Rodriguez family lived. Not to mention that Samantha had let it slip that she was at the fancy prep school on a scholarship.

  Despite what Marco wants, their differences and similarities are things I can highlight in my article in a positive way, she thought and called her photographer to schedule him for the shoot.

  “You all understand the plan, right?” Sylvia said, briefing Angelica, Samantha and her mother the way Samantha imagined the sharp lawyer would counsel one of her clients before important negotiations.

  “No matter what she says, smile and stay positive,” Angelica repeated as her mother peered at her.

  Sylvia turned her attention to Dolores, who said, “And be sure to mention the shop for some free publicity.”

  “But not too much. Remember we’re looking to help you get your own place,” Angelica’s mom said.

  She finally focused on Samantha, making her feel even more nervous than she had been before. “Don’t let her get under our skin,” Samantha repeated.

  “She did say she was sorry. Maybe she really means it,” her mother added, clearly wanting to believe the best in everyone.

  “We’ll see. If there’s trouble brewing, trust me to jump in and steer it back to neutral ground,” Sylvia said just as a knock came at the front door.

  “Places everyone,” her mother said like a movie director preparing for filming.

  Angelica hopped up onto the platform for the fitting, Dolores grabbed her pincushion and kneeled in front of her, and Samantha leaned against the edge of her mother’s desk, not wanting to wrinkle the fabric of her quinceañera dress. From her perch she had a perfect view of everything going on in the foyer right off her mother’s studio.

  With a satisfied nod, Sylvia stepped into the foyer, but her father had already opened the door for the reporter and her photographer. “Welcome,” her father said, but there was little warmth in his voice.

  “Thank you,” Roberta said. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Thank you,” he said and walked away when Sylvia approached.

  “Right this way, Roberta. The girls are so excited about you seeing their dresses,” Sylvia said.

  Roberta paused at the entrance to Dolores’s workshop. “Is this where you normally work?” the reporter said.

  Her mother’s head jerked up at the statement, as if waiting for nastiness from Roberta, but Sylvia quickly deflected any attack. “Dolores has a wonderful workshop here. It’s the perfect place for the final fittings.”

  “Instead of the salon where she works as a seamstress?” Roberta asked.

  Without looking up, her attention focused on the hem of Angelica’s gown, her mother said, “Angelica is my private client. But I also do some amazing work at my salon.”

  Way to go, mom, Samantha thought.

  “The dress is lovely,” Roberta said and looked from Angelica to her. “They’re both so very different. One is elegant and the other...well, more playful.”

  Samantha didn’t know what to make of that statement, so she straightened and smoothed down the fabric of her dress. She remembered what Angelica’s mother had said. Stay positive and that’s exactly what she was going to do.

  “Playful is good and I think Angelica looks so elegant in her dress,” she said.

  Her friend p
eered over her shoulder as Samantha’s mom continued checking the hem on the dress. “And you look like a princess. I wish I could wear something with more frills, but I’d get swallowed up in them.”

  They had been right to keep things simpler on Angelica’s petite frame, but thanks to her height and curves, Samantha was able to carry more lace and layers to her dress.

  “Samantha is definitely curvier, but you both look wonderful. Really wonderful,” Roberta said, surprising them with her compliments.

  “Wilson, can you please slip inside and start shooting some photos. We’ll probably want one of the girls standing together as well. Maybe out in the backyard?”

  The reporter moved aside to let the photographer pass into the room, and he snapped off several photos while Dolores finished with Angelica’s fitting. Her mother stood and stretched her back out after being hunched over for so long.

  “Your turn, chiquitica,” her mother said.

  Angelica hopped off and exchanged places with Samantha, but there was little to do on her dress as her mother had already given it a last look just days earlier. Despite that, her mother flitted around her, checking seams and fit. The snap, snap, snap of the camera shutter chased her around the room.

  “You look lovely, Samantha. The two of you will light up the room on Saturday,” Sylvia said.

  “Two girls and one quinceañera. That is a rather unusual situation, don’t you think?” Roberta said, obviously wondering how the two girls had decided to join the events.

  Sylvia didn’t hesitate to answer. “We owe it all to our amazing young ladies. When they first heard about the fire and that Samantha’s party might be delayed for several months, they decided that it would be wonderful to combine the two events. Especially since by doing so they were able to donate a portion of the earmarked funds to Bridget Kelly’s wonderful non-profit.”

  Apparently sensing an opportunity for additional information, Roberta said, “That’s the same organization that provides Sara with her staff, right? The staff that’s going to be working beside Chef Tony’s team?”

  Dolores set the reporter straight. “That’s Chef Sara, Roberta. And from what I understand, both chefs are very excited about combining their talents and staffs for this event.”

  Roberta smiled. “They didn’t look happy the last time I saw them so I’m glad that things are working out for them.”

  Her statement brought about a stunned silence. None of them seemed really able to believe the sudden change of heart. Sensing that, Roberta said, “I truly mean it. I’m sorry about everything, but my editor was pushing me in a particular direction and I had no choice.”

  Her apology wasn’t enough for her mother who said, “It’s getting late, Roberta. I’m sure you understand that the girls have to get up early for school tomorrow so if you wouldn’t mind, maybe you can get those other photos in the backyard so we can wrap this up,” With a sweep of her arm, Dolores guided them out of her workshop, back into the foyer and a hall that ran into the open concept kitchen and living room. At the far side of the room were French doors that led to a paved patio and beyond that, lush gardens and an immense brick barbeque. Both were her father’s pride and joy, besides her of course. When he wasn’t at work, he was in the backyard tending to his plants or grilling some steaks he’d brought home.

  “Very nice. Your landscaper does a wonderful job,” Roberta said.

  Forgetful of the rules not to volunteer any information that hadn’t been asked for, and proud of her father’s accomplishment, Samantha said, “My father does all the work in the garden.”

  “It’s lovely. He should be proud,” she said and motioned to her photographer.

  “Let’s take the photos so these young ladies don’t look too tired for their quinceañera in a few days, Wilson.”

  The photographer jumped into action, circling the two girls to snap off a flurry of pictures. As he walked away, Samantha could have sworn she heard him say, “You did great, ladies.”

  Her father had come to the French doors to watch and he led the way for Roberta and the photographer while the four of them hung back. As the front door opened and closed, Angelica threw one hand up in the air and said, “That deserves a high five!”

  It deserved way more than that, Samantha thought, but joined in as they celebrated surviving the reporter and a change of heart she wasn’t sure they could trust.

  Chapter 25

  Working with Tony in his parents’ kitchen, the two of them alone, had been way too intimate and at the end, way too tempting. When Tony called to set up their next—and last— meeting before the quinceañera parties, she hesitated, so conflicted about where it all might end.

  “I’m really busy today,” she said, almost tempted to totally bail on him. “Almost” being the operative word as she blurted out, “Maybe you can come over to Munch this morning.”

  “Sure. I can be there in half an hour,” he said, but she detected a note of disappointment in his voice.

  “Great. See you then,” she replied, relieved.

  At Munch she’d have Jeri and the rest of her staff around them as they worked which would hopefully avoid a repeat of that almost-kiss yesterday.

  “Chicken,” Jeri whispered into her ear as she passed by on her way to one of the line chefs.

  Sara ignored her and returned to finely mincing the toasted coconut for the flan trio she wanted to make for the girls’ party. When she was done with two of the three different flavored flans, she strolled through the kitchen to see how the line chefs and other staff were doing with the preparations for the lunch service. There was something about seeing her women at work that was a balm to her soul. It made her feel that she was accomplishing something much more important than crafting a tasty dish or running a successful business. She was changing lives.

  Bolstered by that, she returned to her station to wait for Tony. Tony, she thought, smiling as she thought about the last few days together and how wonderful they’d been. How nice it might be if they could do that on a regular basis.

  She was about to get started on another dish when she heard a knock. Tony.

  Before she could get to the door, Jeri was there, opening it for him. As he entered, she said something to him that made him pause and look her way. With a nod, he forced a smile at Jeri and walked toward the kitchen. Once he was inside, he went straight to her and stood before her, almost uncertain, much like she was.

  She decided to take the bull by the horns and grabbed hold of his hands, swinging them playfully. “Ready to get to work?”

  He smiled, a broad bright grin, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Ready, willing, and able. We’re doing dessert today and the rest of the hors d’oeuvres, right?”

  Sara nodded and gestured to the banana flan custard she already had on the side, ready to be added to ramekins. If only she could get the caramel right.

  “I planned on a trio of flans, but the third one is giving me problems.” She quickly explained her issue and he listened intently, hands on his hips. He tilted his head her way, but downward, as if to better absorb what she was saying. There was nothing condemning in his stance, only concern for her and what she was trying to accomplish. She liked that and admired the way he respected her process. He was a chef with a one-star restaurant after all.

  When she finished, he dipped his head and said, “I get it. The strawberries have too much water for the caramel and freeze-dried ones can be too tart.”

  He looked up, thinking about her problem. “What if you did a strawberry jelly?”

  She considered his suggestion and it made sense. Plus, it would add visual diversity to the dish. “I like that idea. Let’s try it out,” she said and together they made the jelly, got it into the blast chiller, and cut out ramekin-sized rounds to place over the custard once it was out of the oven and cooled.

  Once they were done, she realized that she’
d been less than an ideal hostess when he’d first walked in. “I’m sorry. I put you to work right away and didn’t ask if you wanted a coffee or anything.”

  He smiled and skimmed his hand down her arm. “That’s okay, I was happy to dive right in. But now that you mention it, a café con leche would be great. Maybe while we chat about the rest of the dishes for the cocktail hour?”

  She nodded and stepped away from him, that intimacy growing once more even though they were in a kitchen filled with people. She realized the connection she had with him had nothing to do with proximity or privacy. It was just that Tony made her feel that way. Made her want more than just time in the kitchen with him. He made her want a life filled with laughter. A life where his smile did funny things to her heart and his touch warmed her. She wanted more.

  “Let me get you that coffee, plus a paper and pen,” she said and hurried away to give herself some breathing room.

  She rushed to her office to grab a pad of paper and a pen and then dashed back to the coffee station in the kitchen. They always had a fresh pot brewing for the workers and customers. One of the Cuban workers had also put up a pot of milk and heated it. She mixed the hot milk and coffee, adding a few spoons of sugar, and took it to her station where he patiently waited.

  After he took a sip, he sighed and said, “Love it.”

  “Great. So, let’s make a list of what we have,” she said and quickly jotted down the four courses and hors d’oeuvres they’d already planned on. Which reminded her that they’d yet to work on the deviled ham for the sandwiches.

  Once the list was complete, she said, “Both sets of grandparents are from northern Spain, so how about some gambas a la plancha.”

  “I like that idea. Maybe manchego with a thin slice of dried chorizo and topped with a thin slice of membrillo?” Tony said, caught up in her enthusiasm, but then he paused. “Is that too much chorizo? I have it in my beans and you have it in the burger.”