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“Not tonight,” Sofia said. “Thanks.”
“Where’s the camera?” Leila asked Nick. “I want to show Sofia the new photos of the house.”
“Maybe now isn’t the best time,” Nick said.
Leila looked from Nick to Sofia. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” Sofia perked up. “Now is a great time. I’m up for it.”
“You sure?” Nick asked.
“Sure, I’m sure!”
Sofia was as surprised by her sudden reversal as anyone. She’d come fully prepared to confide in Leila, but something Nick had said held her back.
She admires you.
That night, she avoided Nick’s questioning gaze, as she continued to do for weeks.
* * *
Shielding her loved ones from the grim reality also became a priority. The following Sunday, she joined her parents at home for dinner. Her mother had lost some weight, as her cardiologist had recommended, and her floral dress she’d worn to church that morning hung loose on her. A massive heart attack and open-heart surgery had revived her ailing Catholic faith. Anyway, her mother had better news to share.
“Your dad and I want to do something special for our thirty-fifth anniversary. And we want you to organize it.”
“Dad wants this?”
The question came from Miguel. Sofia’s older brother entered the kitchen and stood before the open refrigerator as he’d done as a teen. It was inevitable. When they were home, they reverted to their most juvenile selves.
Miguel grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. “Knowing dad, he’d rather celebrate with the three b’s—beer, Buffalo wings and baseball.”
“He wants what I want,” Mom said.
“Man! You’ve got it good,” Sofia teased.
“It’s a big anniversary,” Mom said. She worked a knife through a block of queso blanco. “Plus, we’ve had a rough year.”
Sofia relived it all. Those long nights in the hospital when they weren’t sure she’d pull through had left them all depleted. Her mother was more of herself now, back at work at the shop and cooking Sunday dinners as usual, but with markedly less stamina. That was what worried Sofia, seeing her diminished that way.
Her mother looked up, wistful. “We need...something. You know?”
“Absolutely,” Sofia said.
Nothing was as cathartic as a good old-fashioned party with dinner, dancing and drinks—the whole shebang. It was what the family needed to turn the page.
“Look at this.” Her mother handed over her phone, the browser open to a Pinterest page. Sofia reviewed pins of venues, flowers, table settings, themes and dresses. “I’m doing it right this time.”
Her parents had eloped at the downtown courthouse. “Doing it right” would likely involve a priest.
“Can you afford all this, Mom?” Sofia asked.
Miguel dropped to the floor and held a plank position. “Can you afford Sofia?”
Her mother returned her attention to the stove, stirring a pan of paella. “I don’t buy crazy expensive purses and shoes like some people do. I’ve had the same Coach bag for the last three years and my Camry is a decade old. So, yes, you two, I can afford this.”
Sofia let the targeted criticism slide. Her parents worked hard and were financially sound. Her dad owned a construction company. Some years it had flourished, others it flailed. But since Miguel had joined the team, expanding operations and taking risks, business was good. Her mother ran a fabric shop downtown, and business had always been steady. Their house was paid off and their retirement secured, but they hadn’t traveled or taken a vacation in decades.
“What’s your budget?” Sofia asked.
“Five thousand dollars, and your services are free.”
Five grand didn’t get you much these days, but her mother didn’t have to know that.
“You brag about working magic for your clients. It’s time you do the same for your family.”
“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said, mid push-up. “Work your magic.”
“Just watch me,” Sofia said.
She took out her own phone and pulled up her calendar. “Your anniversary is the first Wednesday in April. We should schedule the party on the Friday or Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
“That’s three months away. We’re going to have to hustle. I’ll need you to be decisive. No mulling over fabrics and flowers for days. Okay?”
Sofia scrolled through Pinterest, pausing at a pin of a white-and-gold place setting. It was gaudy enough to satisfy her mother’s tastes while remaining tasteful.
“I want you and Franco to say a few words at the reception—as a couple.”
Sofia lowered the phone. “Why? Isn’t that Miguel’s job? He’s the oldest.”
“I’m depressed and divorced.” Miguel hopped to his feet. “Haven’t you heard?”
“You’re depressing,” Sofia said. “I know that much.”
“Leave your brother alone, will you?” her mother scolded. “Not everyone is as lucky as you and Franco. Where’s Franco, anyway?”
“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said evenly. “Where is Franco, anyway?”
She glared at him. “Busy. Work stuff.”
At the mention of Franco’s name, Sofia’s mask had nearly cracked. Her parents would not take the news of the breakup well. They were traditional. A married life was a settled life, in their opinion. Her mother, in particular, had had a hard time with Miguel’s divorce and she hadn’t even liked his wife. Sofia knew how her mother’s mind worked. Her illness and Miguel’s misfortune were signs the family was vulnerable, brittle, falling apart. The end of Sofia’s engagement would make it clear. Even Miguel, who knew the whole story, and who’d appeared sympathetic when she’d shown up at his door with an overnight bag, didn’t seem to be taking it too well now.
Sofia was sixteen when she and Franco met. Franco played ball with Miguel on weekends and could be counted on for Sunday dinner. As a result of their splitting up, the whole family would have to break up with him as well. That was going to be a tough sell.
“Too bad,” her mother said. “He loves my paella.”
Nobody loved her mother’s paella. Did it do the trick at the end of a long day? Sure. Did anyone wake up craving it? No. Was it technically paella? Not even close. Just some yellow rice with peas, peppers and cod tossed in—not necessarily heart healthy, either. Her mother wasn’t the fine Latina cook she thought herself to be. In fact, her mother wasn’t Latina at all. She was African American. At nineteen, Clarissa Ross fell in love with Antonio Silva, the smooth-talking Dominican boy who’d moved into the apartment down the hall from hers. Ten months later, she was pregnant. They got married and lived happily-ever-after. All that being said, her mofongo was off the charts and her chicken potpie was legendary.
“You and Franco represent the future of our family,” her mother said. “Can I count on you two to say a few words? Nothing fancy.”
“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel chimed. “Nothing fancy. You and Franco can handle that.”
What was Miguel’s problem? And what was she going to tell her mother? Their family had no future? She wasn’t that cruel.
* * *
That Sunday, after dinner with her family, Sofia sat in her car for a long time thinking about the future. Had she been too quick to toss out the past and Franco with it? She drove to Aventura, back to the home she’d abandoned, where most of her clothes, her comfy pants and her favorite pillow had been left behind. It was time she and Franco had a talk.
He greeted her at the door, looking rumpled and contrite. They sat at the dining table. Franco rushed to apologize.
“None of those women meant anything to me.”
Women. Plural. Did he have to remind her that it wasn’t just one faceless girl, but legions?
“I never met any of them in real life,” he continued. “It was all for play. Something to do when I was bored.”
“So, I bored you.”
“No,” Franco said. “That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sofia. I wish there was a way for me to make it all up to you.”
Sofia raised a hand to silence him. That silence stretched on forever. They sat at the table, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Sofia had promised herself that the breakup wouldn’t break her. But when finally she tried to speak, her voice buckled and failed. She took a breath and started again.
“We’re family,” she said.
Franco had been there for her the whole time her mother was in the hospital. He’d shown up early with coffee and returned after work. He’d brought her dinner, a change of clothes, whatever she needed. He ran errands for her dad. He’d been like...a brother.
Franco exhaled with relief. “We are family.”
“And if you ever need anything, call me.”
She stood, ready to leave, but not before retrieving her favorite pillow and packing up her comfy pants.
“That’s it?” Franco asked.
Sofia walked over to the hallway closet and pulled out a large suitcase. “That’s it.”
“I don’t want things to end this way,” he said.
She turned to face him. “Things are not going to end this way. We’re staying engaged for three more months, and then it’s officially over. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.”
“I don’t understand,” Franco said.
“My mom is expecting us to make a couple’s toast at her anniversary dinner in April, and we’re not going to let her down.”
Sofia wheeled the suitcase into the bedroom, pausing on her way to look at Franco alone at the table.
“Don’t look so confused,” she said. “You wanted a way to make it up to me. This is the way.”
Chapter 6 (#ulink_49aea4de-4fd3-544e-8c72-20485147cebe)
Because Jon had a smart mouth, growing up he got his ass kicked—a lot. Then one day, a cousin told him to bulk up or shut up. If some kids found camaraderie and guidance at a local Y, Jon found the same in a dank basement gym in New Jersey where he started lifting weights. At fourteen, when he left his mother to live with his father, an airman then stationed in Germany, he was taller than most kids and all lean muscle.
A year later, his father transferred to the UK. There Jon followed some older kids to an off-base boxing club where he practiced sparring, mastered drills and generally kept out of trouble. The first time he entered a ring at sixteen, he was a mere featherweight. By the time he returned stateside to attend college at Syracuse, he’d gained muscle and weighed in as a middleweight. He’d won a few fights and earned a scholarship from an intercollegiate boxing association that put a dent in his tuition.
Boxing had shaped his life in ways others couldn’t appreciate. His parents had mixed reactions to his newfound passion. His mother was repulsed by it. His father admired it. But they misunderstood it. Boxing hadn’t made him a fighter, as his mother feared. It had taught him restraint and self-control. Once word got out that he packed a mean punch, he didn’t get into random fights anymore. Kids stopped provoking him. And he could knock their lights out with one right hook, but why would he? It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing skill.
So it made sense that when Jon left Sofia that night, he headed straight to the boxing club to work it all out. The converted warehouse located blocks from the Design District was light years away from the District’s freshly painted glamour. The street was dark, pothole ridden and lined with small businesses so precarious they could fold at any time. It seemed that every other shop was holding a going-out-of-business sale. With no signs or markings to call attention to it, the club would have blended nicely with the neighborhood if not for the heavily guarded parking lot filled with sport cars and SUVs. Jon let himself in with a key card, changed in the locker room and headed out to the floor.
Grunting. Slapping. Moaning. Shouts. A few regulars were going at it on the mat. A woman was attacking a heavy bag. An instructor was running a class in the back of the room. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, up! Good! Now eight more!” Jon slipped on his headphones and silenced his world. He grabbed a rope and started skipping at a slow pace then at whip speed.
Sofia had to be the most gorgeous liar he’d ever met. He didn’t know what she was hiding, but he’d find out. You couldn’t succeed in his line of work without the ability to smell deceit. That so-called fiancé of hers...he was calling bullshit. She’d hesitated to mention him. Never once said “we” like his engaged friends did. That was slim evidence, but enough to open an investigation.
A tall blond came to stand right in his field of vision—not the kind of blond that he went for. Andrew Fordham looked disheveled, his tie loose around his neck and his suit jacket crumpled in his hand. He pointed to Jon.
“Lose the headphones. Meet you in the ring in five.”
* * *
To a newcomer, Jon and Andrew would not seem evenly matched. Slim and fair, Drew didn’t look like much of a threat, but he was lightning fast and landed his punches with accuracy. But Jon’s bulk didn’t ever slow him down. They danced, circling each other, falling into a rhythm.
“Did you hear?” Drew asked.
Jon ducked, narrowly avoiding his jab. “Hear what?”
“They got Taylor Benson.”
Jon had heard. He’d watched the news over breakfast yesterday. The Florida Department of Revenue had announced the arrest of a former pop star turned Miami Beach nightclub owner. Taylor Benson had allegedly failed to turn over to the state one hundred grand in sales taxes collected at his two thriving nightclubs. Drew would be prosecuting the case. Naturally, Jon congratulated his friend before taunting him.
Drew struck, his glove skimming Jon’s chin. “Benson is going away for a long time.”
Jon went in for the attack, but Drew adroitly ducked away.
“Sounds personal,” Jon said. “Let me guess. You got kicked out of one of his clubs?”
“I’m wiping out corruption.” Drew circled him. “What have you done this week?”
“I met a woman.” Jon hadn’t realized it but he’d stopped moving. He stepped back and leaned against the ropes. “I really like her.”
“Damn it! You always win!” Drew cried. “Who is she? Anyone I know?”
“I can’t disclose that information. Not yet.”
Drew let out a low whistle. “That’s serious!”
From the floor, one of the trainers shouted at them. “Hey! If you two sweethearts don’t get moving, I’m gonna ask you to step out of the ring.”
“You heard the man,” Drew said. “Get off your ass. Let’s go.”
