CHAPTER 18

“¡Ay, Dios mío!” I exclaim with exasperation when I have to turn back for the fifth time in as many minutes to tear Nacho away from a reflective surface. “Would you come on already? Your hair looks fine!” I tell him as I tug on his arm, trying to pull him away, but I can’t because he’s rooted to the spot, gazing at himself in the glass storefront of a pizza joint.

“I don’t know.” He pats the pompadour portion of his new ‘do. “I think this fade haircut might have been a mistake. Am I crazy, or does it make my nose look hideously big?”

“Your nose has always been large! What do you want—a dainty nose? That wouldn’t be very manly.”

“She’s right,” Topaz chimes in. “A man needs a strong nose, a nose that has some character. Like Cole, he’s got a great nose.” She sighs, thinking about her new boyfriend, the one she met thanks to me taking her to Badlands last week.

“Yeah, it’s Cole’s nose that attracted you to him, not his tight buns in a pair of Levi’s,” I retort, with a smirk. “Now, can we please get a move on? We’re almost there.” I place a hand on each of their backs and give them a not-so-gentle push forward.

“What’s the rush?” Nacho wonders. “This little soirée just started an hour ago, and I’m all about being fashionably late.”

“I don’t want Zane to think we flaked on him. This is a defining moment in his career; we should be there to show our support.”

A dubious expression takes over Nacho’s suntanned face. “Since when do you care about Zane’s career, or anybody’s besides your own for that matter?”

We’re outside the Lyndon Gallery now, which has a very unimpressive concrete exterior that’s been painted a dour gray, so we all stop. I place my hands on my hips in a combative pose and glare at Nacho. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not self-absorbed a hundred percent of the time.”

“Only about ninety-five percent,” Topaz teases, her green eyes glinting with merriment.

“Hardee har har. You’re a regular Amy Schumer. Too bad this isn’t a comedy club, or we could put you on stage.” I yank open the door and usher my friends in with a wave of my hand.

The space inside is surprisingly huge; it’s basically a warehouse that’s been converted into a gallery. It’s got an industrial vibe, with high-polish concrete flooring, stark, white walls, and exposed beams that have water pipes running alongside them. The reception room, which is straight ahead of us, is illuminated in a utilitarian way by a square fixture with fluorescent lights that’s suspended from the ceiling.

“Names?” A skinny man with a soul patch (ugh!) queries as he moves to block our path into the gallery.

“Isidora Alvarez, Ignacio Quinteros, and Topaz Franklin,” I reel off the monikers on our birth certificates. “We’re guests of Zane Harper’s.”

Soul Patch consults his clipboard, where he thumbs through a print-out.

“You’re good,” he decrees when he finally locates our names on the third page. “Enjoy the beauty.” He steps aside, making a sweeping gesture toward the gallery’s main room, while Topaz and I exchange a confused look. All is made clear when we see a large poster sitting on an easel that proclaims, “Lyndon Gallery presents ‘Beauty’ in various mediums by a select group of emerging Miami artists.”

“Oooo la la, Zane’s part of a ‘select group.’” Nacho fans himself with his hand like the thought of our friend being somebody important is giving him the vapors.

“I don’t see him,” I say after doing a quick scan of the reception area, which is filled with an assortment of pretentious, arty types, who are probably here to find a painting or photograph just the right size to fill a blank space on a wall in one of their beach houses, and hipsters—easily identified as such by their man buns (guys)/overly thick Zooey Deschanel-style bangs (girls), propensity for thrift store fashion, and constipated this-is-beneath-us-but-we’ve-got-nothing-better-to-do expressions.

“He’s probably off with his display, wherever that is,” Topaz concludes. “Let’s grab a glass of wine and some of these good eats, then we can search the place.”

“Works for me.” I take a glass of red offered by a passing server and help myself to some crispy polenta topped with a fancy mushroom mixture. After I’ve devoured that, I snag a spinach puff.

The three of us continue noshing and sipping our Merlot as we migrate over to the first display area on the left, which boasts several sculptures made from painted bits of metal (I couldn’t tell you what a single one of them is supposed to be). Next, there’s a collection of nice, but not particularly memorable, watercolors. Those are followed by a trio of naked women covered in paint who appear to be contortionists because their bodies are bent and twisted into pretzel-like positions. I guess this is supposed to be performance art, but I don’t get it. So, I move along to a room full of mosaics, which are kind of interesting. I can’t imagine how much time it takes to put all those tiny pieces of colored stone together to form an image.

I know we’ve finally reached Zane’s space when I see a stunning photo of a flamingo (one of Z’s favorite subjects), standing in a lagoon, staring down at its own reflection in the water. (Nacho and this bird would get along great!) The colors in the picture are so striking and vibrant, and the textured details of the bird’s feathers are so vivid that I feel as though I’m looking at a live image rather than a photograph. I enter the room, which is more populated than almost all the others we’ve visited, and catch sight of Z in the corner talking to an older couple. He acknowledges me with a nod and a little upturn of his lips, but keeps his attention focused on the woman who’s blathering on about who-knows-what.

As it’s rare to see Z in anything other than slouchy casual wear, I take a second to appreciate that he dressed up for this event in some black pants, a light gray vest in a herringbone tweed, and a white Oxford shirt that’s got the sleeves rolled up and several buttons undone so that his black leather necklace with the silver pendant (the one he bought at Chrome Hearts the last time I went shopping with him in the Design District) is visible. All in all, he looks effortlessly hip, reasonably stylish, and pretty darn handsome.

“Well, well, well, would you look at that?” I hear Nacho behind me.

Not sure if he’s referring to Zane, one of the photos, or the snapper crudo that’s within reach on a nearby server’s tray, I take a stab in the dark and say, “It’s a very pretty flamingo.”

“That’s not the exotic bird I was talking about, chica.” Putting his hands on my shoulders, he spins me around so that I’m facing the opposite wall and that’s when I see a big, black-and-white picture of a woman in profile, with her head thrown back, laughing.

I move forward to get a better look at the photo. “I didn’t even realize he took that,” I murmur.

“That’s why they’re called candids,” Nacho quips.

I’m wearing one of Lola’s outfits in the pic, so it was clearly shot while we were working on her lookbook. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, though, as I remember laughing a lot that day. Zane always cracks jokes and says silly things to get me into a relaxed, happy frame of mind before he starts snapping shots.

“He included you in an exhibit about beauty,” Topaz notes.

“He also included a picture of my aunt kneading bread.” I point to the photo right next to mine. Although her face isn’t shown in the picture, I recognize Aunt Solana’s hands. She has a serrated scar from an accident with a sharp bread knife on her left hand, and a couple of old burn marks on her right one.

“That’s because I think what Solana does with her hands is beautiful—” I glance back over my shoulder to see Z approaching. “She creates art with her bread. And I decided to show this picture of you, Izzy, because I think you’re most beautiful when you’re laughing, which is true for the majority of women.”

It’s a lovely sentiment, but . . .

“You couldn’t have retouched those crinkles around my eyes?”

“Those crinkles aren’t a flaw,” Zane assures me. “They show not only that you’ve lived, but that you’ve thoroughly enjoyed all of your experiences.”

“I’ll take laugh crinkles over frown lines any day.” Topaz salutes the photo by raising her glass, then she downs the rest of her wine in one swallow.

“Your picture was the first of mine to sell, by the way,” Z imparts the info to me with a smile.

I perk up. “Really? How much did I cost?”

“More than any sane man could afford,” Nacho snarks, and I whack him with my chainmail clutch.

“Ow!” He rubs the spot on his chest where I hit him.

“Zane, darling . . .” A fortysomething blonde in a short, tight, trying-way-too-hard sequined sheath shimmies up to us and attaches herself to Z’s arm. An alarm in my head immediately goes off, and it blares: ‘Cougar Alert! Cougar Alert!’

“The Glazers are here,” she informs Z in a throaty voice, “and I really want you to meet them.”

“That’d be great, but let me introduce you to my friends first. Izzy, Nacho, Topaz, this is Sybil Lyndon, the owner of this gallery.”

“This is a wonderful event. Thanks for including us,” Topaz says politely.

“Yes, well, anything to make my favorite shutterbug happy.” She reaches up to stroke Zane’s jaw in a way that’s much too familiar for my liking, and I’m momentarily blinded by the pavé diamond wedding band/emerald cut engagement ring set she’s sporting. Aha! The truth is revealed! This lady doesn’t own squat. She’s married to some rich dude who probably bought this gallery so that the little wifey-poo would have a hobby and stay out of his hair. That’s assuming he has hair; chances are good that he’s balding and fat, which is why Zane, with his youthful vitality, thick hair, and lean bod, is so appealing to her. Oh, shoot, I wonder if the reason she selected Z’s work for this exhibit is because she has designs on him. Not that his talent wasn’t enough to earn him this opportunity—I just don’t trust this wench’s motives.

Completely unaware of all the negative thoughts I’m having about his handsy patroness, Z tells Sybil, “Izzy is the laughing girl in my photo.”

She squints at me, which is a risky move seeing as how she’s got on so many sets of false eyelashes there’s a good chance they might get tangled together and fuse her eyes shut permanently if they touch, then glances up at the photo on the wall. “Huh, I didn’t recognize you in person. I guess Zane got your good side in the picture.”

Oh, it’s on, bitch! I’m debating whether I should make a crack about her dress looking like the carcass of an endangered snow leopard, or go the less subtle route and just toss my wine in her face when my phone dings with an incoming text.

“That’s probably my boyfriend, Eduardo Sandoval,” I place extra emphasis on his last name so that she’ll know I travel in circles far more prestigious than her own. “He’s going to be joining me here later.” I pull my phone out of my purse and step away from the group so that I can review the message in private.

¡Hijo de puta! Eduardo isn’t coming!

As per usual, he has some business-related excuse, but I’ve just about reached my limit of patience with those. I know he’s got a big, important job and he’s trying to do everything he can to prove himself to his father and impress their clients, employees, et al, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that he always seems to find time to do the things he wants (dinner at his parents’ place several times a week, playing racquetball with his buddies, getting hot stone massages, having sex with me—he says he sleeps better after we do it, so I’ve become part of his nightly routine—shower, brush/floss teeth, check texts and e-mails, stuff the taco with Izzy, pass out), yet he’s too “busy” to get together with my friends.

We’ve been dating over two months now, and he’s only met Topaz once (when we had drinks with her before having to rush off to some charity gala) and he’s never laid eyes on Nacho or Zane. I thought he might enjoy this exhibit since it’s more of a highbrow affair and he wouldn’t feel out of place with other wealthy people in attendance. Plus, he has a whole house that needs to be filled with art! (He just closed on a gorgeous, waterfront home on South Bayshore Lane that has five bedrooms, a wine cellar, an eight-seat home theater, and a stunning outdoor living area with an infinity-edge pool. I’m already envisioning one of the master bedroom’s cavernous walk-in closets as the perfect place for my shoes, which will all be designer once I’m Mrs. Sandoval.)

I decide not to respond to Eduardo’s text because I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll later regret. Besides, he needs to know that breaking a promise to me is not okay, and I think the silent treatment will be an effective way of conveying that.

“Uh oh. You look pissed. What’s wrong?” Topaz drapes an arm across my bare shoulders.

I exhale an irritated puff of breath. “Eduardo won’t be coming. He got caught up with something at work. Surprise, surprise.”

Topaz gives me a sympathetic squeeze. “The downside of dating a successful man. He has a lot of demands on his time and attention.”

“Would be nice if he made me a priority once in a while,” I grouse. “It’s not like I ask him for much.” I lift my wine glass to take a slug and realize it’s empty. “I need more of this.” I twist my head around, looking for a server with a drinks tray. “Where did Zane and Mrs. Robinson go?” I ask Topaz when I don’t see them.

She looks befuddled. “Mrs. Robinson? I thought her last name was Lyndon.”

“It is. Mrs. Robinson is a derogatory term for an older woman who likes to seduce men young enough to be her son.”

“I don’t think Sybil’s that old. Early forties maybe, so she’s only got a little over a decade on Zane.”

“Which doesn’t make it totally gross that she’s got hot pants for him?”

“Ewwwww,” Topaz’s face contorts with disgust, “you think Sybil wants to do the dirty with Zane?”

“Duh! You saw the way she was hanging on him, touching him, acting all possessive. She’s probably planning to make him her boy toy—help him with his career in exchange for sexual favors.”

“Zane would never go for that, not in a million years. First of all, she’s married.”

I purse my lips in a simpering pout and say in a breathy voice, “But my husband ignores me, and I’m so lonely and starved for affection. What I wouldn’t give to feel a man’s arms around me again.”

“Oh, geez, Zane might actually fall for a line like that. He is a soft touch when it comes to women.”

“That’s why we need to keep a close eye on the situation. Make sure he’s not getting in over his head.” My phone starts playing “Cake by the Ocean,” and I glance down at its display screen. “Eduardo,” I read the caller ID aloud for Topaz’s benefit. “I should take this. Hunt down Zane and stick to him like glue so that the cougar can’t drag him off to some dark corner and make a meal of him. I’ll catch up with you guys when I’m done.” I shoo her away with one hand while answering my call with the other.

“Hello.” My tone is flat and disinterested.

“Lo siento, querida. I swear to you, I had every intention of joining you at the art gallery tonight, but everything’s falling apart in the Santo Domingo office and it’s my responsibility because—”

“It’s fine.” I don’t need a long, boring, business-y explanation. He sounds really stressed, so I believe that this was a legit emergency and it would be cruel of me to pile on at this point. Ooooo, look at me being mature and putting someone else’s feelings ahead of my own!

“Let me make it up to you. How would you like to spend a week at a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic?”

“Keep talking.”

“I have to go down there to straighten out this mess and I want you to come with me. It could be a really nice vacation for you. You can relax, lay out by the pool, go shopping, get spa treatments, whatever makes you happy.”

“That does sound nice.” Seriously. An all-expenses paid trip down to the Caribbean? What woman in her right mind would say “no” to that?

“I’ll send a car to the gallery for you. It’ll bring you to the airport where the Sandoval Spirits jet is on standby.”

“Wait—what? You want to leave tonight? I’ll have to go home to pack and change clothes.” I look down at the slinky royal blue cocktail dress and five-inch sparkly silver stilettos I’m wearing. This is not exactly a traveling ensemble. “And I’ll need my passport.”

“Right. Your passport. You can’t get into the Dominican Republic without that. I’ll tell the driver to run you by your place on the way to the airport, but time is of the essence, Isidora. So, I need you to be quick about it. Don’t worry about grabbing clothes or toiletries. I can buy whatever you need when we get there.”

A vacay in a tropical paradise, plus a new wardrobe? Fantasy just became a reality!

“I’ll see you on the plane!”