CHAPTER 29

“Ugh, finally!” I grouse when Zane opens the door I’ve been pounding on for what seemed like an hour. I got completely soaked running from the curb, where I parked my car, to the crap shack’s inadequately covered front porch. Yeah, yeah, I know, I live in Miami, where it rains all the time, so I should have an umbrella, but they’re a pain to cart around and I always lose them.

“Sorry.” Z stands back to allow me access to his place, then quickly pushes the door shut behind me so that the high winds don’t blow any rain or stray tree branches in. “The noise from the storm was drowning out your knocking and I wasn’t expecting you, so . . .”

“We have the slideshow for Gabi’s birthday party to work on, don’t we? And I need you to print out copies of the pictures you took of each girl in the carriage so that I can include them in the thank you notes.”

“Uh, yeah,” he eyes me warily, “but taking care of those things isn’t a matter of such urgency that you had to brave a tropical storm.”

“I’m not going to let this windy bitch Juanita keep me from doing what I have to do.” My tough girl act would probably be more convincing if I wasn’t shivering so hard that my teeth were chattering because the A/C in Z’s place is blasting and I’m sopping wet.

“Let me get you a towel to dry off with,” he offers, seeing how miserable I am, and pads off barefoot to either the bathroom or linen closet. I’m not sure if this dinky studio apartment of his even has the latter.

I drop my purse on the floor, being careful to avoid the puddle of water pooling at my feet, then untie the belt of my hot pink trench coat. Don’t worry, I have on more than my leopard print unmentionables under here. I left those in a shredded pile on the floor of my bathroom after Eduardo kicked me out of his office and I returned home in a snit. Taking a pair of scissors to the lingerie I’d hoped to bewitch my fiancé with didn’t make me feel better for long, which is why I’m here. I need some company, someone to take my mind off the fact that my problems with Eduardo are getting worse instead of better.

I kick off my squishy-from-the-rain platform mules and walk over to the round dining table Zane bought at a garage sale. It didn’t come with chairs, so he’s got a couple of mismatched plastic ones that look like they’d be more at home by a pool. I’m hanging my coat on the back of one of them when Z returns.

“Here, you go.” He hands me a cheap, scratchy towel that’s almost threadbare, but at least it’s clean and beggars can’t be choosers, right? I use it to blot the wetness from my dripping hair while Z kneels down to dry off my legs, which are bare from the ruffled, mid-thigh-skimming hem of my silk-chiffon wrap dress down to the Feeling Fuego-colored tips of my toes.

“Better?” he queries when he stands back up, and I nod. Z can be amazingly sweet and thoughtful sometimes, and I probably don’t tell him enough (or maybe ever) how much I appreciate it.

“Thanks,” I say just as there’s a loud crack of lightning outside that instinctively makes me grab onto him.

“I don’t think Juanita liked you calling her ‘a bitch,’” Z says, with a quirk of his lips.

“Yeah, well, she needs to get over herself and blow on out of here.”

He places his hands over mine, which are clutching the front of the blue short-sleeve shirt he’s wearing unbuttoned over a wife beater, and says, “Afraid that won’t be happening anytime soon. We’re supposed to get four or five inches of rain tonight, so there could be flooding and power outages, which is why I’ve got the hurricane shutters down and I hit Publix earlier so that I could stock up on the essentials—bottled water, bread, peanut butter, tuna—”

“Tequila and limes?” I ask hopefully. What? It’s almost happy hour, and I could use a couple of strong shots after the day I’ve had.

“No, but I have a few beers in the fridge.”

“Better than nothing, I guess.” I release my hold on his shirt, smoothing down the now-wrinkled cotton.

Zane takes a few steps over to the mustard yellow refrigerator, which looks like it’s older than I am, yanks open the door on the bottom, and pulls out two Coronas. He does that cool thing most guys learned in college where you place the edge of the bottle cap against the kitchen counter, then pop the top off with your hand. He passes the open bottles to me, says he’ll find us something to snack on, then waves me over to the crap shack’s living area.

I sit down on the slouchy Pottery Barn couch Z inherited from his sister when she got married a few years ago, tucking my feet up under the skirt of my tangerine-colored dress that’s patterned with white geometric shapes. I’m taking a sip of the beer and trying to pretend it’s a mojito when a bag of chips drops down into my lap.

“Cheetos?” I wrinkle my nose with disgust as soon as I recognize the orange and red bag with the cartoon cheetah on its front. “These are so nasty. You didn’t even get the Xxtra Flamin’ Hot ones.”

“Yeah, because I don’t want to burn a hole through my stomach.”

“Don’t you have any tortilla chips? Hell, I’d even take Fritos or Pringles over these.”

“Nope, sorry.” Z plops down next to me. “It’s Cheetos or nothing.”

I gag, sticking my tongue out.

“More for me then.” He takes the bag away from me, rips it open, and sticks his hand in.

After devouring several puffs that leave a dusting of fake cheese on his lips and washing them down with some beer, he gets down to business. “I’ve already uploaded all the pics from Gabi’s party onto my hard drive. You just need to go through them and tell me which ones you want included in the slideshow. Do you know which song you want to use? I can plug the length of that song into the slideshow calculator and that will tell us how many pictures we need.”

“I don’t know; I don’t want to use anything sappy . . .” I press my lips together while I try to think of upbeat songs that would work in conjunction with a child’s birthday party. “I’ve got it!” I exclaim, clapping my hands together excitedly. “When Gabi was a toddler, she would light up like a glow stick at an after-dark pool party every time she heard ‘Happy’ by Pharrell. I would crank it up for her, and she’d dance her chubby, little body around the room, laughing the whole time. It was adorable.”

“That’s perfect then. Hold on . . .” Z leans forward to start typing on his laptop. “Looks like we’ll need thirty-eight pictures and there are about three hundred to choose from. So, let’s start at the beginning . . .” He picks up the MacBook, sets it on my lap, and clicks on the file labeled “Gabi’s 5th Birthday.”

We have fun reliving the afternoon through all the wonderful shots he took, most of which are candids of the birthday girl and her guests who look like they were having the time of their lives while they played Pin the Tail on Minimus; had their faces painted with colorful, sparkly unicorns, butterflies, and flowers; mainlined chocolate cupcakes; and dove into the pile of goodies that spilled out of the piñata. My favorite is the picture of Ford holding Gabi aloft just as she’s about to smash the piñata with a stick covered in purple, pink, and white snipped crepe paper. She has a fiercely determined expression on her angelic face that’s really cute, while Ford and a very pregnant Pilar are gazing up at her, beaming with parental pride and love, and Nate stands on the opposite side, yelling encouraging words up to Gabi (he was coaching her on how to hit the papier-mâché number five so that it would split open and thanks to all his years playing baseball he knew what he was talking about and Gabi was able to whack the piñata in just the right spot on her first try). It’s a really sweet picture that neatly encapsulates what family is all about. I ask Z to print up two copies of that shot so that I can frame them, give one to Pilar, and keep the other for myself.

“You’re going to frame a picture you’re not even in?” Zane feigns shock.

“Ha ha, smartass. I may not appear in that shot, but it wouldn’t have happened without me since I was the one responsible for putting that party together, so . . .”

Z nods in understanding. “The picture will be a reminder that you did something nice and made the people you love really happy. You have every right to feel good about that, and I have to say once again what a spectacular job you did on that party. You did your research, pooled all your resources, paid attention to every little detail, and the end result was something totally unforgettable. You should think about party planning as a career.”

I burst out laughing, thinking he’s kidding, but when he doesn’t join in, my chuckles skid to a halt. “You’re serious?” I query, my brow furrowing with disbelief. “You’re actually suggesting I become a professional party planner?”

He shrugs. “Why not? When you asked Nacho, Topaz, and me what you should do post-modeling, we all told you to pursue a career in something you were passionate about and what do you love almost as much as fashion?”

“Getting my party on.”

“Right! And through work and your very active social life, you’re personally acquainted with every club, restaurant, and event venue in Miami.”

“True.”

“You have contacts in catering, music, photography, and floristry.”

“Lorena did make some beautiful arrangements for Gabi’s party.” She’s the flower whisperer my cousin José knocked up last year. She’s currently not speaking to him because he’s “un desgraciado mentiroso y engañoso” (a lying, cheating scumbag), but fortunately she did take my call when I was in desperate need of blooms in the right colors on short notice.

“You always know what the latest trends are.”

“True again.”

“And you’re clever as well as creative.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Not that I don’t agree with everything you’re saying, but why are you being so complimentary all of a sudden?”

Z sighs and runs a hand through his dark hair, which immediately flops back down in his face. “I just want you to know that you have value beyond all this.” He makes a circular motion in front of me.

“Beyond what?” I’m confused as to what he’s referring to.

“The beautiful face, the bangin’ body, the whole sexy package. You built a career on that, but your looks are not all you have going for you, Iz.”

“I know that.” I just didn’t think anyone else did. Most of the praise I’ve received throughout my life has been based on my appearance, which conditioned me to think that it was my biggest selling point. So, I worked it, and with the help of my sassy ‘tude and provocative wardrobe, my looks got me attention, and jobs, and men, lots of men, who were putty in my hands because they would do almost anything to get in my thong. I’ve had a good run, taking the easy way out in life, relying on the results of having won the genetic lottery, but now that I’m rapidly approaching my thirtieth birthday (T minus eighteen days and counting . . . eek!) I have started to wonder if I’m capable of being more than a great rack and a killer set of legs.

“You really think I could run my own business?” I ask, then take a quick slug of beer to fortify myself for the answer.

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to. Look at how Gabi’s party turned out. It was a huge success; even Ana couldn’t find anything to criticize.”

“And she was so pissed!” I exult, gleeful at the memory of my sister’s face, which grew increasingly dour as the party wore on.

“You impressed all the other moms with your awesome party planning skills, too. I heard several of them say that they were going to have to step up their games for their kids’ next birthday parties because you were going to be a hard act to follow.”

I’m surprised to hear this because I know what a tough crowd moms are. If they were worried about living up to the standard I set, then I really must have done something right! “Maybe I do have some talent in this area, but I don’t think I could handle the business side of having my own company.”

“Sure you could. You’re smart and you pick up things quickly. Topaz, Nacho, and Pilar all run their own businesses, so you could rely on them to guide you and answer any questions you might have. You could even take some online business courses if you wanted more knowledge and training in specific areas.”

I hadn’t thought about Topaz and Nacho being small business owners. If those two can pull it off, I should certainly be able to. “I’d need start-up money, wouldn’t I?”

“Wouldn’t Eduardo be willing to invest in a business for you?”

Crap, I’d forgotten about Eduardo. I’m not sure if he’d go for the idea of me plunging headfirst into a new career right now much less be willing to foot the bill for it. He was the one who told me to quit modeling so that I could focus on planning the wedding and getting our house set up and we’ve never discussed me returning to work. I’ve gotten the impression that he expects me to follow in his mother’s footsteps, being the lady of the waterfront manor, doing charity work, lunching with other executive’s wives, being available to accompany him to whatever social events are on his calendar.

“Um, yeah, maybe, but now that I think about it, this probably isn’t the best time for me to embark on a new professional venture that will require a lot of time and energy. I have a wedding coming up in like six months and prepping for that is a full-time job in and of itself. So, thanks for the suggestion. I’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future. Do you wanna go ahead and start putting this slideshow together?” I push the MacBook from my lap over to Zane’s.

“Sure,” he says, giving me a funny look, no doubt wondering why I’m trying to steer him off the subject of me having a life outside of being Eduardo’s wife, but I don’t have to explain myself to him, do I? His party planner idea is a good one, but he should have thought of it back in the spring when I was in a panic about being out of work. It’s too late now. I’ve made my bed with Eduardo and I plan to sleep nestled in its silky sheets until noon every day while wearing a thousand-dollar La Perla nightie. I won’t need a job; I’ll have a rich husband and so what if I don’t see him that much, or he prioritizes his work, his parents, and based on today’s events, his co-workers over me? I’ll hardly even notice his inattentiveness because I’ll be so busy doing everything I can to make us the premier power couple in Miami.

Zane and I spend the next half-hour working on the slideshow. In addition to the music, we add text and some cute graphics that make the slideshow fun and more exciting visually and I’m quite pleased with the finished product. Z’s in the process of printing up the princess photos for me when there’s a deep, wall-shaking rumble of thunder that sounds like a lion roaring. It’s quickly followed by a lightning strike that illuminates the room.

“Storm’s getting worse,” Zane states the obvious as he rises from the couch. “Why don’t you turn on the TV and see what the latest on Juanita is while I get the printed pics?”

I grab the remote sitting on the vintage trunk Z uses as a coffee table and click the power button, making the small flat screen mounted on the opposite wall come to life. The blond Ken doll who does local weather on CBS is blappity-blabbing about Juanita who’s still churning around out in the Atlantic, building up her strength. Once I’ve gotten the scoop, I turn off the TV and join Z over by his air mattress in the far corner of the apartment.

Raising my voice so that I can be heard above the rain pelting the other side of the wall and the printer, which is noisily grinding out photos, I report, “Still not a hurricane,” when I kneel down next to Zane on the floor by the outlet where he’s got his equipment plugged in. “But winds are up to sixty miles per hour.”

“She’s a fierce one. Kind of wish I was outside taking pictures,” Z says wistfully.

“Don’t even think about it. Way too dangerous.” I lift the printed pics out of the photo tray and start placing them on the floor. “I need to label these with the kids’ names. Got some Post-its and a pen?” I ask.

“In the kitchen.” He goes to fetch them while I continue spreading out the pictures. Why do all these kids look alike? I can’t tell the Emmas from the Madisons!

When Zane returns, I hold up a picture of a brown-haired tot wearing a yellow gown à la Belle in Beauty and the Beast and query, “Is this Chloe with a C or a K?”

“Neither. That’s Coralynne. She was the one who proposed to me, remember?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget? The future Mrs. Harper. Hope she likes Cheetos,” I rib him, taking the pad of neon green Post-its he offers me, then scribbling Coralynne’s name on the top note and sticking it on her picture.

“What about that one?” I point to a tiny blonde in a pink dress with a white collar like Sleeping Beauty’s. “I remember she sucked her thumb all afternoon, but I have no clue on her name.”

“Yeah, I had to take like twenty pictures of her to get one without her thumb in her mouth. I wanna say her name was Bailey, Bethany, something along those lines.”

Zane’s fumbling with her name jogs my memory. “Brylee!” I shout triumphantly before scrawling her name on a Post-it. “And this anemic-looking girl is Olivia, the one who had to be coated with SPF 100 every fifteen minutes because she’s allergic to the sun. I remember her name because it’s the same as the pasty heroine’s on iZombie.”

“Maybe Olivia’s sun allergy is just a cover story and she’s really one of the walking dead,” Z theorizes.

“Can you imagine being the parent of a zombie kid? ‘Do your homework, young lady!’ ‘I hate you! Leave me alone, or I’ll eat your brain!’” I make claw hands and lean into Zane, chomping my teeth.

He’s laughing and pushing me away when there’s an ear-splitting crack of lightning and the room is plunged into darkness.

“Shit,” we say in unison.