I watch Lori as she walks down the aisle of St. Bartholomew’s in her strapless Monique Lhuillier gown, carrying a bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses. I’ve never seen a bride look so . . . well, happy doesn’t really do her over-bright eyes and flushed, beaming face justice. Giddy would probably be a more appropriate word. She’s so high on the delight of finally getting the big church wedding she’s always dreamed of, I half-expect her to abandon formality and start doing cartwheels up to the altar. As she passes the pew where I’m sitting, Lori glances over and gives me a little wave accompanied by a girlish giggle.
I’m quite sure that I wouldn’t be favored in this fashion if she knew the truth about my history with her future husband. I hate lying to her about it, and even more, I hate being in league with Victor to keep our regrettable relationship a secret. But the alternative would probably send the easily agitated Lori into paroxysms of jealousy, and even though she’s no longer my patient, I still feel responsible for the woman’s mental health. So, what’s a little subterfuge if it keeps her on an even emotional keel? As far as she’s concerned, Victor’s family is old friends with mine, which accounts for our familiarity with one another and my parents’ presence at the social event of the season.
Lori reaches the altar and gazes with undisguised adoration at a tuxedo-clad Victor, who smiles suavely and takes her pale hands in his. I hear plaintive sobbing coming from the groom’s side of the church, but I don’t turn my head to see who the weeper is. My mother never has been one to suffer in silence. Although I suggested more than once that she sit this wedding out and spare herself the torture of what-could-have-been, she opted to attend and play the martyr. Her tears are more for my benefit than the bride and groom’s. She wants me to know just how disappointed she is that I’m not the chica pledging my troth to one of the most eligible bachelors in Miami.
Normally, I’d be annoyed with her for making a scene, but Mamá’s had a rough time of it lately. Two months ago, Ana announced she was pregnant again. My mother, egocentric optimist that she is, immediately jumped to the conclusion that her much-prayed-for granddaughter was finally on her way, and she proceeded to go a little loca, buying thousands of dollars worth of pink clothing, bedding, and toys. When Ana’s doctor did an ultrasound and we learned that the newest Castaneira would be another boy, a devastated Mamá took to her bed for a week.
She’d just recovered from that shock when she was hit with the nerve-shattering news that Izzy’s moving in with her boyfriend. To no one’s surprise, much hysteria and rosary bead-clutching ensued. Personally, I was thrilled because Izzy bunking somewhere else means I get my privacy back. And besides, I really like Alex. He’s had a stabilizing influence on my sister, and the irony of an unapologetic rule-breaker like her hooking up with a cop, especially one she wounded with her incisors, is not lost on me.
Falling in love has matured Izzy considerably; she isn’t the same temperamental brat who expected her family to foot the bill for her self-indulgent lifestyle. She’s working steadily as a model, doing everything from catalogs to music videos, and she reimbursed me in full for all of her legal expenses. Since she’s acting like an adult, I think she deserves to be treated like one. Unfortunately, my parents don’t share the sentiment. They’re threatening to disown Izzy if she disgraces the family by living in sin with a man, and she’s threatening to pose in her birthday suit for Caliente magazine if they don’t respect her right to do as she pleases. And so, their battle of wills goes.
I seem to be the only Alvarez whose life is drama-free at the moment. Business has picked up thanks to some advertising and more than a dozen referrals from my mentor, Dr. Fields, who decided to retire early and relocate to Fiji. The influx of new patients has really invigorated me. I bounce out of bed every morning, full of enthusiasm for my job, and I’ve never felt more focused and confident about my therapeutic skills. While some of my original patients (the Scolaris, Meghan, Lori), accomplished all that they could in our sessions and moved on to what I hope will be happier, more satisfying lives, the others are still works-in-progress.
Ariane Wylie was able to get her divorce without having to pay the contemptible Julio a single cent. In a propitious twist of fate, he was deported to Colombia just days before he was scheduled to face off with her in court. It seems there was a problem with his paperwork, which had absolutely nothing to do with Ariane knowing one of the higher-ups at the Bureau of Immigration and Citizenship, or so she assured me with a smug smile. We’ve still got a long way to go with her rage against men and revenge issues.
Leonard Dyson decided to use the lottery winnings that made him so miserable to open a Youth Center in Opa-Locka, the disadvantaged area where he grew up. He said he wanted to give back to the community and offer children both a safe haven and the opportunity to better their lives. Leonard works at the center every day, organizing activities, overseeing group projects, and lending an ear to the kids who come there. By helping these troubled teens, I think he’s righting what went wrong in his own unhappy childhood, and it’s had a very positive effect on him. He’s less timid and more willing to express his opinions now, which is a small, but important, step towards him becoming a proud, self-assured person.
As per my recommendation, Kyle Kotowski took up astronomy, a hobby that seemed harmless enough at the time. He bought himself a high-powered telescope, attended shows at the Miami Museum of Science Planetarium, and even joined a local group of stargazers. For a few weeks, he talked more about constellations and the Helix Nebula than he did his imaginary physical ailments which I thought was a good sign. Unfortunately, things went horribly awry when another astronomer wannabe told Kyle about a recently published study on the properties of cosmic debris. Apparently, some of these rocks contain submicroscopic parasitic particles that are unknown to our scientists. In other words, alien viruses. Since hearing this, Kyle has been afraid to leave his house without wearing a surgical mask, and I’ve been forced to up him to two sessions a week.
I don’t know if Derek Reynolds ever filmed that movie for Lifetime, but I did catch his latest performance . . . in a Hair Plugs for Men commercial! I laughed so hard the first time I saw it that I fell off my bed. The next time the ad aired on late-night TV, I quickly hit RECORD on my DVR so that I would have the product plug (Hee!) on hand for my continuous viewing pleasure. There’s nothing better than coming home from a hard day of work and hearing Derek say, “I’m not just an actor; I’m a satisfied client of Hair Plugs for Men.” I’ll bet he has pectoral implants and a Mystic Tan, too.
I redirect my attention to the ceremony. The priest is doing a Scripture reading, so we’re only halfway through. I cast a sideways glance at my date, who looks very GQ in a navy suit and periwinkle-and-white striped shirt, both of which he bought especially for the occasion because he knows how much I love seeing him in blue (it really makes his eyes pop!) He’s staring at the altar with a stoic, ‘I’m so bored I might lapse into a coma at any moment’ expression on his face. With my finger, I trace the outline of his chiseled jaw, and he turns towards me.
I mouth the word, “Sorry.”
Inclining his dark head, he whispers, “For what?”
“For torturing you like this.”
“I didn’t realize Catholic weddings were so long.”
“Painfully so.”
“And to think, I could have been playing golf.”
“You hate golf,” I remind him.
“Careful or you’ll get me kicked out of the AMA,” he retorts with a smirk.
The bride and groom are now saying their vows. Lori tearfully recounts how her heart swelled with joy when she first set eyes on Victor and then quotes some incredibly sappy poem about soul mates. Her intended waxes rhapsodic about their love being as eternal as the ocean tides, as beautiful as the sunrise, as full of color and hope as the rainbow that appears after a violent storm . . .
“We’ll be sticking with the traditional wedding vows when we get married,” my companion mutters.
No doubt about it, I definitely ended up with the right man.
Even though we’ve only been together 4 months, 8 days, 3 hours, and oh, about 21 minutes (Yes, that’s right, I’ve been counting.), Ford and I are so attuned to each other that it’s almost like we share a brain. Not that we always agree, but we do understand each other and that’s something I’ve never experienced before. Now, I have someone I can share everything with, my work, my family, my friends, even my love for spicy food and my penchant for do-gooding. And he’s given me so much - his affection, his support, his respect, and most importantly, the opportunity to have a relationship with his son, the most brilliant, perceptive, delightful child in the world, not that I’m prejudiced or anything.
Nate is the only person Ford and I have told about our marriage plans. Before proceeding, we wanted to make sure he was okay with me becoming his stepmother, which, of course, he was. He’s so excited about being the best man and he’s taking the responsibility very seriously. Yesterday, I found him in Ford’s kitchen making toast. When I asked him why since he knows he’s not supposed to use electrical appliances without supervision, he told me he was practicing because he’d read that the best man has to “make a toast” at the wedding reception. How adorable is that?
Our engagement isn’t official yet, so I’m not wearing a ring. Ford did buy me one a few weeks ago, but he’s refusing to show it to me even though I’ve employed every feminine wile from begging to seduction. He says that he wants me to be surprised when he drops down on one knee and presents the ring to me at my birthday party in two weeks. It was his idea to make a big production out of the proposal on my 30th when all of my friends and family will be gathered at my parents’ condo to celebrate. My mother’s going to love it. I predict she’ll spend the rest of the night boasting to anyone who’ll listen that her daughter is going to marry a doctor, which is the best match any Alvarez girl has ever made. When Ana protests that she married a lawyer, Mamá will scoff that Raymond was just a lowly law clerk at the time of their “I Do”s. Then, she’ll pull an armful of bridal magazines from her reserve in the front closet and insist that I pick out a dress immediately.
The next six months will be spent listening to my mother yammer on and on about floral arrangements and designs for ice sculptures. She’ll call me at all hours of the day and night with suggestions for wedding cakes (‘Don’t let Solana talk you into one of her Black Magic Cakes. They’re too rich; Tio Juan got sick on all that chocolate at Sancha’s reception. Remember, he threw up in the conga line? Go with the ½ Cuban, ½ Chocolate, then you’ll have devil’s food cake for the people who like chocolate and yellow sponge for everyone else.’) and Salsa bands (‘Whatever you do, don’t hire your cousin Rique. I know he thinks he’s a musician now, but playing the bongos with his elbows doesn’t make him Tito Puente.‘) She’ll drop by the office with invitation samples and guest lists. She’ll advise me to go on a diet so that I can fit into a size 6 on my wedding day like she did. She’ll send me to her colorist for lowlights and recommend that I wear my hair down on the big day because I have a long neck that makes me look like a gira—
On second thought, Ford and I are going to elope.