Playing for Keeps (2 page)

LATER THAT AFTERNOON
, Alicia sat at the kitchen table of the Cruz home looking wistfully at the family pool. She had a five-page paper to write about Rigoberta Menchú, a fascinating woman and Nobel Prize–winner from Guatemala who had been a worldwide advocate for the rights of her native Mayan people. Despite the plethora of material, Alicia was not feeling inspired. Maybe, just maybe, a quick swim would help clear her head.

She got up from the table and began to imagine the cool, fresh water of the pool on her back when a voice stopped her. “Sweetie, stay focused.”

Turning around, she saw that Maribelle had come to stand in the doorway. In her hands, she held grocery bags.

Alicia walked over, welcoming the distraction. How could Maribelle argue if the procrastination helped her? She began to unpack the groceries.

“What's for dinner?” she asked.

“I thought I would do a ceviche with scallops and cod.”

“Did I hear the word
ceviche
?” Alicia's mother said as she walked into the room. She kicked off her shoes, a pair of mock-crocodile platform pumps that Alicia had coveted from the moment that her mother had bought them.

Marisol Cruz was one of Miami's toughest judges, and she dressed the part. Her designer suits and power dresses were always courtroomworthy. Alicia saw herself more as a creative type. Her fashion sense was as keen as her mother's, but it reflected a more bohemian sense of style and attitude that always worked with Alicia's dark eyes, flawless skin, and wavy brown hair.

That wasn't to say that she wasn't organized—and sometimes, in fact, even seemed to have borderline OCD. She handled everything for Amigas Inc., from choreography to coming up with ideas for set designs that were often executed by Alex, her handsome older brother, who was an aspiring architecture student.

Now, as Alicia looked at her mom, barefoot in a charcoal gray sheath with a lovely draped cowl neck, she thought, not for the first time, that even if they weren't similar now, she wouldn't mind growing up to be like her mother. When she was handling the business end of things, Alicia already enjoyed stepping out of her I'm-a-creative-artist box and doing a Marisol Cruz imitation. She brought to the job that fierce combination of capability and intelligence that had made her mom a star, even during her days at Harvard Law School.

Unaware of her daughter's silent appraisal, Marisol Cruz kissed Maribelle on each cheek, European-style, then came over and gave her only daughter a big hug.
“¿Qué pasa, niña?”
she asked. “How's it going with Rigoberta Menchú?”

“Don't ask,” Alicia said, groaning. “I'm having a really hard time concentrating. I feel like my brain is flipping back and forth between a hundred things at once. How do you keep yourself on track,
Mami
?”

“Not easily,” laughed her mother. “I have a lot of notes and a lot of reminders, and sometimes, I don't focus as well as I'd like. It's part of being human.”

“I guess,” Alicia said. “But still…” Her voice trailed off as the smell of cooking filled the room.

Maribelle had begun to make fresh tortilla chips. Cutting the small flour tortillas into quarters, she then plopped them into the cast-iron pan, in which sizzled canola oil. The moment she took the first batch of tortillas out of the pan, Alicia grabbed one and popped it in her mouth.

“Let it cool!” Maribelle warned.

“But they're so good when they're hot,” Alicia countered, grabbing another.

“I couldn't agree more,” her mother said, reaching for her own chip.

Maribelle shooed them both away. “Out of my kitchen! The salsa is not even made yet, and there will be no more chips at the rate you two are going.”

Alicia and her mother laughed but did as they were told. Food was a shared passion in the Cruz household, and that meant following Maribelle's strict, albeit tender, rules.

Mrs. Cruz joined Alicia at the kitchen table, where Maribelle had put out a fresh pitcher of lemonade. She poured her daughter a glass and then poured one for herself.

“So, I know I should be letting you get back to your paper. You know how I
hate
to interrupt you while you're doing your schoolwork…” Marisol began.

“Please, please, interrupt me,” Alicia begged her.

Marisol chuckled. “Well, if you insist. I was just wondering if you've given any thought to spring break.”

Alicia hadn't. In fact, she, Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz had been so busy planning
quinces
, keeping up with their schoolwork, and making time for their relationships that they'd totally forgotten about spring break. It wasn't until one of their customers mentioned plans to take a trip to Key West that they all remembered.

“It's a complete bummer,” Alicia said. “We've been working so hard, and for once we all have a little money socked away. But Jamie's checked everything out, and we've got nothing, nada to look forward to while we're on vacation. All of the best concerts are sold out. The beaches and Bongos will be filled with partying college students. Our current plan was to get some great books, check into Club Cruz, and do the one thing there is to do in Miami during spring break if you don't want to end up in somebody's embarrassing homemade YouTube video or worse—stay cool, perfect your backstroke, and hang out by the pool.”

“Does Club Cruz mean I cook for you and all your friends?” Maribelle asked, bringing over a bowl of the tortilla chips and a cup of homemade salsa.

Alicia dipped a chip and smiled. “Only if we're very lucky.”

“You got that right,” Maribelle said.

“Well, I've got another offer, if you're interested,” her mother said mysteriously.

Alicia raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Do you remember my old law school friend Ranya?”

“Not really,” Alicia replied. “But go on.”

“Ranya's at a law firm in Austin, Texas, and she's got a daughter, Valeria, who is just about your age,” Alicia's mom explained. “I sent her the write-up that the
Miami Herald
did on you and Amigas Inc., and she was very impressed.”

Alicia smiled at the pride she detected in her mother's voice. The summer before, when she had decided to form Amigas Incorporated, her mother had been her most vocal critic—worrying that a party-planning business was not a serious venture for her daughter. But once she had attended the first
quince
that Amigas planned, she realized that the company's goal to create a
quinceañera
that was more than just a party, but a celebration of a culture and a time-honored tradition welcoming Latina girls into womanhood, was a good one.

As the business grew and the company began to receive not only more customers than they could handle, but also coverage from local newspapers and TV, Marisol Cruz grew even prouder. By the time Amigas Inc. was featured in the
Miami
Herald
, she was a hundred percent behind the business. She even had seventy-five copies of the article from the paper printed up and sent to her friends and colleagues across the country.

Mrs. Cruz reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of the article. “Do you remember what they wrote?” she asked. Alicia nodded. Ignoring her daughter's nod, Mrs. Cruz began reading from the article:
“…These bright and resourceful teenagers are masters of the cultural mash-up. The
quinceañeras
they plan are an effortless mix of the modern and the traditional.”

“
¡Mamacita, por favor!
You've read that article a gazillion times!” Alicia protested halfheartedly. She always pretended to be blasé about it, but kept a copy of the same article in her handbag—a red leather barrel that had been a hand-me-down.

“Okay, okay. I'll stop. But the point is, Ranya's daughter, Valeria, is turning fifteen, and she would like to fly you and your business partners over to Austin to plan her party during your spring break.”

Her mother had to be kidding, right? No. She couldn't be. She wouldn't mess with her daughter about something like this.

Jumping up, Alicia did a little victory dance. “Woo-hoo!” Then she stopped. “Okay, wait,” she said. “I need details. Is there a catch?”

Her mother shook her head. “All I know is, Ranya's done very well for herself, and her husband's family is in the oil business. She wrote me that Valeria is a little shy and introverted and that sometimes she has to ask her to speak up just to hear her at the dinner table.” She paused as she grabbed another chip. Alicia crossed her arms and waited. Noting her daughter's anxious look, Marisol went on. “So, Ranya spent months interviewing dozens of local party-planners and knew they would all torture Valeria by insisting on a Texas-size party and a poufy white dress. She told me that Valeria is very proud of her Tex-Mex culture and wanted to honor it in a way that felt personal—and appropriate for her, not what a planner thought would be right. The family had decided they would have a small, intimate gathering.

“But when Ranya showed Valeria the profile of Amigas Inc., she got excited,” Marisol continued. “She thought you guys would be able to deliver the kind of party she wanted and told her mom that, with your help, she'd be excited to have a big celebration. According to Ranya, that's a
huge
step.”

Alicia clapped her hands. “Spring break has been saved! You're even more of a genius than I thought you were.” She grabbed her phone off the table. “Who should I call first? Gaz? Carmen? Jamie?”

“Aren't you forgetting something? What about your Rigoberta Menchú paper?” her mother asked, holding up the art book Alicia had been referencing.

“I'll focus on that all weekend long. I promise. But right now, I've got to let my partners know that we're taking the
quince
act on the road.”

With her mother's laughing permission, Alicia went and sprawled on the chaise longue near the living room's sliding-glass door. She punched seven digits into the phone. No answer. She hung up.

“Ugh! I totally forgot,” she said to no one in particular. “Jamie's having dinner with the Mortimers at the club.” She hoped that this dinner was going to be less dramatic than the first dinner Jamie had attended at the country club. In an attempt to make a statement, she had worn a ridiculous outfit and almost cost Amigas Inc. a huge job and almost cost herself a relationship with Dash.

Alicia figured that Jamie was doing just fine as she didn't use the ringing cell phone as an excuse to leave the table.

She punched another number into the phone. Again, no answer. “And Carmen is taking that class in fashion illustration at the New World School for the Arts.”

She hung up and dialed again. Finally, someone answered. “Gaz?” she said excitedly when her boyfriend picked up. “You're
never
going to believe who our next customer is. I'm telling you, Amigas Inc. is blowing up!”

“Is it another hard-to-please heiress like Binky? I'm sorry, I mean Bianca?” Gaz asked playfully. They had given her a hard time, but the whole group loved Binky Mortimer. She was OTT but a huge sweetheart.

“As far as I know, she's nothing like our worst cases. She's rich, but she's not an heiress, she doesn't have a Jewish grandma intent on running the show her way, and the gig doesn't involve a TV reality show,” Alicia replied. “So what are you doing now?”

“Not much,” said Gaz. “Have anything interesting in mind?”

“I have something delicious in mind,” replied Alicia. “Come over for dinner. I'll fill you in on all the details of our new gig.”

Alicia put her hand over the mouthpiece, then called out, “Hey, Maribelle! Can Gaz come over to dinner?”

“Fine with me,” Maribelle yelled back. “I could never say no to my biggest fan. But you have to ask your mother.”

Alicia cried: “
Mami
, can—”

“Fine with me,” her mother chimed in before Alicia could finish.

Just then, Alicia's father and brother walked in.

Enrique Cruz was in his early fifties, with the lithe build of a guy who'd spent his entire childhood playing soccer and still spent weekends chasing the soccer ball up and down the field. Dressed in a casual business outfit consisting of a deep turquoise polo shirt and dark khakis, he looked more businessman than athlete tonight. Alex was dressed in his usual attire, a white polo shirt, tan khakis, and loafers with no socks. “Hey, Dad, you know the funny thing about when it's just the women at home? The house is
so
quiet.”

“I completely agree,” Alicia's father said, laughing.

“¡Cállate la boca!”
Alicia, her mother, and Maribelle cried out in unison.

Alicia quickly told Gaz to come on over, hung up, and ran upstairs and grabbed her laptop. She wanted to do some research on Texas ASAP.

“Oh, good,” Marisol said, seeing the laptop tucked under her arm. “You should check your e-mail. Ranya said Valeria was going to try and shoot you a note. Maybe she got to it.”