She's Got Game (13 page)

The next day, she thought about calling Dash or sending him an e-mail. She looked across the bedroom and saw the vase full of the last of Dash's very resilient roses. She had a better idea.

She took out the debit card for her savings account and put it in her purse. After a quick shower, she threw on a hoodie and jeans and took the bus to Elsa's Jardin, the florist that Amigas recommended to all its clients.

The girls loved the bright, airy shop, with its garage-style back and front doors. There was a café in the middle of the shop where they had spent many hours sipping lattes, going over flower orders for their clients, feeling absolutely and positively grown-up.

Now she was there on a different sort of business. Walking into the giant fridge, Jamie pulled out a bouquet of purple hydrangeas and a bunch of pink hibiscus. She brought them to the counter and watched as Elly, the manager, wrapped the flowers in brown butcher paper and the pink and green tartan ribbon that Jamie had picked out.

Finally, she wrote a brief note of apology to the Mortimers and attached it to the pink hibiscus. And then she wrote a note to Dash. She used the same words he had used when he'd sent flowers to her:
“Discúlpame, discúlpame, discúlpame, discúlpame, discúlpame—forgive me, forgive me, forgive me—Jamie.”

JAMIE DIDN'T HEAR
anything from Dash that day, and she became more and more despondent. She imagined him receiving the flowers and frowning. Throwing them in the trash and wiping his hands. She worried that he'd perhaps never received her flowers at all. Then she imagined he had but that the whole family had gathered around her pitiful excuse of a note and laughed at her. By the end of the day, she was a wreck.

But early the next morning, before school, she came downstairs and found a surprise. Dash was sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast with her father.

“Hola, querida,”
Mr. Sosa said, lifting his cup of coffee.

“Hola, querida,”
Dash repeated.

She was wearing a vintage camisole and a pair of old pajama pants and felt embarrassed. “Um, excuse me, I'm just going to grab a robe,” she said.

When she returned, Dash was still at the table, and her father was putting his dishes in the sink. “I've got to go to work, and your mother is at the grocery store. But I think I can trust the two of you alone in the house.”

“Of course,
Papi
,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

He left, and Jamie poured herself a glass of orange juice. She sat down next to Dash. It was puzzling to see him in her house, especially when he'd never responded to her flowers.

“I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?” Jamie asked. Even at seven o'clock in the morning, he looked deliciously handsome.

Dash smiled. “Well, my family and I got your flowers and your notes. All is forgiven. True, your note to me was not the most original in the world. But it was effective. And probably more effective because you thought to include the rest of the family. Bev is a sucker for pretty flowers. And really, when it comes down to it, you left before you did irreparable damage.” He winked to show her he was teasing about the damage part.

As the news of her pardon sank in, Jamie spread some jam on a piece of toast and helped herself to a few pieces of bacon from the plate in the center of the table.

“Why didn't you call?” she finally asked.

Dash poured himself a cup of coffee. “I spent a lot of time last night thinking about what you said when we first met. I kept thinking, are we just so different that this will never work? And I was worried that maybe it wouldn't.

“Then I thought about all the games of golf I've played,” he went on. “All the impossible shots. The whiffs. The water hazards. So many of those shots they said I could never make only
looked
hard. They weren't that difficult once I could tune out all the noise. And that's what I came here this morning to tell you, Jamie. I didn't want to text you. I didn't want to call you. I wanted to tell you in person that this—meaning you and me—is going to work. It's not as hard as it looks if we can just tune out all the noise.”

Jamie didn't know what to say. She was so overcome with emotion that when she took a swig of orange juice it went down the wrong way. She began to choke, and Dash had to jump up and pat her on the back.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sounding worried.

“I am,” she said, when she'd finally recovered. “More than okay. I think I'm falling in love with you.”

“Well, you're a little late to the party, because I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,” Dash said.

He leaned forward to kiss her.

“Wait!” she cried and ran out of the room.

Five minutes later she returned.

“I'm ready for that kiss now,” she said, putting her hand on her hip saucily.

“Where'd you go?” he asked, puzzled.

“I had to brush my teeth!” she said. “If you're going to show up at a
chica
's house at the crack of dawn, the least you could do is give her a little notice.”

Then she moved closer and kissed him, again and again.

A few days later, still glowing from her talk with Dash, Jamie met Carmen, Alicia, and Binky for a walk-through with the caterers, Fete a Fales. She wanted to tell the girls everything that had happened, but things had been so busy with school and planning that there had never been a good time. Plus, she knew that her first priority had to be the job—especially after her near miss at the country club on Sunday.

Fete was the best in Miami and had catered everything from movie premieres to state dinners. Their office was a modern three-story house in a swanky part of town. Having been there before, the girls knew the way. They entered through the garage and took the stairs up to the second floor, which held a giant loft kitchen, a dining area for tastings, and the company office.

Tilda Fales, the owner of the catering company, was British and in her mid-thirties. She had red hair, freckles, and a cool Notting Hill style. On this particular day, she was wearing skinny jeans, a pale gray cashmere turtleneck, Bromley boots, and an Alexander McQueen capelet. Flawless style aside, she made the most exquisite food, everything from mini Moroccan chicken pot pies to a Peruvian ceviche that was last-supper-worthy.

Tilda greeted the girls and said,
“Feliz cumpleaños”
to Binky. Then they sat down at the long white wooden table next to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows to begin the tastings.

“First up,” Tilda said, passing around a purple Lucite tray, “appetizers. We've got mini Reuben sandwiches, Cuban Monte Cristos with mustard and chives, and mascarpone-and-fig bouquets.”

“Yum,” Alicia said, helping herself to two Monte Cristos.

“The mascarpone-and-fig bouquets are so beautiful,” Carmen said admiringly.

“Thanks,” Tilda said. “That's our vegetarian option. What do you think, Binky?”

All eyes turned to the
quince
. She, in turn, was looking at the appetizer indifferently. “It's acceptable.”

Tilda was understandably perplexed.
Acceptable
was a word that was
never
associated with the food at a Fete a Fales event.

“Well, if there's anything I can do to make improvements, please let me know,” Tilda said. “We want your
quinceañera
to be perfect.”

Binky smiled tightly. “Perfect? Like that's going to happen.”

Alicia, Carmen, and Jamie exchanged worried glances. This attitude was completely out of character. Jamie had a momentary feeling of panic that her behavior at the dinner was causing this. But then reality hit her. This had nothing to do with dinner.

Binky had become a
quince
-zilla.

Even the nicest girl has her
quince
-zilla freak-out. For some girls, it lasts just a moment; for others, it spans the entire time leading up to their big day. Regardless of the time frame, during this temporary loss of sanity, the
quince
becomes convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary, that everything is going wrong and her
quince
is going to be a complete disaster.

Now it was Binky's turn.

She held up a plate. “Please tell me these aren't the plates we'll be using.”

Tilda, who'd seen her share of
quince
-zillas, bridezillas and all other forms of high-maintenance customers, took a deep breath. “You signed off on those plates a week ago.”

Binky smiled, making only a minimal effort to hide her annoyance. “You must be mistaken, Tilda,” she said. “I would never sign off on
cafeteria white
plates for the most important day of my life! These plates do
not
say, ‘Go big or go home!'” Her face was flushed, and she was shaking.

The
amigas
sprang into action.

“Let's take a walk,” Carmen said, grabbing Binky by the arm and escorting her down the back stairs towards the office's Japanese rock garden.

“We'll be right back,” Alicia said, giving the caterer a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“We've got this completely under control,” Jamie added. “Just give us ten minutes.”

“I have the utmost faith in your ability to handle this
petite
crisis,” Tilda said, popping a mini Reuben into her mouth. “I'll be in my office when you're ready for me.”

The four girls walked out of the building and into the courtyard. Tilda had once explained to them that although Miami's weather would have supported an elaborate, tropical garden, she'd opted to go for the Zen appeal of a Japanese rock garden, because the relationship between a caterer and a client was so often tense. Just standing in the perfectly ordered garden with its soft, smooth stones raked in a way that suggested the rippling of an ocean wave, the
amigas
could feel themselves calming down. Unfortunately, it seemed as though it was going to take a little while longer for the garden to have a similar effect on Binky.

“I can't work with someone who doesn't give me the opportunity to approve the China choices,” Binky fumed. “I would never've signed off on those plates.”

Carmen spoke first, leading the girls to the low bamboo benches near a row of bright green bushes. “But,
chica
, we signed off on plates days ago.”

“
You
did;
I
didn't,” Binky said. “Ever since we decided to have the
quince
on our family yacht, I've been planning on having Kate Spade Gwinnett Lane china. The blue and orange match my theme perfectly.”

Alicia sighed. “Okay, we'll look into the Kate Spade china. Are we good to return to the tasting?”

Binky shook her head. “I also need to add some names to the guest list.”

“Two weeks before the event?” Alicia tried not to sound panicked. The manifest, which had to be signed by the boating commissioner—who, by the way, was not the easiest person to reach—made it clear that the yacht was pushing capacity with a guest-and-crew list that totaled nearly 270. If Binky insisted on more invites, they would probably have to rent a bigger boat. Mr. Mortimer would pay, but Alicia could not even begin to imagine realigning the specs for the current party in a new space, much less one that had to be seaworthy.

“How am I supposed to confine the most important day of my life to two hundred and fifty guests?” Binky wailed.

The
amigas
exchanged glances, and Carmen, always the most patient of the three, took the lead. “How many people did you want to invite in addition to the two hundred and fifty on your list?” she asked calmly.

“I have to invite my entire sophomore class,” Binky replied, as though that were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Just because I'm a Mortimer doesn't make me an elitist. In fact, on the contrary, I'm a woman of the people.”

“Well, my understanding is that there are eighty students in your class at Everglades and seventy-eight are already coming. Who are we leaving out?”

Binky began to pace. “My father has very important clients that he wants to have come to this party. Has anyone even bothered to talk to him about his guest list?”

Alicia raised her hand. “I met with your father about his list. He's completely covered.”

“Well, I'm not happy with my dress, either,” Binky went on. “I want a designer dress, not a
homemade
dress.”

The expression on Carmen's face, a mixture of hurt and anger, made it clear that she'd just about had it with Binky's freak-out. But she remained in control. “Believe me,
chica
, I get it. Having a
quinceañera
is stressful. You've got all this pressure on you from your parents, and then you've got a boyfriend whom you've barely gotten comfortable kissing, but now you've got to present him to the world as your
chambelán
. You're learning three different dances. You've got a speech to write and memorize in Spanish.”

“What?” Binky screeched. “A speech in Spanish?” She began to cry. “No one told me about making a speech in Spanish.”

“Way to go, Carmen,” Jamie muttered.

“It's not so much a speech,” Carmen backpedaled. “It's more of a formal thank-you.”

“In Spanish?” Binky said. “You know I don't speak Spanish.”

“Look,” Alicia said, “a lot of girls have family in from Mexico, Puerto Rico; even people who live in the Bronx or Chicago, who don't speak English very well or at all. Preparing a few words to say to them in Spanish is a nice touch. But you won't have that kind of family in town. So it might not be necessary. We can discuss and find a compromise. All these things, they're not enough to get this twisted up over. So, tell us what's really going on.”

Binky leaned against a gingko tree and began to cry in earnest. She sobbed and heaved, and the others just stood and let her. There was nothing to do, in fact, but let her cry herself out. Finally, when her sobs had become hiccups, she spoke. “I just wish my mom could be here. This is the biggest day of my life, and the only grown-up in my family who understands, even a little bit, is Estrella. Bev doesn't care, and my father just signs the checks. It's not fair. How am I supposed to make this passage to womanhood without the most important woman in my life there?” Binky looked at them, her red-rimmed eyes as if pleading for an answer.