Miami Marriage Pact
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Nadine Gonzalez
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33
One
When had her life turned into a Hollywood production? Conditions imposed on inheritance? A marriage of convenience to sort it out? Those were tropes best left to romantic comedy scripts, and yet, here Gigi was, shopping around for a husband, her best friend acting as her middleman. The drama had started with a familiar scene: The Reading of the Will.
They’d gathered in the lawyer’s office. Not in a wood-paneled suite, like moviegoers have grown accustomed to. The law firm occupied the top floors of a downtown Miami high-rise with water views that made a mockery of her misery.
Seated beside her on the white leather couch was her mother, Elizabeth Brooks-Garcia, better known as “the former top model from Texas, Beth Brooks.” She wore black from head to toe, in case anyone should question her grief. Gigi’s half brother, Gabriel Garcia, sat facing them in a wingback armchair. He stared at her with his own mother’s mossy brown eyes. Behind a sleek desk sat attorney Andrew Row. All three seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting for her tantrum to pass.
Not one of them was in her corner.
“What do you mean I have to wait five years before I can touch my inheritance?” Gigi exploded. A five-year wait for fifty million dollars? Even a saint wouldn’t agree to that, and she was no saint.
“Or marry,” Row specified. “Wait five years or marry. Those are the terms.”
“How long does my mother have to wait?” Gigi asked.
“She doesn’t.”
Gigi pointed to Gabriel. “What about him?”
“He doesn’t have to wait, either.”
“So, it’s just me?”
“Just you.”
“Georgina!” Beth wailed. “Your father had his reasons.”
Her mother wailed far too often now. Gigi struggled to keep her voice calm. “Did he? I’d like to hear them.”
“He was looking out for you.”
“He was trying to control me, even from the grave!”
“Don’t be so dramatic!” Beth scolded.
“Two things can be right at the same time,” Gabe explained. “He was looking out for you...and he was trying to control you. That’s what you get for being the favorite.”
“Thanks for that insightful analysis, Gabe.” You’d think at a time like this, they could set their sibling rivalry aside for like a fraction of a second. They never got along, and likely never would. In fairness, their dad had left his mom for hers, so...there was that.
Gabe grinned. “Anytime.”
Row intervened. “We’ve been at this for a while now. Would anyone like a refreshment? Coffee? Tea?”
Beth opted for coffee. “Black. No sugar, please.”
“Water,” Gabe said.
Gigi sighed, deflated. “A margarita on the rocks with salt on the rim.”
“Georgina!” Beth wailed once more.
Okay, she’d asked for that one. Something about this whole situation and being powerless reduced her to a rebellious teen, and her instinct was to lash out. The person responsible for this mess, the only one with the power to do something about it, was long gone, singing hymns with the angels or reincarnated into a butterfly. Either way, her father was enjoying his afterlife while his family hashed out his last will and testament. Apparently, his last will, his parting wish, was to screw his only daughter out of tens of millions of dollars. And all anyone could offer her now was refreshments and pity.
“Sorry, Mom,” Gigi said sweetly. “It’s not every day I’m forced into marriage.”
“No one is forcing you into anything,” Beth retorted. “Your father wanted what’s best for you.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the official motto of the patriarchy,” Gigi muttered.
Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. “Heaven help me.”
Gigi turned to the lawyer. “What are my options?”
“Florida laws are strict,” Row said. “There is ample evidence Mr. Garcia was of sound mind until the end. His cognitive abilities are documented in the extensive medical record.”
Her dad’s mind had remained sharp even as his body was crippled with disease. He’d kept managing his affairs from his hospice bed. The former Major League All-Star remained a champion to his dying day.
“And I’ll testify, if it comes to that,” Beth said. “Your father was an extraordinary man. I won’t have his legacy watered down just so you can collect early.”
Before she could lash out at her mother for practically calling her a gold digger, Gabe jumped in, adding insult to injury.
“That profile in Vanities did you no favors. I’m sure that’s why Dad did it.”
Gigi’s heart tanked just at the mention of the article. “Layoffs and Pay Cuts at GG Cinema.” The trade magazine had pronounced her career dead after a string of box office flops, all critically acclaimed, but flops nonetheless.
“Since when do you read Vanities?” she asked.
“A copy was lying around my dentist’s office,” Gabe replied.
“Oh, sure.”
“It’s not like you’ll go hungry,” Beth said. “You’re a savvy businesswoman. Plus, your monthly income is more than enough to tide you over. Your father didn’t touch that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Row?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Income wasn’t the problem. Gigi didn’t need an allowance; she needed capital, enough funds to cut ties with her main investors and chart her own course.
Gabe had a suggestion. “Maybe auction off your collection of Oscars.”
Her brother reclined in his wingback chair with the nonchalance of a man who stood to inherit millions without having to jump through a single hoop. Gigi did not take the bait.
“I guess I have no choice but to get married,” she muttered to herself.
“How will you swing that?” Gabe asked. “You’ve been single for a while.”
That was a bold assumption! What did he know? “I’m seeing someone.”
“You are?” Beth asked. “Where was he on your birthday? All your friends were at your dinner.”
“We’re discreet. I don’t parade around my secret lovers.”
Gabe laughed. “Nobody says ‘secret lover.’ You’ve been in Hollywood too long.”
“Call him what you like,” Beth said stonily. “But for the love of God, don’t marry him. Marrying for money is tasteless.”
Gabe made no effort to stifle his laugh. Truth be told, Beth’s lack of self-awareness was hilarious. Eighteen years younger than her late husband, she was instantly branded a trophy wife. Only Gigi knew the truth: her parents adored each other.
Row cleared his throat to remind them all of his presence. Gigi had a question for him. “Does the will say I have to marry for love?”
“No,” he replied. “It doesn’t.”
“That’s enough now,” Beth snapped. “I won’t stand for this.”
“Is my mother’s approval necessary?” Gigi asked the attorney.
He appeared amused. “No, it’s not.”
“It settled! I’ll be married by the end of the month.”
Her declaration was met with dry, brittle laughter all around.
“You think this is funny?” Gigi asked.
“We think it’s tragic,” Beth retorted. “The one time you don’t get your way, you resort to pulling stunts. When will you grow up?”
“Careful you don’t end up having to pay some guy spousal support,” Gabe added. “It sort of defeats the purpose. Make sure to get an airtight prenup.”
“An airtight prenup...” Gigi mimed taking notes. “Got it! Good looking out, big bro.”
Gabriel was her half brother, but she couldn’t afford to splice and dice the only sibling she had. Growing up, she’d admired him. Gabe was athletic and handsome, and all her girlfriends had crushes on him. Too bad he considered Gigi the enemy. She didn’t take it personally. She’d understood, even at a young age, that her brother’s resentment rested squarely on Beth for allegedly wrecking his home.
Juan Pedro Garcia was still married to Gabe’s mother when he’d met Beth, yet he swore up and down that he hadn’t “declared his love” until after he was legally separated. “I respect the sanctity of marriage,” he’d say to anyone who’d listen. Decades later, when he was terminally ill, he became obsessed with finding his only daughter a husband. “I won’t get to see you married,” he’d say. Gigi had always tried to make light of it. “You got to see me win an Oscar. How many dads can say that?”
It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d won a Nobel Peace Prize. Her father wished only to see her “settled.”
Beth reached over and touched her arm. “Gabe is right. Your life is not a romantic comedy. Getting married for the wrong reasons is a terrible mistake.”
Seriously, what was her family’s obsession with the film industry? They tossed her career in her face at every opportunity. Everything—every setback, every bout of bad luck, no matter how trivial, the flu or whatever—came down to her so-called Hollywood lifestyle. If they were taking bets on when her career would collapse, she would not give them the satisfaction.
“As long as you’re entertained, Mom. Don’t forget the popcorn.”
“I prefer Raisinets,” Beth said smoothly.
“To each her own.” Gigi stood and smoothed down her skirt. “I’ll leave you two to discuss your affairs. Keep an eye out for the wedding invite.”
With those words, she strode out of the lawyer’s office and made a beeline toward the elevator bank. Gabe chased after her. “Hold on, Georgina!”
Increasingly, he favored their dad. With his hair cropped short, he looked like a young Pedro Garcia, the cocky shortstop newly recruited by Houston.
She pressed the elevator button. “Go away!”
“Just give me a second, will you?” he said. “It’s no wonder he treated you like a child. You act like one!”
Gigi whirled around, primed for a fight. “What are you going to do with your money, huh? Buy a boat? Another condo on the beach? Invest in crypto?”
The elevator came and went as she waited for an answer. Gabe’s face reddened. “It’s none of your business what I do with it.”
“That’s my point,” she said through clenched teeth. “It’s your prerogative. What a privilege that is!”
“Believe it or not, I’m on your side,” he said. “You have every right to be upset, but please, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
No one was on her side; they’d made that plain. She was alone in this. “I’ll do what I have to.”
Gigi turned her back on her brother and caught the next elevator. She was met by her reflection in the mirrored walls and her mask of self-confidence nearly fell away. Tall, slim, she had her father’s golden brown complexion and her mother’s chiseled cheekbones. More importantly, she had her father’s head for business and her mother’s cunning. She would figure a way out of this. No one, not her mother, brother, or ghost of her father, would stop her.
Outside, she waited patiently for the valet to bring around the powder blue Bentley that had once belonged to Beth. She slid behind the wheel and veered onto Biscayne Boulevard only to pull over to the side of the road when her vision suddenly blurred with tears.
She gripped the steering wheel. Shit! What am I going to do now?
Fate threw Gigi a lifeline. Just as panic threatened to choke her, her phone rang. The name on the dashboard display sent a jolt of relief down her spine. A second later, the warm voice of one of her dearest friends filled the car. “I’ve been trying to reach you. What’s going on? How’s your day?”
Her heart rate steadied. “Miserable. You won’t believe what I’ve been through.”
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
Most people were lucky if they had one person in their lives who would rush into a burning building to save them. Gigi had a handful. One of them was Oscar-winning actor Alessandro Cardenas, “Sandro” for short. He’d flown in to attend her father’s funeral and checked in on her daily.
Although she and the actor had Miami roots, their paths had crossed in LA. Sandro had auditioned for a small role in one of the first films she’d produced. His portrayal of a queer Cuban activist had made him a star. The film was nominated for an Oscar, and Sandro went on to win many prestigious awards. They’d been in each other’s lives ever since. What a shame he was engaged to a talented artist with whom he was very much in love. If not, Gigi would have proposed to him on the spot.
“Don’t worry,” she sighed. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine,” he said. “Let’s have lunch. I’ll pick you up. Just tell me where you are.”
Where was she, even? Somewhere near a strip mall. A group of school kids eyed her car as they crossed the street, backpacks slung over their shoulders. The Bentley attracted way too much attention. She fired up the engine. “Never mind that. I’ll come to you.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m headed to Diablo. Meet me there.”
After the morning she’d had, a noisy, happening restaurant was the last place she wanted to be. “I don’t want to be around people right now. Can’t we meet somewhere private?”
“Diablo is my second home,” he assured her. “We’ll hang out in the kitchen, sample the food and talk. I promise they’ll leave us alone.”
That sounded wonderful, actually. She was starving. A good meal and chance to vent would get her back on track. “What’s the address?”
Sandro went quiet for a bit. “Are you joking?”
“Fine!” she cried. “I’ll look up the directions! No need to be rude.”
“I can’t believe this,” Sandro said. “You’ve never been to Diablo?”
“Sorry, no.”
Gigi wasn’t sorry at all. She didn’t have time to make the rounds of every trendy bar and restaurant that popped up in Miami. Unlike his other freewheeling friends, she had a company to run to the ground.
“Hold on,” he said, more forcefully than the circumstances required. “You’ve never met Myles?”
“Maybe... I don’t know.”
She met so many people; how could she know for sure? However, she now understood why Sandro was upset. Myles was his childhood friend. He talked about the guy nonstop. Ah, yes! He was a chef, of some sort. He must cook at Diablo, or maybe he owned the place.
“Never mind,” he said. “Head over to NE 40th Street. It’s on the corner—you can’t miss it. Ask for the chef’s table, and they’ll take you back.”
“See you soon.”
She made it there in no time. Removed from the busy street and surrounded by palm trees, Diablo was not what she’d expected. The architecture was reminiscent of old-style Florida with its white facade, jalousie windows and angled roof. Just before darting inside, she stole a moment to type “Chef Myles Diablo” into her phone’s search engine. Maybe Sandro would forgive her if she showed some interest in his friend’s career.
The search results were slim. The restaurant’s official website came up, but she was hunting for links to his personal Instagram or TikTok. The chef was apparently social media averse. However, she stumbled across an interesting profile in Let’s Spoon, a culinary magazine.
Myles V. Paris, the so-called “MVP” of fusion cuisine, is named the Hottest Chef in the Kitchen. The Miami native of Haitian decent heats up the culinary scene, but remains focused on his career. “I’m single, and okay with it.” Update: We at Let’s Spoon are not okay.
Gigi tapped on the accompanying thumbnail photo to enlarge it. Dark skin, light eyes, wearing chef whites, a butcher knife clutched in one hand, Chef Myles was strikingly handsome. She took in his even features, the set of his jaw, the cocky half tilt of his smile. And those eyes! They drilled straight into her.
One of her many gifts was her uncanny ability to read people. Granted, she hadn’t yet met the man, but this one photo told her everything she needed to know: smart, stubborn, sexy, steadfast... She dropped her phone into her bag and reached for a tube of lipstick. She had her work cut out for her.
