I want to sigh every time he calls me that. My love. They say there’s no fool like an old fool, and I’m the biggest of old fools, because that man makes my knees weak every single day with the way he looks at me and speaks to me and treats me like I’m the most precious thing in the entire world to him.
I have a boyfriend at seventy-six.
The notion is so funny as to be laughable.
Livia Giordino, Vivian’s mother-in-law, my best friend and favorite sparring partner, comes in from the garage, carrying the huge arroz con leche, or rice pudding, that she makes every year after I showed my Italian friend the secret years ago.
“Did you remember the extra sugar?” I ask her, as I do every time she makes it, because pushing her buttons is so much fun.
She gives me her trademarked withering look. “I make it better than you do.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
I could fight all day with her and never get tired of it, but today I don’t have the time—or the energy—to go ten rounds with her. “I saved room for it in the kitchen fridge. Thanks for making it every year. We all look forward to it.” See? We can be nice to each other once in a while. Blame it on the holidays that put us all in a festive mood.
“Thank you for hosting and letting the Italians in. We appreciate it.”
“What is it we always say? Everyone is Cuban on Nochebuena.”
One of my greatest pleasures is seeing my grandchildren—and Livia’s—enjoying the traditions we brought to Miami from our homeland more than sixty years ago now. My mother, siblings and I fled with the clothes on our backs after my father was executed in the days leading up to the revolution. I vividly remember the last Nochebuena we celebrated at home in Havana and how stark our first Christmas Eve in Miami was by comparison.
But the exile community opened its arms to us, and by the second Christmas, we were once again embracing our traditions. No matter how many years pass, however, I’ve never forgotten that first Christmas in Miami. I think that’s why I carry on with hosting Nochebuena, even if I’m ready to hand it off to the next generation.
One more year…
Alfredo returns from the garage, carrying the buñuelos, or yuca doughnuts, made by Elena, mother to Nico, Maria, Dee and Milo.
Elena follows him in. “Maria texted that they’re still scheduled to land at six. Austin’s parents are going to bring Everly to meet them here.”
“I’m so glad she’ll make it in time.” Our sweet Maria adores Nochebuena and looks forward to it all year. I adore the way our Italian family members embrace my Cuban heritage on this special day.
“The bakery was absolutely mobbed,” Elena adds. “I’m glad we ordered ahead. Lorenzo is bringing the Cuban bread and pastelitos.” She’s married to my son-in-law Vincent’s brother, but we’re all one big happy family. I wouldn’t have it any other way, especially on Nochebuena.
“Excellent.” It’s all coming together.
Alfredo puts the buñuelos on the counter and comes over to me.
I smile up at the handsome man who has become so special to me over these last few months. “Thank you for all the help.”
“My pleasure, but you look tired. I want you to sit for a bit and put your feet up. You need to pace yourself.”
A few months ago, I would’ve scowled at any man who tried to tell me what to do. Decades of widowhood made me fiercely independent, but Alfredo wants only what’s best for me, which is why I allow him to take me by the hand and lead me into the front parlor that’s always ready for guests.
For four years, he asked me to have dinner with him every Saturday night at Giordino’s, the Cuban-Italian restaurant Vivian and her husband, Vincent, own and run with my help and Livia’s—and now Dee, the new general manager. Every week for four years, I declined Alfredo’s kind offer. Until I finally said yes, which was the best thing I’ve done for myself in years.
When we’re seated together on the sofa, still holding hands, he turns to face me. “You’re running yourself ragged.”
“I do that once a year.”
“You do it every day, but today more than the others. What a production this is!”
“You have Nochebuena in your family, too.”
“We do, but yours is spectacular by anyone’s standards.”
“What’s that English saying the kids like so much? Go big or go home?”