Page 12 of If My Wishes Came True
It’shope.
And hope is a dangerous thing.
Ican’t pick a romantic comedy to watch while I’m getting ready for Tati Marie’s party. I sit on the couch, sorting through my entire collection of DVDs, but the pictures on the boxes alone are far too triggering. These dashing leading men with their glimmering eyes, their easy grins, their perfectly broad shoulders—they all remind me of Charlie.
So instead of watching a movie, I take a cold shower. It doesn’t help.
Vanessa saves me from myself when she calls to let me know she’s downstairs. As soon as I see her brilliant smile, I relax and decide to live in the moment. I can worry about Charlie tomorrow, when we meet. But tonight is about Tati Marie, Vanessa, and their family—and I’m incredibly grateful they invited me to be a part of their celebration.
The restaurant is on the north side of the city, about a fifteen-minute drive from where I live. Vanessa parks down the block, and I can already hear the vibrant Caribbean beats when I getout of her car.
“It’s calledkompa,” she tells me when she catches me moving to the rhythm. “It’s a type of merengue music. Makes you want to dance, right?” She takes my hand and twirls me on the sidewalk. I’m wearing the perfect dress for it. Emerald green with a skirt that flares as I spin.
“I’d twirl you back, but I’m not tall enough,” I joke, and Vanessa bursts into laughter. It’s true, though. She’s tall to begin with, but tonight she’s towering over me in gold heels that pair beautifully with her coral minidress.
“Come on, shorty,” she says, linking her arm with mine.
I’m practically giddy inside. This is exactly what I need to get my mind off of droolworthy Charlie, and that electriczingthat happened when we touched.
A girls’ night.
I haven’t had one since college—unless you count the times I nursed a glass of wine at a bar in Manhattan, while my uptight sister sat next to me skimming manuscripts for work.Icertainly don’t.
When Vanessa opens the door to Denise’s restaurant, the first thing I notice is color. Everywhere. The walls are painted in tropical hues—mango yellow, lime green, and sea blue—giving lush island vibes. There are potted palm trees in clay pots in every corner, and vases with bright orange and pink hibiscus flowers on every table. And the artwork is so mesmerizing, I stop to soak it all in. On the wall beside the host stand are canvases featuring what I assume are Haitian landscapes. My gaze travels across them, admiring the vivid tones of the ocean, the sky, andthe hillsides peppered with rainbow-colored houses.
“Aren’t these beautiful?” Vanessa says, next to me. “Tati Marie painted them.”
“They’re spectacular. Her impasto technique is to die for.”
“Herwhatnow?” Vanessa asks me with raised eyebrows.
“Impasto,” Marie chimes in, appearing behind us. “It’s the way I layer the paint to create texture. And thank you, Jenna. That’s an honor, coming from such a talented artist.”
I nearly shake my head to object, but decide only to smile as she pulls me in for a hug. “Happy birthday, Marie.”
“Bòn fèt, Tati,” Vanessa says in Creole.
“Thank you, my dears. And Jenna, I hope you’re hungry, because Denise made enough food for an army.”
“Where is my sister, by the way?” Vanessa asks, surveying the crowd.
“Over by the buffet. Go—enjoy! I’m going to get myself a birthday mojito,” Marie says with a wink before she dances her way to the bar. I watch her, and my heart swells. I still feel her joy even though she’s halfway across the room. And it’s not only her. Everywhere I look, people are smiling, laughing, dancing. I think of the soirees my parents hosted when I was growing up. They were nothinglike this. Just a roomful of my dad’s colleagues making pretentious literary references. I would rather have watched paint dry. Literally.
When I turn back to Vanessa, she’s reading a message on her phone. “My friend Sam’s on her way, but she’s running late, so let me introduce you to everyone. This is my entire family, except my parents, who live in Miami. They’re allergic to coldweather,” she jokes.
Every aunt, uncle, and cousin greets me with open arms and beaming smiles. Finally, we make it to the buffet table, where a lovely young woman as tall and statuesque as Vanessa smiles at me. “You must be Jenna,” she says, pulling me in for a hug.
I could get used to this.
“Vanessa tells me you’ve never tried Haitian food before, so I’m going to give you a quick tour of the buffet table,” Denise continues. My mouth waters as I eye the spread, which looks almost too beautiful to eat.
“We’ll start with thepâté. It’s a savory pastry filled with ground beef and spices,” she begins. “Next we havebanan peze, which are crispy fried plantains. Then there’sdiri—that’s rice—with black beans. And finally the entrees: red snapper, stewed chicken…and it wouldn’t be a party withoutgriot.”
“That’s fried pork,” Vanessa explains.
“Oh, and this ispikliz,” Denise adds, pointing to something that looks like coleslaw. “It’s spicy—so consider yourself warned.”
“It all looks delicious. I can’t wait to try it,” I tell her.
