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would be late for his mother’s little event, but despite the tongue lashing he would surely receive, he didn’t care.
    He quickly changed into his tuxedo, a smile on his face, and left Carmen behind to close up the office.
    “Hey, Victor,” she called out from behind the receptionist’s desk as he walked by.
    “Yes, Carmen. What is it?” he stopped to ask, straightening his hastily done bow tie.
    “You’re too cute when you smile, you know. Watch out for all those debutante sharks. They’ll eat you alive.”
    His smile broadened. “Go home, Carmen. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said with a parting wave and left the office located in one of the nicer downtown areas. Within minutes he had reclaimed his car from the parking lot and was driving the red Corvette convertible — a gift to himself after his third year in practice — across the causeway and into the South Beach area.
    Instead of turning down Washington Avenue to head straight to the Convention Center, he kept on going, slipping onto Ocean Drive instead for a slow cruise through the Art Deco section with all its renovated buildings sporting bright pastel colors. Their neon lights brought the night to vivid life.
    He cruised past the Colony, Breakwater, Lario’s, and further down at the other end of the strip, Versace’s former mansion and the Cardozo, all decked out in their finery, with new life teeming again. At the end of the strip, signs proclaimed the availability of new condos and rentals in the upscale high-rise buildings that had just been finished.
    Victor had to admire the spirit of the enterprising souls who were keeping South Beach’s rebirth going strong.
    Minutes later, he was at the Jackie Gleason Convention Center. He wheeled his car in front of the building and handed his keys to a valet with a warning about the care of his precious automobile. The valet, a young man of about eighteen, nearly drooled as he got behind the wheel of the souped-up Corvette and pulled away from the curb, the exhaust emitting a sexy growl.
    Victor walked up the steps of the Convention Center. As he entered, he noticed the people still lounging around in the vestibule and was glad he wasn’t so late as to have missed the start of the show.
    “Victor. Victor, over here,” someone called and he turned in the direction of the summons.
    His mother waved at him from a few yards away, the diamonds and gold on her fingers and wrist winking beneath the bright lights in the lobby. He walked over, gave her a tight hug, and shook his father’s hand.
    “We were worried you weren’t going to make it,” his mother admonished, brushing away a speck of imaginary lint from his lapel.
    “I had some last minute patients.”
    His mother shook her head. “More than likely that incompetent little nurse made you late.”
    “Mother, Carmen is a wonderful nurse. I’ll probably keep her on after Yolanda comes back.”
    “Please, Victor. That girl is so low class,” his mother said and looked around the room, waving gaily to someone across the way.
    Victor examined his mother, taking in the expensive designer gown. Jewelry dripped at her ears, throat, and wrist. Thirty years ago it hadn’t been there. Thirty years ago she had cleaned someone else’s home and babysat the neighbor’s kids while his father had tried to earn a living.
    When had she forgotten about all that sacrifice?
    “I’m keeping her, mother,” he warned, as if Carmen were some toy they were fighting over.
    She flipped her hand dismissively, bracelets jangling, and ended the disagreement. “Fine, Victor. If that’s the kind of people you want to socialize with, what can I say?”
    He should have pointed out that he didn’t socialize with Carmen, he employed her. But that wouldn’t make a difference to his mother.
She preferred this element
, he thought, looking around. Everywhere people smiled, chatted cheerily with companions, but he wondered how many of them would have rather been