Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  “Our Remy, he’s a difficult man at the best of times, no? An absolute trial at the worst and near impossible when he’s scared.”

  I spared her a glance as I tossed larger pieces of glass into the wastebasket.

  “Oh yes, petit—you’ve got our boy terrified something fierce. And looks like hurt, too. You’ll have to tread carefully.” Folding the damp dishtowel, she ran it across the surface of the table in brisk, efficient strokes, soaking up the worst of the soda spill along with the pieces of glass too small for me to get by hand. “That is, if it matters.” Not one to be bothered with the subtlety of a sidelong glance she simply moved around the table until we were face to face.

  “Oh, of course it does—” She shook the towel over the wastebasket, tiny bits of glass showering the metal interior with a satisfied sound that matched her Cheshire cat smile. “It’s written all over your face.”

  I sank into a chair, weary beyond all measure. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tread carefully,” she repeated. She cupped my chin in a soft, manicured hand. “Remy doesn’t trust or care easily. Not with the life he’s led. It’s too difficult for him. Too painful.”

  In spite of the tone of her words and the fear and trepidation churning in my stomach, I managed a small laugh—managed to cut it off before it developed into the sob I felt threatening. “Is there anyone’s secrets you don’t know?”

  “Huey Long.” She sighed. “The things that man must’ve taken to his grave.” Her expression softened. “However, despite how it must appear, Natalie, I truly don’t make a habit of poking into people’s business. It’s simply Remy’s from my neck of the woods—I know what he comes from. I’ll admit, he’s prideful to a ridiculous degree, but strange as it may sound, it’s saved him, time and again. It does, however, make things considerably more difficult for you.”

  At a time when the last thing I wanted was complications. All I wanted right now was this opportunity. To reach out and grab this moment for myself. And regardless of how much I needed to do this, he knew I would have returned. I promised.

  A icy sense of déjà vu shuddered down my spine—this moment eerily reminiscent of another. Another promise to return, another plea to take a chance and do something different. Something unique.

  Rising from the chair, I backed away, rubbing my fingertips across my forehead. The sickly sweet smell of the Coke clinging to my hands sent a fresh wave of nausea coursing through me. So similar—this scene—and so different. No choices would be made for me here. No accommodations to whims and tender feelings. I’d be making the choices and I had to be prepared to deal with the consequences.

  Drained, I sagged against the wall. “God, what a mess.”

  “Well, no matter what Remy thinks, you’ve got to do what’s best for you, child. Whether it ultimately involves him, only you and he know that.” Grasping my shoulders, she pulled me upright, tucked a stray lock of hair back into my chignon. “He’s contrary and difficult, but trust me when I say that at heart, he’s a good, good man. And he deserves something good in his life. Something true.”

  Finally. Something that wasn’t a secret. I knew he was a good man. But was he the right man? Right now? What was I willing to do to find out?

  “Natalie?”

  I met Mrs. Mercier’s piercing gaze.

  “Only you can decide if he’s worth the effort, petit.”

  • • •

  I’d ignored the heart-shaped cookies and the cupcakes with their little plastic Cupids perched atop swirls of red and pink frosting that signaled Valentine’s was only days away. Passed over the cakes and pies that were too much, that were intended for parties or families. In the end, my lengthy perusal of Mama Zanardi’s overflowing bakery cases yielded the perfect choice: two simple, rustic cannoli, plump with the luxurious ricotta cheese filling that was rich without being overly sweet, outsides studded, jewel-like with pale green pistachios. Carefully packed into a small white box by Mama Zanardi herself, tied with gold string, and handed over accompanied by a broad smile and a wink because in four years of visiting my neighborhood bakery, I’d never once bought two of anything.

  The wavy-glassed mirror hanging in the building’s narrow entryway was by no means ideal, but illuminated by the muted light from the single shaded lamp, it was enough. I was able to apply one final coat of lipstick and smooth my hair, falling loose in rare freedom, down my back. I was able to see well enough to note the high color in my cheeks and the glittering, slightly unfocused gaze staring back from the mirror. Taking the most recent of what had been innumerable deep breaths, I tightened my hold on the small white box and began the climb to Remy’s apartment, praying that the day he’d had to himself would allow him to listen without all the fear and anger as an obstacle.

  Once in front of his door, I paused again, unbuttoning my coat and smoothing my hand over the deep red sweater and ivory slacks. Another impulsive buy—wholly impractical and utterly necessary—giving myself the oft-denied pleasure of dressing to not only show myself off to advantage but to please someone else. Knowing I’d be facing him at home, I wanted no evidence of the real world Natalie. Tonight, with Remy, I wanted to be Natalia.

  I knocked on the door, my heart pounding as I waited, fidgeting with the bow on the box. Please … be home. I wasn’t sure I’d have the courage to attempt this again. I began to knock again but just as my knuckles grazed the wood, the door opened.

  Madre santisima.

  He leaned against the jamb, clad only in a pair of white pants, light gauzy things, reminiscent of the type the guajiro musicians would wear as they played for locals and tourists alike at Varadero. For the briefest moment, I wasn’t standing in a dark, chilly hallway, but rather on the beach in a thatched-roofed pavilion, open to sea breezes, sand gritty beneath the bare soles of my feet. A memory as powerful as an ache swept through me. I could feel the insistent rhythms of the sons and rumbas from the band conspiring with the pounding of the surf, urging me to move shoulders, hips, feet, in joyous, sensual dances—a publicly accepted form of sexual expression and lovemaking. One of which we partook, at every opportunity.

  Back then, I never looked twice if a man wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was Cuba—the beach—where a fully-dressed man was the oddity. Here, though, in these close confines, there was something uncomfortably indecent about the fact that those lightweight pants were the only thing Remy wore—clearly evidenced by the soft light illuminating him from behind, exposing normally hidden planes and contours, the barely opaque layer of fabric more teasing invitation than modest cover. He leaned in the doorway, goblet of red wine carelessly dangling from one hand, the other tracing the dark hair disappearing into the low-slung waistband in slow, hypnotic rhythm. A rhythm matched by his gaze as it ranged over me, each slow blink appearing to take in new details, filing them away.

  “You look very pretty, chère.” The words emerged slower than usual, his drawl thick and laced with cane syrup. “This all for me?”

  “Yes.”

  His chest rose and fell. “Gotta say, your timing’s impeccable.”

  My gaze followed the path of the goblet to his lips, the play of the muscles in his throat as he drained the wine. The way the tip of his tongue emerged so very slowly fascinated me, the manner in which it deliberately captured a stray drop lingering in the corner of his mouth easily the most sensual thing I’d ever witnessed in my entire life. The whole brief interlude so riveting, I completely missed that at some point, he’d fully opened the door.

  He stepped aside in silent invitation, I thought, but really, simply revealing what lay beyond the threshold—the pale gleam of a long leg crooked along the sofa’s edge, a tousle of hair, gilt against dark leather, the gentle rise and fall of a chest as bare as his. For a brief hysterical moment I thought perhaps it was Penelope, the erstwhile stewardess paramour, but no—this was a different one. Unlike that night, however, I got no immediate sense of familiarity, that there had been a slow, unhurried seduction. No
candles burning or music playing or evidence of a carefully prepared meal—just clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor, door to his bedroom firmly closed. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make me feel better—or worse.

  “You do like your blondes,” I finally uttered on a weak, high-pitched laugh. Another breathy laugh—a wheeze, really—escaping as I realized I was making an effort to keep my voice soft so as not to wake the other woman.

  One shoulder rose as he lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. “They’re interchangeable.” He lazily blew smoke rings that shimmied and danced through the space between us, expanding, almost as if they meant to reach out and try to capture me, before dissipating into an amorphous gray mist that eventually disappeared—nothing but illusion.

  “Shame you went to such trouble, bebe.” He captured a lock of my hair, twisting it around his finger, using it to draw me closer. As his hand brushed my cheek, I caught the mingled aromas of tobacco and alcohol, of cheap perfume and something musky—familiar, yet not.

  I jerked my head back, blinking away sudden tears as the hair that didn’t easily slide from his grasp pulled free, the strands remaining tangled around his finger. “Why? Dios mío de mi alma, Remy ¿porque ahora? ¿Por qué usted insistió en captura de mi corazón si todo lo que iba a hacer es dejarlo partío?” Defying years of discipline and practice, my words emerged exactly as I thought them, the idea that he might not understand barely registering. Except, how could he not? The hurt I was feeling—that had to transcend stupid words. Stupid language.

  Yet, he wouldn’t answer, damn him. Wouldn’t react. Just stood there, staring down at his thumb methodically rubbing over the long strands of my hair, twisting them into a loose coil. Finally, he looked up, lines I’d never before seen rendering his face into an unrecognizable mask.

  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I still clutched the crumpled remains of the small white bakery box, bits of crushed pastry shell and pistachios and ricotta filling running over and staining the surface of my gloves, ruining the leather.

  No matter.

  I wouldn’t need them for the foreseeable future.

  PART TWO

  RITA: ‘I WOULDN’T LIVE MY LIFE ANY DIFFERENTLY’

  Hedda Hopper

  Los Angeles Times

  February 14, 1965

  * * *

  Thirteen

  I stretched, luxuriating in the sensation of smooth cotton and down pillows and liquid sun. Another languorous stretch, my slowly waking senses searching for the expected. The musky aromas and tastes of two intertwined bodies. The feel of skin against skin, one leg heavy across my thigh, hand curling over my hip, each gentle exhale bathing my skin in warmth, the dampness left behind cooling and raising gooseflesh. Marking me even in sleep.

  One hand rested on the empty pillow beside me as a lone tear trickled across my temple and into my hair, trailing along the back of my ear like a whisper of a caress. It had been so much easier to bury the pain of missing Nico in the furthest recesses of my mind while I resided in my parents’ shabby house in Miami or my thin-walled apartment in New York. When my bed more closely resembled that of a schoolgirl’s or a monk’s, narrow and cold, the sheets soft not because of their quality, but because they’d been washed to the point of threadbare.

  In Natalie’s world, Nico had never existed.

  However, once again lying in a bed draped in fine linens? One so vast it seemed to mock how little space I occupied? I turned away, trying to block the emptiness and while what I faced was far from empty—breathtaking views of towering palms and blue skies framed by an elegantly wide window—it was every bit as lonely as the bed.

  I stared out the window at the rich brown and green mountains, sharply etched despite the unshed tears blurring my vision. Close as an arm’s length yet distant as the edge of the horizon. Another tear escaped, rolling across the bridge of my nose.

  Oh Nico.

  Closing my eyes, I drifted, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the odd awareness brought on by the strangeness of new surroundings. Memories, faded and crumbling around the edges from the passage of time, passed through my mind with the flickering sepia tones of an old newsreel while other memories—newer, saturated with color—fought their way to the forefront. Dark brown supplanted by impossibly deep blue, a young man’s gentleness and consideration giving way to brashness and moodiness and a searing hurt that had led to harsh retaliation.

  Why, Remy? Why?

  And the worst part? No matter how angry, how certain that I was in the right in following this dream, I hadn’t been able to forget how he’d looked that night. That haunted, drawn expression. For all his devil-may-care nonchalance, I couldn’t help but feel he was as devastated by what he’d done as I was. But I might never know, since in the interminably long week that had followed that night—a week filled with plans and discussions and more plans that finally culminated with a late-night cross-country flight and a bleary-eyed, sunshine-drenched arrival—I simply hadn’t had time to see him. Or the desire. So I told myself.

  Over and over, throughout all the plans and travel, that was the refrain I repeated. The distance was for the best. From three thousand miles away he could be as difficult and prideful as he wanted, could bed as many blonde whores as he wanted. And I could scream and stomp as much as I wanted without a care for delicate male egos.

  Throwing back the covers, I sat up, a soundless laugh emerging. Oh, if only it was that easy. I dragged my toes through the plush faded rose carpet. Remaining busy would no doubt help, beginning with familiarizing myself with my new surroundings.

  Bathed and dressed and made up just enough to hide the past week’s lack of sleep, I followed the maître d’ through the main room of the venerable Polo Lounge and out to my requested table on the patio.

  “Dining alone, miss?”

  Offered with exquisite politesse as he assisted me into the chair and draped a snowy napkin across my lap, but still, in such a way that suggested it would be … surprising. Especially for the intensely romantic patio, with its twinkling lights draped through the tree branches overhead while candles spluttered in exotic storm lanterns placed on the small, intimate tables. Sunset hues of rose and indigo and purple saturated the sky, while the mountains and palm trees made their final dramatic stand in silhouette before succumbing to the oncoming night. Even the hotel’s famous pink-hued Mediterranean exterior, made all the warmer by the mellow light pouring from the many windows, felt inescapably right to my senses.

  The poor man had absolutely no way of understanding, but at this point, I didn’t care if I had to dine surrounded by every lovesick couple in Beverly Hills staring moonily into each other’s eyes—it would be well worth it. To be able to sit surrounded by an expanse unencumbered by skyscrapers. Where night draped over the world with the security of a comforting blanket and one could actually see the stars.

  A peaceful spot where jazz played quietly in the background, without the discordant accompaniment of car horns and squealing tires and the shouts of harried pedestrians.

  It was exactly what I needed.

  But just as I began to respond that thank you, yes, I was perfectly content dining alone, a familiar Gregory Peck-baritone with its distinctive clipped accent replied, “No, Henry, as a matter of fact, the young lady will not be dining alone tonight.”

  And before I could utter so much as a “boo,” Henry had murmured a quiet, “Very good, Mr. Roemer,” gestured for a busboy to fill our water glasses, and melted away into the shadows.

  He took his time about seating himself, settling into the chair not opposite as I might have expected, but rather, directly to my right, shaking his napkin over perfectly creased charcoal wool. “Hope you don’t mind,” he finally said, without interrupting his perusal of the wine and spirits list.

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  Now, he glanced up from the leather-bound folder, meeting my gaze.

  “Of course it would. If you really objected,
I’d move.” Pausing, he cocked his head in the direction of the nearest vacant table. “Over there, at least.”

  He smiled. Not particularly large and not quite reaching his eyes which continued their somber regard. But definitely genuine.

  The corners of my mouth twitched, in spite of myself. “It’s tempting, you know.”

  “I know.” He returned his attention to the wine list. “But what if I told you I hated dining alone?”

  “I’d put it down to more manipulation.” The shocking burst of good humor faded as quickly as it had appeared. “It’s quite the skill you possess.”

  Once again, his head rose, the muted light from the candle echoing the shades of gold and amber in his eyes and bringing the green into stark relief. The faun’s eyes. Mysterious, capricious creatures. How unwittingly right I’d been that first night.

  “No one manipulated you into accepting the job, did they?”

  No. But I kept that to myself. An unnecessary bit of discretion, since he obviously already knew the answer.

  “Mr. Roemer—”

  “Jack,” he corrected almost off-handedly.

  “Jack.” Small enough concession to make if it might get me a direct answer. “What are you doing here?”

  “Having dinner.”

  “Guilelessness really doesn’t suit you.”

  One shoulder lifted. “Do you like the hotel?”

  “It’s lovely. Is that why you traveled three thousand miles? To see if I actually managed to get myself here without mishap?”

  “Why would I worry about something like that?” he replied easily. “You’re obviously quite capable.”

  “Yet here you are, checking up on me.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t be an idiot.” Impatience sharpened his tone as he rose, picking up the pale green cardigan from where I’d draped it across the back of my chair. “It’s only a fool who would leave you to beard the lioness in her den by yourself.”