LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

  "¡Tío Quisto!"

  One of the bigger children, who looked about eight or nine, yelled out at the sight of the car, and Quisto waved. Uncle? Caitlin wondered. He'd brought her to one of his brothers' or sisters' houses?

  She looked at him, surprised. But before she could ask, they were surrounded by chattering children, some speaking Spanish, some English, and a couple a fractured combination of both that made Caitlin smile. But it came from all of them at once, so rapidly and so loudly that she quickly gave up trying to understand it all. Besides, she already knew by their grins and excitement the thing that she found most interesting; whoever these kids were, they knew and adored Quisto Romero.

  He answered them laughingly, reaching out to tousle the hair of the one who had called him uncle.

  "Will you play a game with us?" the boy asked eagerly. "You can be on our team again."

  "Lo siento, Chico. Not this time. Besides, you guys are too tough for me."

  The boy looked disappointed, but then he shrugged. "That's okay. You don't have to be sorry. We're ahead by ten goals, anyway."

  Quisto laughed. "Don't get too confident, mi hijo. That's when they sneak up on you."

  "Okay," the boy agreed easily. Then he looked at Caitlin. "Who's she?"

  "A friend."

  "Oh. How come you brought her here? You never bring ladies here."

  Caitlin glanced at Quisto and saw, to her amazement, that he was blushing. "Never mind," he told the boy, avoiding looking at her.

  Chico studied her for a moment. "Are you a detective, too, like Uncle Quisto and Uncle Chance?"

  Caitlin blinked, surprised. "No. I'm a teacher."

  "Oh." The boy made a face. "Yuck."

  "Chico…" Quisto said warningly.

  "Sorry," the boy said quickly. "Teachers are okay. Just not in summer."

  Caitlin laughed. "I'll go along with that."

  Chico looked surprised in turn, then grinned. "I wouldn't mind having you for a teacher. You're pretty, and you have a nice laugh."

  "Thank you," Caitlin said. She flicked her gaze back to Quisto. "The Romeros learn young, it seems."

  He muttered something she couldn't hear, then told the boy, "Go back to your game. I'll see you later."

  He drove carefully past them, and Caitlin heard the mysterious game resume behind them as soon as the car passed. So Quisto Romero played with kids in the street, she thought. That was something she never would have expected. She gave him a sideways glance; he was watching the kids in the mirror, smiling.

  At the end of the block, the car slowed again, in front of the house at the end of the turning circle. Caitlin looked at the tidy little house and the front yard, which was a wonderland of plants, flowers and birdhouses, and appeared to be a haven for scattered toys. Then she looked at Quisto, who shrugged, his lips twisting into a wry expression as he eased the car into the driveway.

  "Which sibling lives here?" she asked.

  "None of them. Anymore, that is."

  "Oh. I thought because … that was your nephew, wasn't it?"

  "One of them, yes."

  "Then who does live here?"

  Quisto opened the car door, put one foot out onto the concrete of the driveway, then looked back at her.

  "My mother," he said, and got out.

  Caitlin sat motionless, completely taken aback. His mother? He'd brought her to his mother's house?

  How come you brought her here? You never bring ladies here.

  Chico's words came back to her vividly. Was it true? Of all the women he was reputed to have dated, had he really brought none of them here? And if it was true, why her?

  Because, she told herself wryly, he's not dating you.

  But Chico hadn't said girlfriends, just ladies. Did that mean—

  "Are you going to get out?"

  Caitlin blushed; she hadn't even realized he'd come around and opened her door. She scrambled out of the car.

  "Why bring me here?" she asked, more bluntly than she'd meant to.

  "My mother will take good care of you."

  Caitlin frowned. "Take care of me?"

  Quisto shook his head, as if regretting his choice of words. "Just come inside, will you?"

  She did, without protest, not because she needed taking care of, but because she was immensely curious about this woman. Both because of her amazing personal history, and because she was the mother of one of the most exasperating, bothersome men Caitlin had ever met. If all the Romero brothers were like this one, she wanted to meet the woman who apparently managed to keep them all in line.

  And it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she was more fascinated by Quisto Romero than by any man she'd ever met.

  The first thing that struck her was how tiny Celeste Romero was. The second was how much her youngest son resembled her. The same quick, lustrous dark eyes, the same thick dark hair, the same finely drawn features. She was a beautiful woman, just as her son was a beautiful man.

  Mrs. Romero greeted her effusively, and welcomed her into her home with a courtly grace that also reminded Caitlin of her son. No sooner was she supplied with a cup of perfectly brewed coffee than Quisto took his mother aside and spoke to her rapidly. Caitlin was tempted to try to eavesdrop, since the woman's glances her way indicated that they were talking about her, but she resisted the urge, and wandered over to look at a long wall that was covered with photographs.

  Unlike the somber wall at the Zone, this wall was covered with the remembrances and milestones of a large family, school photos, parties, graduations, weddings, babies. She found herself smiling when she was able to pick the irrepressible Quisto at various ages out of the group photographs, and grinning at the serious expression he'd worn in his high school graduation photo. She read the diploma beside the picture. Rafael. Yes, it was, as he'd said, a bit dramatic, she thought. But, as she'd replied, so was he. Just a bit. Just enough to get all the feminine attention he seemed to attract so naturally.

  By comparison, the photo of him at his police-academy graduation was a joyous thing, that flashing, devastating smile betraying his elation as he'd achieved a dream. She knew just by looking at him that that was what it was; it was clear from his expression that it was something he'd wanted very, very much. And he looked impressive in the dark blue uniform, although even the formality of the hat pulled low over his forehead couldn't detract from the sheer exuberance the image portrayed.

  Caitlin found herself blinking rapidly as she backed up a step and looked at the entire expanse of pictures. It was a wall of joy, as opposed to a wall of grim reminder, and in that moment Caitlin decided that this was what the yellow wall would become, that there had to be a place for the good, that the kids needed that as much as, if not more than, they needed the reminders of what could happen. Good tests from school, she thought. Graduations. Birthdays. Yes, there should be a birthday section, celebrating another year, to counterbalance the years never to be lived. And she'd add—

  "I'll be back in the morning," Quisto said, close to her left ear.

  "Mmm…" she said, still looking at the wall. Then, as his words sank in, her head snapped around and she stared at him. "What?"

  "I have some things I have to do, but Mom will take good care of you. I'll be back to get you tomorrow."

  "Excuse me? You can't have said what I think you said."

  Quisto looked like a man facing a battle he'd expected but hoped to avoid. "Caitlin, please—"

  "You don't really expect me to just stay here, do you? I have things to do, a life—"

  "And I'm trying to make sure you keep it," he said, his voice grim.

  "You just drop me here and take off, and I'm supposed to sit quietly and wait for you to come back? You can't be serious."

  "I am," he said, reaching out to grasp her shoulders and turn her to face him. "Deadly serious."

  She stared up into his face, her brows lowered, a dozen furious protests on her lips. But something in his eyes stayed her tongue; he was serious
. There was more than worry in his eyes. There was fear. Fear, and it was genuine. And for her. The thought rattled her, that this man she'd thought so uncaring just a week ago was now so concerned about her safety that he'd brought her to his own mother's home. Where he'd never brought a woman before.

  "Just until things settle down a little," he said. "Until we're sure that … mess this morning was the extent of their message, and not just the beginning."

  She wavered, remembering the awful nausea that had swept her when she opened the door to that bloody scene. Maybe he was right. A day away wouldn't hurt, not really. And she would like to talk to his mother. Just because she'd led such an interesting life, of course.

  "Besides," Quisto said, his voice changing, as if he'd sensed her thoughts, "if you leave now, you'll hurt my mother's feelings, and I'll be hearing about it for weeks."

  "That alone might be worth it," she said, thinking she'd dearly love to see the smooth, charming Quisto Romero being chewed out by his tiny mother.

  "Ah, querida, no, have mercy," he said, his voice taking on the inflection that she realized came whenever he said anything in Spanish, as if he were thinking in the structure of the other language. The formal structure, not the rough-and-tumble street Spanish most of her kids spoke, although she guessed he spoke that, as well.

  And she wondered why the Spanish endearment didn't have the effect on her that that one brief "Caitlin, honey" he'd spoken had had. Perhaps because the querida seemed just something he said, part of that Latin charm that no doubt fascinated the ladies.

  Or perhaps just because she was kidding herself into thinking it had meant something.

  "Have mercy?" she asked, shoving her silly thoughts aside.

  "You have not seen my mother in action. If you had, you would take pity on me and save me from such a fate."

  She almost laughed. And when Celeste Romero appeared to announce that she had fixed breakfast for them both, and stifled her son's protest with a stern "Be quiet and eat, Rafael. You don't take care of yourself properly," she couldn't resist. She would stay, she thought. Not because she was afraid, or even because of Quisto, but out of sheer curiosity.

  And if there was anyone willing to satisfy her curiosity, she thought a few hours later, it was Celeste Romero. Quisto had apparently told her only that Caitlin was a teacher dealing with the unpleasant death of a young friend. After expressing condolences and empathy rather than sympathy, she accepted Caitlin's desire to talk about something else. When she realized she had a genuinely interested audience, Celeste began a string of reminiscences that held Caitlin rapt for hours. It was a tale of lives torn apart by revolution, of brushes with death and narrow escapes, of a once wealthy aristocratic family beginning again with nothing in a new country and, despite all the adversities, forming bonds that could never be broken.

  Except, apparently, for one. One that was conspicuously absent, except for a brief mention now and then. And when the mentions did come, it was as if they were of someone bigger than life, legendary, in the same tone people used when they spoke of presidents and revolutionaries.

  I never knew my father.

  "Quisto's father…" Caitlin began, but stopped, not sure what she wanted to ask, or even if she wanted an answer.

  "Ah, Esteban," Celeste said, a look of sadness mingled with pride in her dark eyes. "Our pride, and our cross to this day. Rafael, he has never forgiven his father."

  Caitlin felt as if she were prying, but she was driven by a need to know, a need she didn't quite understand. "You and your husband … you're divorced?"

  "No. Esteban is my husband, and it will always be so."

  The older woman's voice matched the look Caitlin had seen in her eyes, sadness and pride combined.

  "Quisto said … he never knew his father."

  Celeste looked at her curiously. "He told you this?" When Caitlin nodded, she seemed surprised. "He does not usually speak of his father, not even to us, his family."

  "Why? What has he never forgiven him for?"

  "For not being here. He has been gone since before Rafael was born."

  "Gone? Where is he?"

  "He is in Cuba."

  Caitlin blinked. "But … Quisto said he came out when you and his brother did, on that boat…"

  Celeste's eyes widened. "Dios mío," she breathed. "Even this he told you?"

  Caitlin nodded. And, unexpectedly, Celeste smiled. Widely. Taken aback, Caitlin could only shake her head in confusion.

  "I don't understand. Quisto's father … he went back to Cuba?"

  "He has been there since before Rafael was born."

  "Why?"

  "Esteban, he is a … passionate man. And he has one passion that overshadows all else. He has never given it up. He never will. He lives to see our home one day free again."

  "You mean … he went back to … to what?"

  "To organize. To lead. To fight. And if necessary, to die." Celeste smiled. "It is … ironic, is it not? Rafael is very much like his father, although they have never known each other."

  Celeste looked at her hands, and for the first time Caitlin really noticed the simple gold wedding band on her left hand, thin now with age and wear. "I did not know I was carrying Rafael when my husband left us."

  "He never came back?"

  "No, mi hija," Celeste said gently. "He could not."

  Caitlin barely noticed the affectionate term. "Why?"

  "Because, the day after he reached Cuba in my brother's boat, he was captured by Castro's soldiers."

  Caitlin's breath caught. Celeste nodded.

  "He is … what they call a political prisoner. He has been for all these years. He is allowed no letters, no communication, because they fear him, fear the people will rally to him if he is able to spread his words. He does not even know Rafael exists."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Caitlin yawned, stretched and sat up, a little surprised that she had slept at all. But after a fascinating—and very illuminating—day and evening spent talking with Celeste Romero, she had been unexpectedly relaxed, and had slept deeply. Quisto's mother had seemed determined to lighten the mood after the grim story of Esteban Romero's fate, so Caitlin had heard many tales of Quisto's youth, some that had made her smile, some that had made her cry.

  And when Dr. Hernan Romero, Quisto's distinguished-looking oldest brother, arrived to pick up his son, Chico, he had contributed a story about a disaster with a barbecue at a family picnic, involving a fire engine and a couple of disgusted fire fighters, that made her grin.

  And when he followed that up with the story of how the nickname Quisto had grown out of Chico's inability to pronounce the title already given to the youngest Romero son by the rest of the family—conquistador—she had laughed out loud, even as she realized it was probably more appropriate than she would like to believe. With his looks and his charm, and those old-world manners he could exercise when he chose to, she was sure Quisto could have any woman he wanted under his spell.

  After Hernan and Chico left, Mrs. Romero had insisted she eat what was to her a huge dinner, and long before her usual time, Caitlin had been yawning. She had taken a longed-for shower and toppled, half-asleep, into the bed in the guest room Celeste had shown her to.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Romero," she'd said

  "Call me Mamá," the woman said, a gleam Caitlin didn't understand in her eyes. "Everyone in the family does."

  Her last waking thought had been that if this was the welcome total strangers got, it was no wonder Quisto's partner had found comfort here.

  And now, as the morning sun streamed through cheerful red-and-white curtains, she felt more rested than she had since the day she had received the phone call about Eddie. Quisto had been right; she'd needed this. She would even, she thought ruefully, admit that she had needed his mother's pampering and fussing. How many strays, she wondered, had Quisto brought home for his mother's tender care?

  She shrugged out of the T-sh
irt she'd slept in, and dressed quickly in her jeans and shirt from yesterday. Still barefoot, she wandered toward the kitchen, smelling the enticing aroma of coffee and more than ready for a cup of Mrs. Romero's—Mamá's—delicious brew.

  She stopped in her tracks when she realized Mamá had company, three people gathered around the dining room table. A man she'd seen once before, and a beautiful woman with thick dark hair and enormous soft gray eyes, holding a baby she was feeding something orange-colored out of a small jar. The Buckners, it seemed, were back from their vacation.

  "Well, well…"

  The man leaned back in his chair, grinning at her. Caitlin stared at Quisto's partner, her face flaming as she remembered the last—and only—time she'd ever seen him. Quisto's mother began introductions, but got no further than Caitlin's name before Chance Buckner interrupted her with a raised hand and a laugh.

  "We've met, Mamá. So to speak." He stood up, and offered his hand. "Nice to see you again, Ms Murphy." He looked at the woman sitting beside him. Quiet pride tinged his voice when he said, "This is my wife, Shea. And my son."

  The woman looked at Caitlin with interest. "Forgive me for not getting up," she said, her voice lovely and melodic, "but getting Sean to eat is always an adventure, and I don't want to interrupt the process."

  "Oh, no, don't, not on my account," Caitlin said quickly, watching as Shea sneaked a spoonful into the baby's mouth while he looked at the newcomer with interest. The boy, who looked somewhere between one and two, had his father's bright blue eyes and his mother's thick, dark hair, a striking combination.

  Mamá Romero bustled about, pouring Caitlin a cup of coffee and then departing to the kitchen, insisting she needed a nice breakfast, ignoring Caitlin's demurral and refusing her offer of assistance.

  "So where did you two meet?" Shea asked as she wiped her son's chin.

  Caitlin flushed anew, and Chance laughed.