A silence was punctuated by a bird somewhere overhead. Twip-twip-tweeee. Then Peggy Cunningham said, "Is that what she told you? Well, I'm not sure that's the way it happened. Karen seems to be more advanced in that department than most girls her age."
"Who? Karen?"
"Oh, yes. Last week I overheard the girls in Lindsay's room, talking about sex. In detail. Karen was telling them what she hears going on when your fiancé is there. I went in and had a little chat with them, but I didn't want to bother you with it." She picked up her basket of gardening tools. "If I were you, before I accuse others, I would put my own house in order."
Gail could only stare at her.
Peggy Cunningham tilted her head to one side and smiled. "But I guess it's hard, having a career that takes up so much of your time." She started to leave, but turned back to say, "And if you wouldn't mind? Ask your roofers not to put their trash out before pickup day. We try to keep the street well maintained."
"I'm sure. And how fortunate we are to have you watching out for us."
But Peggy Cunningham was only a disappearing flicker of shorts and T-shirt in the swaying bushes.
"Bitch," Gail said under her breath. She spun around and went back across the street, heels clicking on the pavement.
She wondered what had happened in the gazebo. Maybe Karen had wanted to be kissed. And maybe she had teased Payton, never thinking he would do anything, or if he tried, she could push him away and laugh about it. But she had never been around boys of fourteen, with real muscles in their arms. And sex on their minds.
Gail thought of the other girl, Jennifer. The one with the guilty smile. More likely she had started it, then blamed it on Karen.
What bothered Gail was that Karen might have lied to her. Till now Gail had never doubted that she and Karen had a relationship that permitted them to be open about anything. Gail had never taught her daughter to regard sex as anything but natural and right—depending on the circumstances, of course. But maybe she had been too open. What had Karen overheard? A couple of times Anthony had put his hand over Gail's mouth when she had moaned too loudly. Maybe there had been some laughter. Gail cringed to think of Karen with her ear to the door.
Stop it, Gail told herself. A few words from Peggy Cunningham, and her mind had started churning. It didn't matter what Karen had heard. At least it was love. Poor Jamie Sweet's children had covered their ears not to hear the slaps and the cursing.
She got back into her car, parked it in the driveway, then went inside. Hurrying upstairs, she checked her watch: 5:15. When Dave had visitation with Karen, he usually picked her up, but today Gail had said never mind, she would drop Karen off at the marina. This would give her a chance to talk to him, but she didn't have much time. At seven she was expected at the home of Anthony's grandparents for dinner. There was a standing joke in Miami about Cuban time, which permitted one to arrive an hour or so late, but it didn't apply at the Pedrosa house. The old man's health was fragile, and his wife would wheel him off to bed by nine.
As she passed the hall bathroom, she could hear water running. Gail leaned inside. The shower door was steamed up, but she could see Karen's shiny pink body behind it, doing a dance routine from a Spice Girls video. "Karen, are you about finished?"
There was a shriek. "Mom, I don't have anything on!"
"I hope not, in the shower."
"Get out!"
"Sorry. Hurry up, will you?"
"All right!"
Gail closed the door, intending to speak to Karen about her tone of voice. In her room, she stripped off her clothes and turned on the water.
Where had Payton Cunningham been last night— home or popping change into a pay phone? His mother hadn't wanted to say. That could indicate guilt, or just that Peggy hadn't wanted her son grilled by a lawyer, a woman who would jump all over a simple workman for squashing a plant. If Payton hadn't made the call, then who? Wendell Sweet passed through Gail's mind. His hateful stare. He could have gotten her unlisted number somehow. But to call before the hearing went against him? That didn't make sense.
Gail remembered her mother's advice about such calls. Ignore them. If the guy on the other end doesn't get a reaction, he will bother somebody else.
She whipped off her shower cap, fluffed her hair, and dried herself with a towel, then stood on it while she put on a lacy pink bra and matching bikini panties. A gift from Anthony. He liked to leave little surprises in her underwear drawer. Gail dabbed perfume between her breasts, noticing how clearly they showed through the soft fabric. Then a touch of perfume under the lace that spanned her belly. The panties were just high enough to cover a silvery stretch mark. Anthony had said it was a mark of her motherhood, then kissed it, and she had melted.
She wiped the steam off the mirror and stared at herself. Too skinny and pale. She flattened her breasts with her hands. Her diamond sparkled. She studied her hip bones, how prominent. But he had kissed those too. And her bony knees. And everything between. Mi girafa linda. My pretty giraffe.
The water in the other bathroom had stopped. "Karen, are you getting dressed?"
The muffled response came back, an annoyed yes.
Gail found the right shade of eye shadow in the vanity and leaned close to the mirror. "Don't forget to pack your swimsuit! You brought it back from your dad's last time, and you'll probably need it this weekend."
Karen appeared in the doorway in white shorts and a little striped top. "Ta-daaaah. I'm ready first," she said. "You owe me a quarter, suckah!"
"You got me," Gail said, stroking on mascara, watching Karen at the same time. Skinny legs and size-eight tennis sneakers. Five-two already, and on the cusp of a growth spurt. "Come talk to me."
Karen sat on the closed toilet lid while Gail finished her makeup.
"I wish you could go with me tonight, sweetie."
"That's okay. I'd be bored with all those old people. Not you, Mom."
"Do you think Anthony's old?"
"Sort of medium." She sniffed in Gail's direction. "You smell nice."
"Thanks. Put some on if you want to. Not too much." Gail gave the bottle to Karen. "Mr. Pedrosa is eighty-four. That's old. His wife is eighty-one. They've been married over sixty years. Imagine." Karen was dragging the glass stopper from the Fabergé along her bare arm. "Married love is a beautiful thing, Karen."
"You're not married."
"You know what I'm talking about. It's also very private. Not something to be discussed among one's friends."
Karen glanced at her, then dabbed perfume behind her ear.
Gail brushed her hair, lifting it off her neck, curling it under with a deft sweep of the bristles. "If you ever have any questions, you can ask me. Okay?"
"I know."
With one eye closed she gave herself a light spritz with hair spray, then motioned for Karen to get up. "Come here." Gail undid her ponytail. "We'll just make it a little smoother on top."
Karen stared straight into the mirror, her head jerking slightly as Gail pulled through from behind with the brush. "Am I pretty? Don't lie, okay?"
"Of course you are. You have gorgeous blue eyes. A great smile—when you decide to let people see it." Except for her build, Karen looked like her father. She had his straight brows, square jaw, and big nose. A strong face for a girl. One to remember. "You're very pretty." She fluffed Karen's bangs out of her eyes. "See?"
"Not as pretty as you."
"Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are. You're special and beautiful."
Karen's eyes shifted in the mirror to meet Gail's. "Excuse me for saying this, Mom, but you really shouldn't run around in your underwear."
Karen's father had bought and renovated a restaurant near the public marina in Coconut Grove. The distance from Clematis Street was under two miles, but not a fast trip this time of day, with the traffic.
On the way Gail told Karen about Dr. Fischman. The judge wanted him to talk to Karen—to all of them—and make a recommendation. Then the judge would decide where Karen s
hould live. It was routine, Gail said. This was not exactly true, but she didn't want Karen to feel she was causing problems.
"Do you have any questions? Comments? Anything?"
"Nope." Karen concentrated on bouncing her tennis racquet on the toe of her sneaker. Her eyes were hidden by the bill of her green Miami Hurricanes cap.
"Well, if you do, let me know."
The road was a narrow stretch of asphalt called Main Highway that curved northeast through a green tunnel of banyan trees. It led past a 1920s theater, a string of outdoor restaurants, and small shops. It was Friday, and by nightfall Coconut Grove would be jammed. Kids would be cruising up and down, lines would form outside the multiplex, and tourists would wander through Gap and Ralph Lauren and Hooters, some spending incredible amounts of cash, others settling for a carved wooden parrot and a seven-dollar hamburger at Planet Hollywood.
After a while, Karen said, "Did you ever wish for something you can't have, but you wish for it anyway?"
Gail glanced at her, then back at the road. "I guess everyone has done that. What do you wish for?"
"Promise you won't get mad," Karen said.
"I swear."
"I wish we could all be together again. You and me and Daddy. That's mostly what I wish." The hat turned toward the passenger window. "I know it isn't going to happen."
Several seconds passed while Gail picked through words, choosing them carefully. "No. It won't happen. But that's not the important thing ... as long as we remember we're still a family. We have to try to care for each other."
"Do you care for Daddy?" The blue eyes were fixed on her.
Gail watched the road, then looked back at Karen. "I'm not . . . happy with him right now. You argue with your friends sometimes, don't you?"
Karen's look grew stern. "You're not friends. You hate him."
On a green light Gail waited for the pedestrians to clear so she could make the turn. "I don't hate him. We're both trying to do what's best for you, and it's hard to know what that is."
Karen turned away again.
"I love you very much." Gail hesitated, then said, "I love Anthony too. He adores you, Karen. He thinks you're great." A snort came through Karen's nose. Gail said, "Just try. For me? Please?"
"Okay."
Letting out her breath, Gail wheeled her car around the corner, then down a slight hill past the library and the grassy expanse of Peacock Park. The bay was just beyond, separated from the harbor by clusters of mangrove islands. Boats lay at anchor, and the sun sparkled on the water. The street took a left past an old sailing club Gail's family used to belong to before her father died. Gail had been thirteen.
For the first time it went through her mind to give in. If Karen wanted to live with Dave, then maybe it was for the best. He wouldn't put up a fight about visitation. He was basically—and Gail could still say tins—a nice guy. According to Karen, he was perfect. He bought her a new Beanie Baby every time she came to see him, and she had her own TV. They had dinner early or late, as they pleased, and she could eat whatever she wanted. He saved the dishes for tomorrow, but the apartment was clean. He let her stay up late, but she got her rest. There was always a story at bedtime. She had lots of friends in the building. They played tennis. He took her out on boats. He was never in a bad mood. They had a great time.
Gail had met David Metzger at the University of Florida, probably attracted by the fit of his white tennis shorts. He had been a star on the team. Falling in love had not been a precipitous drop, as with Anthony, but a steady progress, and one day they found themselves engaged. After law school Gail took a job with a prestigious firm on Flagler Street. Dave managed a marine-supply store. When they were able, they bought a little marina, and he ran it. Not very well, unfortunately. She tried to help, but he resented her interference. He played tennis to fill his weekends, and she brought more and more work home. Until one day Dave said he wanted out.
They sold the business for only a few thousand more than they had paid for it. She took the house and Karen, and Dave took their forty-foot sloop, the Princess, and sailed away. For weeks she heard nothing, then postcards showed up in the mailbox with stamps from St. Thomas, Antigua, Grenada, Martinique, Curacao—Karen charted his progress on a hurricane map. The cards came from resorts where he gave tennis lessons or offered the boat for charter excursions. Gail suspected that the message for her was: See, Gail, how much fun I'm having without you? He rarely called Karen, but when he did, the calls usually closed with Karen saying, "Love you too, Daddy. I miss you."
It was never clear to Gail what had happened, but Dave returned to Miami, leaving the Princess with a yacht broker in Puerto Rico. He had apparently made enough on the sale for a down payment on the restaurant. He had not offered any details, and Gail had not asked.
At first she had welcomed him back. It was better for Karen, having her father nearby. Gail had been generous with visitation, never a complaint. And then this demand for custody. Gail planned to take Charlene Marks's advice and find out what was really behind it.
She drove through the wide gate in a chain-link fence surrounding the boat yard, then parked under a palm tree. Gathering her purse, she told Karen she needed to talk to her father for a few minutes, and suggested she find some crackers in the kitchen to throw to the fish.
The Old Island Club faced the water, and they followed the landscaped path around the side. There was an indoor area with big windows, but most of the tables were outdoors. A new wood deck still smelled of pine resin, and two dozen striped umbrellas fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. Karen dropped her racquet and backpack on one of them and ran through a double set of screen doors. The kitchen was beyond, and Gail heard the clatter of dishes. She found a stool at the outdoor bar, which looked like a Disney version of a bar from the islands. The colors were hot pastel, ceiling fans spun overhead, and reggae played on speakers disguised as coconuts.
A waitress in a brightly flowered shirt came to ask what she would like.
"Thanks, but I won't be here long. Is Mr. Metzger around?"
"Yes, I saw him a few minutes ago." She leaned into a cooler to fill a glass with ice. Her eyes were on Gail. "You're Karen's mother, right?"
Gail said that she was, and made a polite smile in return. The woman was in her early twenties, athletic build, short brown hair without much style to it. Not Dave's type, Gail thought. Then she wondered what Dave had told people about his ex-wife. What a cold fish she is.
Gail scanned the menu, which listed conch fritters, pigeon peas, and rice. Jerk chicken and pork. Captain Dave's soup of the day, $3.95. The clock over the bar was set into the mouth of a leaping swordfish: 6:10. Gail tapped her nails on the counter, which was plastic resin poured over shells and sand and fake gold treasure coins. Cute, she decided.
Her companions were a mixed bag—a leathery old man in a yachting cap, reading the sports section. A group of office workers squeezing lime wedges into their Coronas. The table nearest the water was occupied by three darkly tanned men in shorts and T-shirts, wearing enough gold jewelry to make a thief or a DEA agent pay close attention. Gail guessed that they owned the monster speedboat tied to the dock.
Karen ran along the seawall, dropping crackers to whatever darted just under the surface. Farther along, a dog lay asleep in the grass under a newly planted coconut palm still propped up on stakes. A row of banana trees had been added for ambiance, and there was a turquoise picket fence draped with bougainvillea. Across the inlet, and behind city hall, the marina was slowing down for the evening. The sailboat rigging clanged softly against the masts.
When Gail looked back at Karen, she saw that Dave was there too. Karen said something, then Dave turned toward the bar. Even at this distance she could see the color of his eyes. He stood still for a moment, then wove his way through the umbrella tables, the light flickering on his Island Club shirt. The sun had browned his skin and turned the hair on his arms and legs golden. He had put on some weight, but his shorts still fit.
/>
"Captain Dave."
"Hi," he said warily. "What's up? Karen said you had to talk to me."
"I have a phone number for you. Dr. Evan Fischman. The judge's choice." She reached into her purse and brought out a folded piece of paper.
"My lawyer told me," Dave said.
"Oh. Well, I thought it would be a good idea to coordinate Karen's appointment."
"Joe Erwin said to go through him on everything."
"Naturally. If you go through him, he can put it on his time sheet and bill you. That's how it works."
"You should know."
Gail dropped the paper back into her purse. "Dave, this is not an issue, it's a question. Who takes Karen to see Dr. Fischman? Do you want to take her? Should I? Should we go together?"
He let a few seconds pass. "I guess I could take her. Or you could. I'll think about it and let you know. All right?"
"Sure. Call me."
Dave looked her over. "You're dressed up. Got a big night planned?"
"Just a family dinner at Anthony's grandparents' house." Gail wore a slim black dress and gold earrings and necklace.
He put one canvas boat shoe on the foot rail and an elbow on the bar. "I was going to call you anyway. There's a tennis tournament next weekend on Key Biscayne. I'd like to take Karen."
"You mean keep her next weekend too?"
"Just one day. Saturday or Sunday, whichever. Unless you have plans."
"Nothing in particular. I'll leave it up to Karen."
"She should see the pros play," Dave said. "She has talent, and I'm not saying that because I'm her father. She's a natural athlete. But I'm not one of those parents who push a kid into doing nothing but tennis, day and night. I've seen too much of that. I'm trying to do what's right for her."
"So am I." Making some time to find her way into a conversation, Gail pretended just now to notice the bar. "My, this is interesting. You've done so much here. How's business?"
"Business is great."
"I hope so."
"You never had much faith in me, did you?"
"Oh, Dave. Come on. I didn't mean it like that. I want you to succeed."
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