Gail smiled, not really comfortable as the center of attention. No, she hadn't picked out her dress yet. Elena suggested a shop in Coral Gables. "Gail, you have to see it. You must. I'll go with you." And Betty wanted to come along too, because she had bought her wedding dress there. Gail shook her head, still smiling. "Please don't bother. I can find something easily enough."
But they carried on without her. Which couturier in the Gables was most suitable for a second marriage, and whether you could ever find the right dress at Dadeland—
"Dadeland?" Xiomara laughed. "¡Que va! Maybe at Saks, pero everything looks the same, y la gente— you have to walk sideways, it's so crowded."
The entire wedding had been like this—rolling along on its own, picking up speed. Gail's mother, Irene Connor, had volunteered to handle the details. An intimate wedding, Gail had instructed her. Family and our closest friends. Then Ernesto and Digna Pedrosa announced they would pay for the reception. They reserved the Alhambra Ballroom at the Biltmore Hotel. They would hire a fifteen-piece orchestra to play salsa, jazz, and pop. Flattered and thrilled, Irene caved in. She lined up a soprano with the Miami Opera to do "Ave Maria" at the wedding. The invitation list shot past three hundred names. Darling, they want to invite the governor. How can you say no? This was not a wedding anymore, it was an event, a political statement, a three-way detente among the exiles on the right, of whom Ernesto Pedrosa was a quintessential example, the more liberal new Cubans, such as Anthony Quintana, and the Anglo establishment. Gail felt as though she and Anthony were hanging onto a rocket by their fingernails. And somewhere during the last few weeks it had occurred to her that Pedrosa's stunning generosity was not because he liked her, or had a sentimental spot for weddings, but because he was luring Anthony home.
Leave him alone, old man.
The old man still had power. The article in the Miami Herald had touched only the surface, although bribery was too crude a word for what Pedrosa engaged in. Influence was better. To do favors for those in a position to return them. And when one had power, the favors were large. A judge on the circuit court, a Cuban American himself, had confided to Gail, Where we came from, there was very little respect for government. We brought that attitude here, I'm afraid.
Anthony had accused his grandfather of that very failing, and Gail admired him for having the guts to say so. Aside from loving Anthony Quintana, she respected him. He was a lawyer because he believed in the law, not for what he could get out of it. He loved his grandfather but didn't need his contacts or his wealth.
After the dishes were cleared, the cake was brought out, naming with candles enough to make everyone laugh. They all sang "Happy Birthday," and presents were sent down the table to Aunt Adelita, who exclaimed over each one. Que linda. Que preciosa. A pretty blouse, some perfume, a framed photograph. Anthony had given her earrings and had signed Gail's name to the card as well.
By now Ernesto Pedrosa's head had sunk into his shoulders, and his eyes were closing. Soon his wife noticed, and she shook him gently. Standing up, she ordered everyone to stay, stay as long as they liked. The old man roused himself for the parade of goodnight kisses and hugs. Then Digna wheeled him into the elevator and the door slid shut.
While the table was cleared, the guests wandered back into the living room. Gail wished she and Anthony could go home, but he had said that Hector Mesa wanted to talk to him. She wouldn't have cared, but she could never figure out what Mesa was after. He was a friend, not a relation. He had no particular occupation that she knew of, not in accounting or in the law. His card said "consultant." His suits were blue or gray, his hair was thinning, and in a group he would vanish. All one could see was a pair of black-framed glasses and a small gray mustache.
Drinks were made for those who wanted them. A tray of espresso was brought out. Gail went to look at the baby, and Betty let her hold him. His eyes were deep blue, and he had a fine blond fuzz on his head. "Well, aren't you a gorgeous guy? And heavy! Karen was only six pounds." Gail tickled his cheek till he grinned at her. "I'm in love," she said.
Aunt Adelita, even older than Digna, laid her papery hand on Gail's knee and patted it. "Tú y Anthony, ¿quieren hembra o varón?"
Did they want a girl or a boy? Embarrassed, Gail laughed and handed the baby back to its mother. "No, not for us. No babies." The meaning was too clear to need a translation. Adelita stared at Gail as if she were very strange indeed, then went on quickly to some other topic.
No children. She and Anthony had decided this months ago. He already had two children—and with Gail's career—Karen was enough. A sensible decision, one that did not have to be explained. Even so, Gail knew that she had been judged.
Elena pulled her closer, laughing. "Never mind Aunt Adelita. She's still in Havana, nineteen-forty."
Gail noticed Anthony and Hector Mesa in the hall, just past the carved wood that framed the entrance. Hector, touching Anthony's arm. Anthony with a smile that could mean anything. He had taken off his jacket. His dark green shirt was open at the collar and tucked smoothly into pleated linen slacks. He looked her way, and she pursed her lips in a little kiss. When Hector Mesa happened to glance in another direction, Anthony rolled his eyes up to the ceiling as if he were already dead of boredom.
Murmuring her excuses to the women, Gail went over to rescue him. She smiled at Hector as she took Anthony's arm. "They just brought the coffee in. Would you gentlemen like some?"
Anthony said, "Go ahead, Hector, I'll talk to you later."
The man made a slight nod in Gail's direction, his eyes obscured by the glasses and a wink of yellowish light on the lenses. "Señora.” Then soundlessly he walked across the tiled floor and vanished into the living room.
"What did he want?"
"A legal matter. He was pulled over for speeding, and they arrested him for carrying a concealed weapon—a .22 caliber Beretta. He wants it back. I'll see what I can do."
"Good old Hector, playing with his toys."
"Hector's all right."
"If you say so. I've never heard him say more than three words in sequence. Do you want coffee? I don't."
"I don't either." Coming closer, Anthony brushed his lips across her ear. "I've got another idea." "Really. What?"
"Come upstairs, I'll show you." The hall was tiled in terra cotta and paneled in dark wood. Sconces lit the way to the rest of the house. The stairs were behind him, curving out of sight. He pulled her toward them.
She said, "You're taking me to see your boyhood collection of Spider-Man comics."
"Oh, I wanted to surprise you." He walked backward, tugging her hand.
She laughed. "They'll look for us."
"No, they won't. Come on. Nena won't be back for half an hour."
"We can't!" she whispered. "It would be like doing it in church."
"So much the better." When she shot a glance toward the living room, he added, "Or we could listen to Uncle Humberto tell us again how President Kennedy sold out the exiles at Playa Girón."
He had been kicked out of here at twenty, but the small room upstairs at the far end of the hall was still his. He used it when he stayed over—not often, but sometimes. There were clothes in the closet, and some of his things in the bathroom.
Moonlight silvered the banyan tree outside the windows and came through faintly to illuminate the desk, a lamp, a bookcase, an armchair, a twin bed. Their clothes were across the bed, not to get wrinkled. She faced him on the armchair, knees on the seat cushion, her arms around his head. He had held her hips so tightly to his, she knew she would have ten little bruises on her behind.
The silhouette of leaves shifted in the window-shaped patch of pale light that angled across the wall.
She kissed his forehead. He kept his hair combed off it in thick waves. His eyes opened slowly. In this dim light they were black. She smiled at him. "Well. Better than Playa Girón."
The answer was a low growl in his throat. His eyes drifted shut. Cool air from the vent was blowing across h
er back. She awkwardly unfolded her legs and stood up. "Don't go away." In the bathroom she saw herself in the mirror. Not too bad. Nothing a brush and some lipstick couldn't fix—if only she had her purse.
While he took his turn in the bathroom she put on her underwear. There was a brush on the dresser, and she used it to fix her hair, checking herself in the mirror.
"Gail, I want to ask you something." His voice echoed on the tiles. "Why were you with Dave?"
"What?"
The water went off. "You said you were late because you were with Dave. Why?"
Gail walked to the door. Anthony was in his briefs, hanging a towel on a rod. He looked at her as he went to put on his shirt.
"I—we were talking about the psychologist the judge appointed. I had to arrange with Dave which of us should take Karen to see him. That's all." She shrugged. "We managed to get through an entire conversation without screaming at each other, so you could say progress was made."
Anthony finished the buttons and reached for his slacks. "You shouldn't be talking to him. That's what your lawyer is for. "
Gail tried to decide if she was picking up any strange signals in his tone. "Well, it was my lawyer who suggested it."
"Why?"
She put on one shoe, then steadied herself on the chair and wiggled her foot into the other, bending to pull the narrow strap over her heel. She was conscious of Anthony watching her.
"Charlene believes that Dave wants Karen for some reason other than sacred fatherhood. If we knew where he's coming from, we'd be in a better bargaining position. So I went to see what I could find out."
"What did he say?"
She stepped into her dress and put her arms through the sleeves. "I asked, but if he has an ulterior motive, I couldn't find it. He says he wants a good life for Karen. He says he can spend more time with her than I can." Gail turned around and lifted her hair. "Do my zipper."
She felt the long rasp of plastic up her spine. Anthony said, "I don't want you to talk to him again."
"That's ridiculous. We had to discuss Karen."
"When you came in, I smelled beer on your breath."
Gail turned around to face him fully. "It was ninety degrees outside. I had a beer while we talked. And? And what, Anthony?" They had shared a beer. Old times' sake.
He held out his hand. "And nothing. I'm sorry." She didn't move. "Gail. Please?"
She put her arms around his waist. "You shouldn't be jealous of Dave."
Anthony gave a short laugh. "I'm not jealous of Dave. He's weak, a failure. Men like that can cause trouble."
Gail bit back her first response—to defend Dave against the word failure. She said, "It's better for Karen if her father and I get along, and her feelings are just as important to me as yours." To end the conversation, she went to turn off the bathroom fight.
Anthony sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. The desk lamp was still on, casting a small pool of light that left most of the room in darkness. He tied one shoe, then the other, then sat with his forearms on his knees, fingers loosely knit. "Did you ever consider going back to him?"
"No. How could you ask me that?"
"I think it's hard to forget someone you were in love with."
"Was. Not anymore."
His eyes were lifted to her, brow in horizontal lines. "You have my ring on your finger. Don't try to take it off."
She put a hand on her hip. "And what would you do about it, machito, shoot me?"
He slowly smiled. "No. I would find a way to keep you. He didn't. Too bad for him."
"My, my, my. You are just so irresistible."
He reached out and snagged the hem of her dress and pulled her next to him, arms circling her thighs. "Ah, Gail. We should have been married months ago."
"God, yes. I am so ready for this to be over."
"A simple ceremony at the courthouse. A glass of champagne, and adiós."
"That sounds lovely. I think they're planning a fountain with Dom Perignon."
"We could do it next week. Elope. Send a postcard from Las Vegas."
"All those invitations? The money? They'd kill us."
He laughed. "Yes, I think they probably would."
Gail stroked her fingers through his hair. "Anthony. Tell me why we came tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"This was all business. Maybe you didn't want to be left out."
"We are here because Nena asked us to come."
"She wants you at the head of that table someday." "Probably. That doesn't mean I want to sit there."
"Every time I see Señor Mesa with his spidery little fingers on your sleeve, I want to push him away. He isn't related to your grandfather. Why are they so close?"
"Hector's a smart guy."
"So are Juan and Bernardo and Pepe. And Elena, if the women count."
Anthony slid his encircling arm down her thighs. "I think it's because of Hector's loyalty. As a kid, Hector used to shine shoes outside my grandfather's bank in Havana. When the revolution came, he begged to be taken to Miami. My grandfather liked his spirit and said yes. In return Hector swore his allegiance to our family."
"Hector wants you to take over, doesn't he? He and your grandfather are pulling you into the family business. You said you never wanted to get involved with it."
"Gail, who the hell cares what they want? I've never let anyone dictate what I do, and I'm not going to start. All right?"
"Very." She lightly kissed his lips. "That's one reason I love you."
"Oh? Give me another one."
She kissed him again. "You dress so well. I think I know how to lure you to Clematis Street. Kidnap your wardrobe."
"I'm devastated. This woman is in love with my clothes."
"And let's see . .. You dance! You're the only man who could ever teach me how to do the cha-cha, and hundreds have tried."
She involuntarily jumped at a sudden knock on the door, and Anthony's hand tightened on her arm. He got up and went to open it as another knock came, louder.
A man in a dark suit stood just outside. For a split second his black-framed glasses swung in a small arc toward Gail.
Anthony said, "¿Qué pasó?"
Mesa's voice was soft but urgent. "Tu abuelo se cayó en el baño. "
Now Gail could hear the commotion, growing louder. Someone running. Shouts. A woman's cry.
"¡Ay, mi Dios!"
She hurried to the door. "Anthony! What happened?"
But already he was sprinting toward the other end of the long hallway, outdistancing the man behind him. He pushed his way past people standing at the door of his grandparents' bedroom. Gail followed. She had never been inside, and images registered quickly— a four-poster bed, a TV, an armoire. Heavy velvet curtains. Framed snapshots and portraits everywhere. People were standing aside to let Anthony enter the bathroom. Gail could see white tile, the glare of lights, a broken ring from a shower curtain rod.
A thin voice cried but, "Anthony, mi'jo, por favor, ayúdame." Ernesto Pedrosa was calling him. Please, my son. Help me.
"Estoy aquí contigo, no te preocupes." I'm here with you. Don't worry.
Everyone backed away, and Digna came out trembling. Anthony followed with his grandfather in his arms, maneuvering his bare feet past the door. An old man, so thin and pale, a collection of long bones and loose skin. A towel was draped over his groin, and he struggled to keep it in place. As weak as he was, he still had his dignity. Anthony told someone to bring a robe.
Gail looked away, allowing them privacy, then went into the hall. She heard sirens. Xiomara ran past her in one direction, Alex in another. There were voices downstairs. Then the thud of heavy shoes. Men came up the stairs with their equipment. Gail sat on a cushioned bench out of the way, biting her lower lip.
A few minutes later Pedrosa was wheeled out on a gurney, an oxygen mask strapped over his face. His skin was gray. They carried him down the stairs. Hector Mesa followed.
The family surrounded Anthony, con
ferring loudly in Spanish. Aunt Gracida was weeping. Betty and Alex had to leave because of the baby. Elena and Pepe would bring Humberto. Xiomara and Bernardo's kids were already with his mother, who could keep them all night. Others organized a caravan.
Finally Anthony came over to Gail.
"I have to go," he said.
"Should I come with you?"
He shook his head. "Go home. There's nothing you can do. I might be there soon, maybe not. He'll be all right, I think. He's pretty tough. I'll call you."
Gail stood up when Anthony did. She said, "Call me and let me know. I don't care what time."
He said that he would. Then he kissed her and helped his grandmother and Aunt Graciela into the elevator. Digna Pedrosa carried a small bag, and her sweater was over her shoulders. She had been through this before and would again—unless this time her husband didn't come home.
The house on Clematis Street seemed hollow and empty as Gail unlocked the front door. She realized that she had never spent a night in it alone. Either Karen or Anthony—or both—had been with her.
She clicked on a lamp, then went to the kitchen to make some cocoa. The gas stove hissed at her, and she finally had to light it with a match. She put the water on, then went upstairs to change into her pajamas.
Please don't die, she prayed silently. And yet another part of her knew that if he did die, Anthony would be safe. It would be too late for Pedrosa to change his will. As far as she knew, he had cut Anthony out years ago and was still dangling the promise of power over his head.
She hurried back to the kitchen on the shrill scream of the kettle. She cranked the gas valve, and the flame sputtered and went out. "Dear God, I swear I don't want him to die. I am wicked even to think of it."
The old man cared for her. Who was she? Nothing to him. He could have turned his back. Instead he had welcomed her like his own blood. He and Digna wanted this wedding to be special, and she had seen only the machinations of a dying king. And when he fell, she had come home rather than stand vigil with the others.
Gail grabbed a napkin and blew her nose. She turned out the light and took her cocoa upstairs. For a while she sat cross-legged and watched the news, then hit the remote and the screen went dark.
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 6