Digna Pedrosa must have heard, because she said, "Sí, sí, y o lo recuerdo bien." She remembered it very well. The fashions had been always up-to-date, the latest from Paris and New York. But her wedding dress had not been purchased there. The family seamstress had sewn it for her, and she had worn it with a white lace mantilla that her grandmother had brought from Spain.
"Ernesto and I were married in nineteen thirty-eight in la Catedral de la Habana; then we walked to my family's house. We had champagne and hors d'óeuvres—but no dancing, no music. That's the way it was for us. The poor people had more fun!"
Through a crack in the curtain Gail could see Karen pretending not to listen to the women talk. The fitter dropped a dress over Gail's head.
Gail heard Irene's voice: "My mother and I bought my dress at Burdine's downtown, and then we went upstairs for lunch afterward to celebrate. I remember she was wearing a hat and white gloves. And she talked to me about marital love. That's what she called it." Irene giggled. "She said I might be shocked on my wedding night. Well, I wasn't that naive."
"I was." Digna's voice dropped to a murmur. Karen scooted closer. "Ernesto and I had kissed only a few times, when my aunt wasn't looking. I was never alone with him. On my wedding night . . . Ay, mi Dios. I cried and wanted to go right back to Havana, but I couldn't because we went for our honeymoon to Spain on a ship. First to New York, then to Europe. We were gone for three weeks, and when I came home ... Well, I was very much in love with my dear Ernesto. And I was expecting our first child. A boy, Tomás." She was silent for a long moment, then crossed herself. "He was killed at Playa Girón by the communists."
The old woman finished pulling in the waist. Through a mouthful of pins she mumbled for Gail to show this one to the ladies. "Vaya, enséñalas." She held the curtain aside, allowing Gail, in borrowed pumps, to make a turn around the room.
The frothy pale ivory concoction made her feel she had been plunged feet first into a pile of meringue. There was appraisal. Comment. Dismissal. Karen rolled her eyes.
Behind the curtain again, Gail listened to a replay of her mother's wedding.
"Oh, it was just huuuge. Edwin and I were married at the Church of the Little Flower in the Gables, with a reception at the Riviera Country Club. The governor and his wife were there because my father was important in the state senate, and the whole thing was so political." Irene sat on the very edge of her chair with her legs crossed at the ankle, tucked away to one side, as if she were being interviewed for a vacancy in the garden club. Wooed, flattered, and seduced. Name-dropping like mad. And making sure that these women knew that her family had been pioneers in Miami and, before that, Carolina aristocrats, pre-Revolutionary War.
Just beyond the curtain, Karen had found some stray pins on the floor and was sticking them through the skin at the corners of her short fingernails. Gail whispered, "Karen, stop that!"
"It doesn't hurt." She waggled her fingers.
"Take those pins out this minute!"
"Mom, I'm bored. Can I go get something to drink?"
"No, stay here."
The fitter had just helped Gail off with a mint green taffeta thing that she'd known at first sight would not do when the curtain parted and Elena stuck her head in. "Hi. Can I show you this one?" Before Gail could reply, Elena murmured something in Spanish to the old woman, who nodded and went out. Elena held a champagne gold sheath under Gail's chin.
"This might look good with your hair." She put the hanger on a hook and opened the zipper. "Are you coming to the house afterward? Nena invited everyone for lunch. Did Anthony tell you?"
"Yes, we'll be there." Gail lifted her arms as Elena slid the dress over her head.
Elena's skin was pale as milk, a contrast to black hair cut bluntly at her shoulders. In a quiet voice she said, "I just wanted to tell you how happy I am that you're going to be part of our family. I've sensed sometimes that you don't feel comfortable with us. I hope I'm wrong."
Gail turned her back to be zipped up. "I don't know why you should think that. I'm very fond of all of you."
"I'm so glad." The zipper rose, and Gail sucked in her breath. The dress was a column of pale gold. Elena looked over Gail's shoulder, studying the fit. A pair of dark eyes met hers in the mirror. "Anthony's first wife was very sweet, but honestly, she didn't bring much to the marriage. The fact that you're not Latin is actually an asset for the family as well as for Anthony. So please don't feel like a stranger."
Gail smiled. "We won't be strangers. I know how important his family is to him." She turned sideways. Her hip bones protruded and her breasts had been flattened.
Elena squeezed Gail's arm. "I grew up with Anthony, so I know him very well. If you ever need advice, or somebody to talk to, I'm here for you. Okay? Remember."
"Yes. Thank you." Gail turned around. "Could you unzip this, please?"
A babble of voices drew their attention, and Elena pulled back the curtain. A woman had come in, purple caftan rippling as she crossed the room. A first impression said this was a woman in middle age—platinum blond hair was cropped at her ears, and her rouged cheeks were tight—but the veined hands and curved shoulders betrayed her. Seventy? Eighty?
Lola Benitez, without a doubt. She bent down to Digna Pedrosa, and the women held each other lightly by the shoulders and pressed their cheeks together. "¿Cómo estás, mi amor?"
"Luces maravillosa, como siempre." You are looking as marvelous as ever, Digna told her.
Introductions were made, kisses given.
With a swirl of fabric Lola Benitez turned to Gail. "Ahhhh, la novia. The bride. How pretty you are. An elegant young woman. He will be happy, happy, happy." Señora Benitez's eyelashes were long, thick, and expertly attached. "Let me see the dress. I don't know. Maybe . . . more here." She lifted her own bosom, heavy as melons.
Karen put her hands over her mouth.
The lady imperiously turned to find the source of laughter. "And who is this?"
"Señora Benitez, my daughter, Karen."
Scrambling to her feet, Karen quickly held out her hand. "Encantada, señora."
Lola Benitez took it in hers and pressed the other to her heart. "Oh! Hablas español, que linda." Pursing her carefully outlined lips, she pressed her cheek to Karen's, then stepped back, holding her by the shoulders. "What a beautiful child! Skin like honey. And those eyes! So blue. I die. How old are you? No, no, don't tell me. Thirteen."
"Eleven," said Karen. "I mean, in about two weeks—"
"Oh, but you are so mature. Turn around, let me look at you. She has the shape of a model, so tall and slim, like her mother. I used to be pretty like you, Karen. It's true." She came closer, whispering, and her long lashes touched Karen's cheek. The fragile skin of her eyelids revealed the delicate veins beneath. "I broke the heart of many, many men. You will too, I see that clearly. What will you wear for the wedding, my lovely?" Señora Benitez made an arc with her open hand. "What kind of look do you want? Every woman must have a look."
"Well ... I don't like lace. And I hate bows."
"Bows are for little girls, you are right. A sense of style already, and so young." Señora Benitez snapped her fingers, and one of her assistants stepped forward. She told her to take la jovencita to look at the dresses. "Find a pair of shoes for her too. And stockings. And I think maybe a brassiere."
Karen gave Gail a wide-eyed look over her shoulder as she followed the clerk into the corridor.
With firm hands Señora Benitez swept Gail into the dressing area and pulled the curtain. Wooden rings clacked across the rod. She handed the gold silk sheath to the fitter, then made Gail stand on the pedestal. A finger to her cheek, she rested her elbow in her palm. Gail stared at the ceiling. Then Señora Benitez leaned through the curtain and ordered her assistant to bring the blue Louis Feraud gown from her office.
The dress was wheeled in on a rack, and the bag was unzipped as the ladies gathered around to watch. Señora Benitez lifted a padded hanger that held a silvery blue casc
ade of silk and organza. She took it into the dressing room, and she and the fitter helped Gail put it on.
Gail turned, staring at herself in the mirror. The color brightened her eyes and made her hair shimmer. The diagonal cut floated over hips and breasts, accenting what had seemed insignificant before. The neckline revealed her shoulders, which Señora Benitez judged particularly fine.
"Oh, my God."
"You were made for this dress." "How much?" Gail turned her back to the mirror. Señora Benitez tilted her head as if she hadn't quite heard.
"How much does it cost? It must be horrendous. I can't."
"But Mr. Quintana is paying for it. Yes! You did not know this? He called this morning. He said to let you have whatever you want and send the bill to him."
"I can't let him do that."
"You must!" Señora Benitez gave Gail a little squeeze around the waist. "If not, he will think you don't love him!"
"But how much—"
With a clacking of wood the curtain was flung back. "Miren, todas. Everyone!" She led Gail to the center of the room.
The women came nearer. "Not one ounce of fat," Xiomara said. "Not an ounce. I am so jealous."
"You look like a movie star," Betty said.
Digna Pedrosa blew a kiss from the sofa. Elena held out the skirt and let it slide from her fingers. "Beautiful."
Gail turned slowly in front of the triple mirror, and a laugh bubbled from her throat. "It is, isn't it? I mean, it really is."
Lola Benitez murmured, "He will love it. You will make him so proud."
Irene appeared with something in her hand. "Look, darling. Your grandmother's earrings. Put them on."
Gail did, but the diamonds were not as dramatic as she had recalled. They were smaller, almost pathetic in comparison to the elegance of the dress. The blue-white stone in her engagement ring sparkled more brightly. With a thrill that sent a tremor into her fingertips, Gail decided to go next to the jeweler's to find earrings that would do. She would mention it to Anthony. He would say yes. Yes, of course, mi cielo, whatever you want.
She heard a rustle and glanced toward the door. It took a moment for her mind to catch up to the reality that the girl who had come in was indeed Karen. Lilac silk skimmed her waist and flared into a froth of deep ruffles at her knee. Her feet looked tiny in sandals with delicate straps, and her legs glistened in hose the same shade as the dress. Someone had put her hair up in a knot, and strands of it framed her face. Her lips were glossy pink.
They stared at each other.
As the ladies rushed to see this new creature, Karen could not hold back a grin. She endured their caresses for a while, then went to stand beside Gail at the mirror. Lifting her chin, she studied herself through lowered lashes.
"This one's okay," she said. "Can I have it?"
After lunch Gail sat at the kitchen table, listening to Xiomara and Betty describe to Aunt Gracida in Spanish every detail of the dresses that Gail and Karen had chosen. Their husbands were watching a Marlins game, and Karen had gone somewhere upstairs with Elena's daughter. Digna was napping. Gail had lost track of everyone else, except Anthony, who an hour ago had kissed her cheek and said he and his grandfather's lawyer would be in the study for a while. But Ernesto Pedrosa had stayed in the kitchen. He parked Betty's stroller next to his wheelchair to make faces at the baby, who would respond with a toothless grin or wide-eyed stare, provoking chuckles from the old man.
Chin in her palms, Gail stole a quick glance at the clock on the stove: 2:10. She would give Anthony five more minutes, then see if he was ready to go. Fermina, the housekeeper, put away the last of the dishes in the glass-fronted cabinets. Gail remembered that two days' worth of dishes were waiting for her at home, and felt vaguely guilty about it.
Pedrosa held his eyes wide open with his fingers, and the baby's lower lip quivered. The old man laughed and gently patted his head with one huge, liver-spotted hand. "No llores, machito." Telling the little man not to cry.
Bernardo came in and took some beers from the extra refrigerator. Xiomara pretended to be shocked. "What is this? ¿ Qué haces?"
"Lighten up, woman. They're not all for me." Bernardo was forty and more than a few pounds overweight.
Gail wagged a finger. "No fighting."
"This isn't a fight!" Xiomara laughed. "The first time we had a fight—you remember our first fight, Nardo? Before we were married, we went to a friend's house for dinner, and you wanted me to serve your plate, and I wouldn't do it. I said, no, do I look like a servant to you? And you walked out! So I said okay, fine. Leave."
He grinned at Gail. "She married me anyway."
Ernesto Pedrosa turned to tap Gail's arm. "We were very useless men in Cuba. I remember my father and my uncle and I got up early to go fishing, before the women were awake. We boiled some eggs for breakfast, and my uncle had to ask my father how to open the egg to get it out of the . . . cascara. What is that?"
"The shell," Betty said.
Laughing, cheeks going pink, Pedrosa mimed peering closely at an egg, shaking it, turning it around. "My uncle didn't know what to do with it."
Gail smiled. They would tell her these stories, explaining their culture as if she had just arrived from Nebraska. She didn't mind. It was good to be included. When the conversation moved on, switching to a discussion about what everyone was doing for the Fourth of July, Gail excused herself and went to find Anthony.
As she followed the long, tiled hallway, the voices and laughter faded. Her heels tapped on the floor, and she slowed as she walked past the paintings, a collection of contemporary Hispanic artists. She wondered what it would be like to live here, to throw parties. Gail held out her arms, seeing herself greeting guests. Evelyn! Wally! I'm so glad you could come. The paintings were lit, but even at midday there was something about this house that reminded her of the inner corridors of a castle. It ate light. It needed fewer curtains, a wall or two torn out, perhaps a skylight at the top of the stairs.
In the formal dining room the chandelier shone on polished wood. She wandered through the open double doors to the living room, pausing as if heads were turning upon her entrance. Hello, everyone. Bienvenidos. She smiled, presenting her cheek for an imaginary kiss.
A gold clock ticked on the mantel among the dozens of framed snapshots of grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. To the left of the fireplace, a wood-paneled door led to a small parlor. She turned the brass knob and went in, then pulled aside the fringed curtain to see out. The sun fell across a leather-topped side table, sparkling on a tiny crystal bird. Gail picked it up. Every corner of this house was filled with such treasures. No dust on any of them, no fingerprints around the light switches, no dead bugs under the furniture. A house like this required a maid, a cook, a gardener . . .
An odd sense that she was being observed made her glance toward the door. She involuntarily jumped, and the crystal bird slipped from her hand and dropped to the oriental rug. A split second later she recognized the gray suit and heavy glasses. Hector Mesa. It occurred to her that he had been waiting to see if she would slide the crystal into the pocket of her skirt. He watched Gail pick it up and set it back on the table, unbroken.
"I was looking for Anthony," she said, wishing too late that she had not made such an idiotic statement.
"He's in the study." Mesa's hands were loosely clasped in front. "He said that Karen has to be at her father's house soon, so he asked me to drive her there. You can go along if you want. I'll bring you back."
"I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you. I'll borrow Anthony's car and take her myself."
Mesa hesitated, then said, "He's concerned for your safety."
Gail realized that Anthony had told Mesa everything. She automatically scanned his suit coat, finding no bulges but certain just the same that his .22-caliber Beretta was hidden on him somewhere. Karen had shown no distrust of this man. Indeed, she had found him geekily funny, but Gail did not like him. That he now stood at the door of this out-of-the-way room
meant that he had followed her here, watching her slow progress through the house, making no sign of his presence.
She said, "That's very considerate of Anthony, but I'm sure we'll be all right. I'll speak to him. Has the lawyer left?"
"Yes, but Anthony is busy with some paperwork," Mesa said.
"Then I'll knock first."
With a slight nod, Hector Mesa stood aside to let her pass. His thinning white hair swept straight back over his skull and made frizzy little ringlets at his collar. He firmly closed the door.
Gail glanced back at him. "Tell me, Hector. What do you think about Anthony marrying an Anglo?"
"I have no opinion, señora." She could not discern a reaction. His glasses hid his eyes, and he followed several paces behind her across the living room.
Over her shoulder Gail said, "You probably do, but you're right not to tell me."
"Nationality isn't so important," he said quietly. "His former wife was Cuban. Very beautiful, but greedy and ambitious. She married him for what he could give her, and when he found out the truth, he divorced her."
Barely holding on to her temper, Gail stopped and turned around. Mesa came no closer. "I'll make you a deal. You don't like me, and I don't like you. So let's keep out of each other's way. All right?"
She thought she saw his shoulders stiffen. Then he smiled, a slight lifting of the corners of his mouth. "Con su permiso . . ."He pivoted and vanished into the hall. She watched to make sure he was heading away from the study.
Ernesto Pedrosa's office was not a large room but completely masculine, with its old leather furniture, brass lamps, and dark wood wainscoting. A glass case held rare editions of poetry by José Martí. The desk was turned to the southwest, facing Havana, and a faded and torn Cuban flag hung from the wall behind it. Anthony sat with his forehead in his palm, writing. The lamplight gleamed on the waves in his brown hair and the heavy gold in his emerald ring. Cigar smoke curled from an ashtray.
Gail slid silently into the room, and his concentration was so complete that he did not notice her until she was almost on him. He leaned back to see who was there, and Gail fell into his lap. The big chair lurched on its wheels, then thudded back down.
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 17