The headlines generated by my hunt for Maria Portilla also brought a curious flow of new visitors to my office door: desperate people, lost souls, wronged lovers, abuse victims, regular folk who wanted their lives back, victims of injustice all. They brought me stories few people had wanted to hear, cases few law enforcement officers would or could take, long-forgotten dreams and dying wishes.
Can you help me find who’s stalking me?
Can you help me hunt down the man who tortured my father in prison?
Can you help me find my teenage daughter?
Although at times I’ve failed, Gina and I have tried to help every one of them. In turn, these anonymous souls helped me find new meaning in life. In them, I saw pieces of myself and of my family. I saw the kind heart of my father, the determination of my mother, the dreams of my brother. I saw fragments of places I had been and emotions I had felt—desperation, anger, conviction. I saw my own flaws. And like these “clients,” I had come to redefine the meanings of “normal” and “dysfunctional.”
DULCE MARIA CIGARS—DAY 70
An intimate cigar shop of distressed terra-cotta walls and dark wood details. Tony Bennett tunes and chocolate leather chairs in the smoke lounge. Paperback Western hours in the cigar-rolling room. And Joe Pratts. He’s arranging boxes of Arturo Fuente Gran Reserva cigars in a display case.
Of all the times I’ve seen Joe at work, I don’t remember ever seeing him looking as handsome as he did on the night he opened his shop. He wore a crisp linen, long-sleeved guayabera, sugar white, and loose-fitting, tan linen slacks. There was a glow on his cheeks and a fine sense of self-confidence in his stride. His longish hair had that clean, casual, finger-stroked quality, and whenever he laughed—which was often that night—it would brush lightly against his temples.
And now, as I dropped by the shop, I noted that the glow still lingered. Of course, he had every reason to be in high spirits. He had brought to life his all-time dream, to open the cigar shop of his grandfather’s inspiration. It was the place he had envisioned on those dim nights at the Rapture while cloistered in that lifeless back office of his, running numbers and knocking back shots of Chivas. What had stopped him from chasing his dream was never a lack of money—he had managed to scrape together quite a bundle with high-volume liquor sales and low overhead expenses. What had stopped him was basic inertia and a fear of the unknown.
But something had shifted in him during our time in Key West. I’d like to think it was the fact that we fell in love again, but I think it was something more complicated than that, a new awareness triggered by that incident in the alley. It was that night, as he stood over the crumpled figure of that derelict, that Joe realized who he was not. While his pistol-whipping actions may have suggested something else, he realized he was no thug, no killer, no deadbeat. So why was he there, in that alley, when he simply could have ditched the bum after a couple of scrapes and moved on? A few days after the incident, the answer to that question hit him hard. He wasn’t there because it was the valiant thing to do—he was there because it was the easy thing to do, the thing he could do with his eyes closed. He wasn’t a bona fide delinquent, but he did nothing to separate himself from the derelicts and thugs. It was easier not to. The more difficult thing to do would be to plant himself in a different environment, even if that environment better reflected his true identity.
But once he returned from Key West, he felt like an alien in his own bar. He walked out one night, leaving it in the hands of Eddie, the bartender, and he called me. He asked if I could show him some available storefronts. He had an idea for a new business.
Two months later, he opened the shop of his dreams, a reality created from those blueprints he had shown me at his office. Cozy, warm, eclectic, casual, and extraordinarily Cuban, the place was an extension of Joe’s most distinctive qualities. Of course, my favorite part of the shop was its name, which he did not unveil until opening night. When he climbed atop a ladder and yanked the tarp off the sign, I couldn’t believe the letters spelled DULCE MARIA CIGARS.
As a double-whammy honor, he whipped up mango sours for his guests and customers, printing up a large copy of my favorite drink recipe and hanging it up in a nice black frame. It read:
The Dulce Maria Special
Mango juice
Vodka
Fresh key limes
Superfine granulated sugar
Squeeze three key limes into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice. Add four tablespoons of sugar, two shots of vodka, and a half cup of mango juice. Shake well. Serve in sugar-rimmed glasses. Salud!
Now, as Joe entered his second month at the shop, I had gotten quite used to stopping by on my way home from the office to catch a glimpse of him at work.
On a recent night, I watched him stack cigar boxes on a tall mahogany bookcase.
“Sell any Dulce Maria robustos today?” I asked him.
“Sold out,” he said. He came over and gave me a kiss on the lips.
“Kidding, right?”
He was not kidding. Apparently the luster of my celebrity had spilled over to the cigar business. At least that’s what I decided to believe, and Joe didn’t rebut it. He just enjoyed watching me count the rapidly disappearing inventory and tally up the Dulce Maria profits in my head. I did it for a hobby, mind you, not out of any desire to outsell my beau. I wasn’t that kind of saleswoman, not anymore.
I leaned across the counter and gave him another kiss, this time lingering a little longer.
“I’ll be over in a couple of hours,” he said, and by that he meant he was allotting time to go home, see his father, and wait for the night nurse to arrive.
“Give Papo a kiss for me,” I said. “See you later.”
And with that, I was off to pick up Max at my parents’ house. I stepped into the Miami night, a mild and balmy night, and turned to contemplate the sign above the cigar shop as it glowed bright against a clear tropical sky.
Minutes later, with Max in the car, I headed home to 416 Hibiscus Lane. As we pulled into the driveway, the headlights of my car illuminated a path of newly planted gardenias and the fresh, ocean-blue paint on the door frame. What had begun as a series of home improvement projects to boost the house’s curb appeal had segued into something more fulfilling as I discovered my house all over again. It was filled with lovely, subtle details, hidden gems to be polished and enjoyed for years to come. I was so busy dreaming of my next house—in essence, someone else’s house—that I had never stopped to notice them. And now, as I stood at my front door, admiring the ocean-blue color on the frame, I wasn’t sorry at all that I had passed on the “dream house,” the one with the enormous yard and pool and gourmet kitchen. It was beautiful, yes, but it was too damn big. Besides, it looked just like every other house on the block.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sweet Mary came to life one Fourth of July to the sounds of firecrackers bursting outside my window. The novel was born, thanks to the contributions and support of many to whom I owe a debt of gratitude.
I thank Johanna Castillo, my editor at Atria, for her inspiration, for believing that this newspaper columnist had a novel in her. Many thanks to Judith Curr for creating a literary space where inspiration is possible, and, also at Atria, to Amy Tannen-baum for her steadfast diligence.
I thank Raul Mateu of the William Morris Agency for his guidance and unwavering support in my creative endeavors. Thanks to Eric Rovner, also at WMA, for the spirited flow of ideas and possibilities.
I am forever grateful to Andy Garcia, Sweet Mary’ s poetic godfather, who fostered this story in its first incarnation, as a screenplay.
Special thanks to Bill Greer for his thorough editing and gener osity of spirit throughout the years. I thank him for nurturing my love of writing and for reminding me, daily, why journalism continues to matter. I am also grateful to my editors at The Palm Beach Post for their courage and commitment in times of uncertainty.
Thanks to Claudia Forestieri for her valuable fe
edback, to Dario Acosta for his beautiful portrait photography, to Lilly Blanco for her inspired technological assistance, to Joe Cardona of KIE Films for his creative support, and to my niece, Lauren Alatriste, for putting her boundless imagination to work for Sweet Mary.
I also wish to thank Richard Sharpstein and Elizabeth Schwartz for their expertise and friendly ears.
I extend particular thanks to Virginia Garcia-Perez for sharing with me the true story that inspired this novel. I also thank my friend, Joan Fleischman, for reporting the news item in her “Talk of Our Town” column in The Miami Herald.
I am grateful to Dr. Pedro Jose Greer and his family for their kind hospitality in Islamorada.
Never least, thanks to my loving family. And to my boisterous choir of angels above—Mami, Abuela, Abuelo, Mara, Tere, Elly, and Nenita—my deepest gratitude for lighting my path with all those splendid butterflies.
Sweet Mary Page 21
