by Tamara Lush
“This is incredible. Thank you.”
He presses me into the bed. “I have another gift.”
He rises and opens his suitcase.
“Close your eyes again,” he says. I do, then feel his nearness. Something heavy and cool circles my neck.
My hand flutters to the necklace, and I open my eyes.
“I need to look at this.” I scoot off the bed and go to the full-length bathroom mirror.
I gape when I see the necklace. It’s all diamonds, set and arranged like flowers. Huge diamonds, everywhere, sparkling like a thousand stars.
“Rafa. This is too much.” I run my fingers over the diamond flowers.
He stands behind me and cups my breasts. “It’s actually a gift for me because I get to look at you being so beautiful, wearing only that.”
Rafael leads me back to the bed. We’re both sweating from the warm air and from the nearness of each other. Skin slips against skin as if covered in fine oil. Rafa enters me, slowly and with a long exhale.
“I want…” my voice trails off because he feels so amazing inside of me.
“You want?” he murmurs, dipping in and out of me with agonizing slowness.
I’m ablaze all over, and I can only say one word: “You.”
He stills while inside of me, looking focused and intense. “All these years, I’ve never stopped wanting you. And I never will stop,” he says, beginning to thrust again as I moan and writhe underneath his body. “Never. I’ll want you when I’m old and blind and probably when I’m dead, too.”
Rafa nudges my head to one side so he can bite my neck as he picks up the pace. When I gaze out at the blue sea and hear the crashing of waves, I experience a near sensory overload and am reeling from my orgasm.
It’s too much. The pleasure is too intense.
“I love looking at your face while I’m inside of you. I feel connected to you and everything when we’re together like this,” he whispers.
I wrap myself tight around Rafa until he comes, his voice rasping my name over and over.
The next day, we laze in bed, then in the pool. For a couple of hours, I float in the pale blue Caribbean water until I feel my skin scorch and turn pink. I retreat under an umbrella and snag Rafael’s book on Cuban politics to read for a while, then snooze. The hours are like a dream, in part because it’s so quiet. There are no steel drum tunes, no raucous and drunk vacationers, no jet skis buzzing in the distance.
As far as I can tell, it’s me and Rafa and the blue of sky and sea. From my lounge chair, in my dreamy, half-asleep sun haze, I watch him swim and body surf in the ocean and enjoy looking at him as he slices through the soft-looking water with rippling muscles. I love how he moves, the way he dives underwater and pokes his head up and searches for me on shore. When he does this, I grin like a fool and wave at him.
That night, we change out of our bathing suits to eat dinner at the resort’s five-star restaurant—except that it isn’t inside. The meal is served at a table perched on an ocean cove. Tiki torches flicker and dance as the sun sets in a fiery ball over the ocean.
We’re drinking a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Italian Pinot Grigio when Rafa kisses my fingers.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the newspaper.”
I clear my throat. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk business here?”
“This is more than business, though, Justine,” he says in a serious voice.
My muscles instinctively tense up. Where is he going with this conversation? I’m not sure I like this.
“Okay.”
“After looking at all of the financials of the paper, my recommendation would be to close it. There are…other options, of course. None of the options are ideal, though. I’m sorry. I’ve turned it around in my head and on paper a million times. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”
I frown and stare at the white tablecloth in front of me. It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
“What are the other options?”
“We could lay people off and sell the building and move into a smaller space.”
I make a strangled noise of protest.
“Or we could try to go digital six days a week and deliver the print product on weekends. If we did that, we would still have to sell the building.”
I shake my head emphatically. “No. We’re a newspaper. Emphasis on paper. We print the news.”
The muscles in Rafa’s jaw twitch.
“Amor. Justi. I’ve been analyzing this for weeks now. It’s easiest to close. Otherwise, you, we, the newspaper, have to change. We have to attract younger readers. The Times runs cartoons drawn by dead people. It runs TV listings. Who needs TV listings? The Times runs ‘Dear Abby.’ Who do you know our age who reads Dear Abby?”
I take a long, sullen gulp of my wine. What am I going to do if the paper closes? It can’t close. I pick up my water goblet and inspect the contents as if I’ve never before seen liquid. What about the pensions? The reporting projects? Diana? I’m in panic mode now.
“Hear me out, Justine. Newspapers are doing nothing to go after younger readers as the older readers die off. If the Times is going to survive, it’s going to have to change dramatically. I’m sorry. This is why I’ve been so stressed this week. I’ve dreaded telling you this news.”
“Was this why you brought me here? To soften the blow?”
“No.” He sighs and jiggles his leg. “I brought you here to ask if you would consider closing the paper and moving to Miami to live with me.”
My mouth drops open.
“What?” I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly. I squeeze his hand tight.
“Ow. Um, can you let up on your grip a bit?” He smiles.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Justi, I want us to be together. I thought it would be easier to close the paper outright and start fresh. Cut all ties with the Times. It could probably turn a profit if we went all-digital or Sunday print only, but wouldn’t it be easier for you to not have to worry about it?”
I gulp in a few breaths. This isn’t part of the plan. I don’t exactly have a plan, other than saving the newspaper. Of all the scenarios I’d worried about during all my sleepless nights, spending forever with Rafa and closing the paper had never entered my mind.
“You don’t have to say yes tonight, mi cielo. Think about it for a week. We’ve got a charity fundraiser in Miami. I want you to go with me. After that, I have a long business trip. I want us to be…resolved…before I leave.”
I swallow hard, and there’s a squeeze in my stomach.
Kissing my hand, Rafa’s voice is gentle. I know he’s trying to be kind about the paper’s dismal future.
“I also want to show you the condo in Miami. If you don’t like it, we can buy something else. Maybe Coral Gables. A house. Whatever you desire in South Florida, I’ll make it happen.”
I look at the ocean and blink back tears. This is what I’ve wanted.
Isn’t it?
36
The Darkness and the Light
I sat on the sofa and sniffled, clutching the pregnancy test in my hand.
I should have paid attention to the little signs over the past few weeks. Like my sense of smell, so sensitive that the day before, I hadn’t smelled beef stew. Instead, I’d inhaled the scents of carrots and beef broth and celery individually. Or the way my breasts felt heavy almost every day. And come to think of it, I’d been snappy lately with Rafa. Maybe that had something to do with hormones.
Suddenly, Rafa burst through the door, bellowing. “What? What’s wrong? Why were you crying on the phone? Why wouldn’t you tell me what’s wrong? I was losing my fucking mind while driving.”
Looking at him through my tears, I handed the pregnancy test stick to him. He took it, and his black brows scrunched together.
“What is this plus sign…” His voice trailed off, and he sank next to me on the sofa. “How? How could you be pregnant? You’re on the pill.”
I cried harde
r. Why wouldn’t he hug me? Words tumbled out of my mouth. “I think I forgot to take my pills last month and I doubled up a couple of times and I’m sorry.”
Rafa shut his eyes and was still. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t touched me. In that moment, he was like a stranger and that made me wail harder.
“Hey, hey…” Rafa turned and put his arms around me. “What do you want to do?”
I shook my head. I wanted to do everything and nothing. I wanted a career and I wanted his baby and I was only twenty-three. I had two part-time jobs—one at a bookstore and another at an alternative weekly where the reporters smoked weed in the parking lot.
Rafa was just starting to make money as a realtor. We seemed to be exhausted, a lot. A baby would complicate everything. Our lives weren’t supposed to be like this. Not yet.
“I want our baby.” He pulled back and stared at me with big eyes, wiping the wetness off my cheeks with his thumbs. “Our baby.”
His eyes were wide with fear and the unknown, probably just like mine were.
“I do, too, Rafa.”
A week later, I couldn’t stop bleeding. Or stop crying. The doctor said it would last a week to ten days.
The baby was gone. Our baby was gone.
The doctor said it happened to a lot of women, even young, healthy women like me, and that I’d more than likely have a full-term and normal pregnancy the next time.
Would there be a next time? I wasn't sure. Rafa wasn't talking. He'd become sullen, it seemed, ever since I'd told him about the baby. More serious. And now that I'd lost the baby, I could've sworn I detected relief in him. Or was I imagining things? My body and mind couldn't be trusted.
I blamed everything: how Rafa and I had been rough in bed during sex, how poorly I’d eaten, how little I’d exercised over the past few months.
In my mind, I was defective. For our baby and for Rafa. I was too afraid to tell him this, because he was already so sullen. So instead I huddled in bed for days and tried to wrap myself in sadness like a heavy jacket.
It went on like this for days. We hadn't had sex because the doctor said we should wait, and that forced us apart, making me wonder whether sex was all we had in common.
One morning, Rafael walked into the bedroom and threw open the curtains, revealing the harsh Florida sun. I saw the palm tree outside our bedroom window, and its green color against the bright blue sky startled me. How could everything be so vibrant when I felt dingy and gray inside?
“Mi cielo. I’ve made breakfast. Your favorite eggs. I’ll bring them to you.” His voice was gentle, but I was angry that he had let the light in.
“Amor.” He sat on the edge of our bed. “You need to get up. You need to be strong and put this behind you. We can try to have another baby. The doctor said you’re fine. Things happen for a reason. Maybe now wasn’t our time? Let’s get back to work and back to normal, and then we’ll plan for the future. We’re young, we’ve got lots of time.”
I burrowed under the covers and counted, willing him to hug me before I got to the number ten. He didn’t, and I felt the futon creak as he stood up.
“Babe, I have to get to work now. Are you going to get up today?”
How could he be so insensitive? I thought back to how kind he’d been when I’d told him about my mom and brother. Where was the man who used to embrace the girl with the shattered heart and fractured family?
Flipping the covers down, I caught him staring at me with big eyes, and the expression was familiar. I’d gotten acquainted with it after my mom and brother were killed.
Pity.
I burrowed into the bed and told Rafa to close the drapes.
* * *
I don’t know which is harder: looking my employees in the eyes during meetings, knowing that I’m close to making a decision that will affect their futures, or holding Diana’s newborn in my arms.
Two days after we return from our Valentine’s Day trip to the islands, Diana gives birth to a healthy, eight-pound baby girl that she names Olivia.
Rafa and I rush to the hospital, and Diana laughs when we walk in, hand in hand. “Looks like that Caribbean sunshine worked its magic. You two are getting along well,” Diana whispers to me, offering me the baby.
I swallow a lump in my throat. I always get choked up when holding a baby because I remember how much I’d wanted Rafael’s.
But I have another reason for not wanting to open my mouth. I don’t want Diana to know I’m considering closing the paper. It will leave her without a job and without health insurance right after giving birth.
How can I take jobs away from any of my employees?
How can I leave my city without a voice?
How important is my family’s legacy?
And for what? So I can go live in luxury in a glass-and-concrete condo on South Beach?
I push the thoughts aside, gently cradling the little girl in my arms, swaying a little and reveling in the milky, new-baby smell. Rafa leans toward us, and I’m surprised to see how light Rafa’s touch is when he strokes the baby’s head with his palm.
“She’s gorgeous,” Rafa whispers, more to me than to Diana. “Someday soon, you and I…”
My eyes meet Rafa’s, wide with panic and hope. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
“Can I hold her?” he asks.
He opens his palms wide and hugs Olivia into his chest.
“I’ve never held a baby before.” He beams at me and Diana. I force myself to turn away because I’m on the verge of sobbing.
He would have held our baby had the baby lived. Had my body not failed. We wouldn’t be here right now, facing this problem with the paper. My mind spirals out of control, irrational. I could soon have everything I’d ever wanted. Almost.
Diana interrupts my thoughts. “I have to say, Rafael, you look like a natural, as if you’ve held babies all your life. I’m surprised.”
It’s true. He is a natural, cradling Olivia’s little head in his big hand.
And yet the sight of him with a child in his arms doesn’t make my decision about the newspaper any easier, and it doesn’t make me feel any better about the choice I have to make before he leaves for a month to Spain. I’m dreading the next few days. We have that gala to attend in Miami, and it’s the last thing I want to do.
“Excuse me,” I whisper to Diana and Rafael. “I need to use the bathroom, and I’ll…um, use the one in the hall.”
I practically run out of Diana’s room and barely make it to the bathroom before the tears pour down my cheeks.
37
Blessed and Cursed
“Do we really have to walk the red carpet?”
I’m aware I sound whiny, and the reproachful look in Rafa’s eyes makes me stop any further protest. I’m trying to be pleasant, but all day I’d fought to erase the scowl from my face. Rafa’s leaving the next morning for a month-long business trip to Spain, and we still haven’t talked about our future. It hangs in the air like the heavy scent of the lilies in this grand hotel lobby. I haven’t smelled lilies since my father’s death, and I have the same pit in my stomach now as I did during Daddy’s funeral.
We’re at one of the most elegant hotels on South Beach. This building didn’t even exist when I lived here during college. I hazily recall reading about how some midcentury modern, 1950s-era motel was razed to make way for this luxurious new resort. So Florida, in every way—always changing and never acknowledging the past.
The evening’s event is a charity ball supporting at-risk kids. Rafa donated a six-figure sum and is obligated to attend.
“It’s a pain, Justi, but I have to. We have to.” He nuzzles my cheek. “I’d rather be with you alone, on the sofa, watching a movie.”
His words make me feel good for a second, but I still think the entire event is a charade.
The photographers acting like paparazzi for the minor local celebrities are inane. The way the overdressed and silicone-enhanced women strut down a makeshift red carpet seems ridicu
lous. The flaunting of so much wealth, some of it ill-gained through drugs or money laundering or fraud, is downright repulsive. The hotel is carefully minimalist, a trite attempt at fake class.
My mood is growing darker by the minute.
I try to smile, but I know it’s coming off as forced. It’s difficult for me not to show emotions on my face, and if I feel bitchy, I look bitchy.
“You look so fucking beautiful tonight, babe.” Rafa’s thumb trails down my spine. The fiery red Zac Posen gown Rafael bought me is stunning. The neckline plunges low, revealing cleavage, and the back’s cut low, too. A long hem flows around my gold, strappy heels. My hair tonight is long and silky straight. But as sexy as I feel, I know I’m out of place in this world. Even though St. Augustine is only five hours away by car—or thirty minutes by the private jet—it’s an entirely different planet than Miami Beach.
I’m an alien in this world.
Rafa senses my discomfort. He kisses my temple. “Mi cielo, you have nothing to worry about. You’re here with me.”
He, of course, is at ease in his black tuxedo and keeps a possessive arm around my waist as we walk to the party entrance, past giant flower sprays and women on pedestals who appear to be naked save for gold body paint.
Rafael is instantly recognized by the reporters gathered along the carpet, and he steers us to stand in front of a backdrop emblazoned with the charity’s logo. The photographers snap away.
“Miss, miss, smile right over here,” one of the photographers hollers.
“Rafa!” another yells, and I’m taken aback to see him grinning expertly. He points to one of the photographers and calls out his name.
He squeezes my waist with his hand and propels me toward one camera, then another, and finally we’re released from the vice grip of the flashbulbs.
“Was that so bad?” He leans in for a kiss.
I shrug. It’s not that it’s bad. Or good. It’s not me.
We drink champagne and circulate around the party, which is held on an outdoor terrace overlooking Miami’s glittering skyline. This is what the new rich look like, all expensive shopping and fake smiles. For some reason, this reminds me that my newspaper is failing and my mood grows even worse. I hate feeling bitter, but I am.
