“Come back soon, young man,” she said mischievously, “especially if you break up with that girlfriend.”
There happened to be several taxis in the parking lot, so it took less than ten minutes to get to Amada’s house. This time my driver was a middle-aged man from Caracas, so we chatted the whole way. “How are things in Venezuela these days?” I offered him some Cuban crackers and listened to him talk about how the country had been in complete chaos since Chavez died. As we traveled south down 42nd Ave, it was interesting note how the landscape changed from small, industrial buildings with iron bars on the windows to statelier, Spanish tile roofed houses and large, palm tree lined streets. I counted three Bentleys and countless Mercedes as the driver told me how people in his country were sneaking across the border to Colombia looking for food. I remembered Venezuela well because it was one of the places in the world Cuban doctors maintained a permanent presence, but I hadn’t been there for about five years. Hugo Chavez and Castro had been like-minded friends, so I’d been to South America many times.
The driver turned down a small side street called Old Cutler Road, and for a moment I thought he might be lost or up to something because it seemed like we were going into the woods or somewhere very remote.
“Are you sure this is the way?” I asked, ready to react if I didn’t like his answer.
“Definitely. I’ve been down here many times. I used to drive for a car service and lots of celebrities live here. Heh, wait until you see these mansions. They’re palaces.”
Soon there were no more houses, just the small two lane road we were on and what seemed like endless concrete block walls and thick hedges. I rolled the window down to get a better look and was surprised by the strong smell and sound of the ocean, which had to be very close even though I couldn’t see it.
We took a left turn at a rather plain, nondescript sign that read “Gablesworth, North Entrance” and rather abruptly arrived at a little house that reminded me of a police checkpoint. “Don’t worry,” said the driver, sensing my anxiety. “It’s nothing like that.” Apparently I wasn’t the only one in the car who knew what it was like to be stopped by the military at gunpoint.
An aloof guard asked for both our driver’s licenses and took them back into the booth. I had no idea what he was doing with them, but as he handed mine back, he looked at me carefully as if to remember my face and then waved us through. At first, I saw nothing. It was like driving through an expansive, manicured park, but the only people we saw were armies of landscapers on either side of the road. They were everywhere, trimming bushes and branches, blowing grass off the road, and mowing grass that looked perfect already. There was even more activity outside a series of buildings set back least a quarter mile on the right.
“That’s the Gablesworth Club. It costs over one hundred thousand dollars to become a member. Can you imagine?” We passed two SUVs parked on the side of the road leading to the club, and my driver looked in the mirror and gave me a warning. “This neighborhood has 24 hour armed security, night vision cameras, and constant surveillance, so keep that in mind. The Coral Gables Police practically lives here. Don’t go one mile over the speed limit or they’ll be all over you.”
As we made our way through the neighborhood, we drove past a dozen houses, each one larger and more impressive than the one before. Each mansion had something unique about it beyond its size, whether it was a statue in the front yard, an eye catching water feature, or just a perfect lawn the size of a soccer field.
“Incredible,” I said to myself out loud.
“Hah, this is nothing. You need to see all these houses from the back. Every single one has a yacht parked right behind it.” Just before he took a hairpin turn to the right, he pointed to another concrete wall directly ahead of us and said, “The ocean is five hundred feet that way.”
He passed another four houses and stopped in front of a massive gate, the last one at the very end of the street. The little call box was barely visible from between the ivy covering yet another block wall.
“Here it is, partner. We going in the front or the back?”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking around, surprised there was more than one entrance.
“Well, if you have a code, punch it in, but if not, we need to go to the service entrance.”
I leaned out the window and punched in the code Amada had given me. The gates made a whirring sound and opened slowly, revealing a long, winding driveway of blush-colored concrete pavers, leading up like a lazy river to an ivy-covered Mediterranean style house so vast I could see one side but not the other. Amada’s house was set on a peninsula, so that the property, at least an acre, was framed by Biscayne Bay on all but one side. It was utterly breathtaking, a setting so fantastic and absurdly romantic, especially now at sunset, that it didn’t seem real. The driver guided the cab around the massive fountain in the center of the circle drive and came as close as he could to the front entrance. I grabbed my bag and the food and stepped out onto the driveway, bowled over. After I paid the fare and the tip, the driver shook my hand and gave me his card, instructing me to call him directly if I ever needed another ride. “Ask for Octavio. Everyone at Varadero knows me. Good luck.”
It was at least twenty feet to the loggia, and overwhelmed by the sheer size of everything around me, I approached gingerly, wondering how I could possibly knock on the fifteen foot tall wooden doors without hurting my hand. What a strange day this has been.
Luckily, I didn’t have to hunt around for the doorbell because one of the doors swung open and there stood my Amada, tiny and even more beautiful than when I left her this morning. It had only been a few hours, but it felt like weeks since I’d seen her.
My first impulse was to go to her and give her a kiss, but I noticed she wasn’t smiling, and her demeanor was so odd that I didn’t move. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and she looked so sad that I set the bags down as carefully as I could and then opened my arms for her. The contrast between her beautiful home and her dark mood made me sad for her, too. She threw herself into my embrace and hugged me tight, burying her face in my chest.
“Rafa,” she said sorrowfully. “You came.”
“Baby, why are you crying?” Stroking her hair, I let her sob into my chest for a few seconds, then took her face in my hands and made her look at me. “Tell me,” I pleaded, wiping away her tears with my thumbs. God, she was going to break me.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said. “When you said it was over, I believed you.” Her big eyes and delicate, heart shaped face reminded me of a porcelain doll, making it impossible to look at her and not feel intensely. The same thing happened the night we met, which is why I ignored all common sense and showed up at her stateroom. Something about her stirred my emotions, and it pained me beyond words to see her this way.
I’d missed her terribly, but I always knew I could choose to see her, and deep down, I knew I would. She, on the other hand, had no idea if I would sail off, never to be heard from again. I thought about how I would have felt if the tables had been turned, and I realized that I would have been just as panicked, if not more. I hadn’t considered her feelings at all, only my own sense of pride, and if she’d run away from me, I would have fallen apart, too. The reality of what I’d done hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t know what to do other than use my body to soothe her, so I took her face in my hands again, but this time I kissed her the way I’d wanted to when she first opened the door, and because it was that way between us, she opened up for me like a flower.
CHAPTER FIVE
“My love, stop crying.” Mi amor, ya deja de llorar. He whispered in my ear the way he did the first night, knowing instinctively that he had to get that close for me to really hear him. We were still out front and I realized I hadn’t even invited him inside. I had to stop this insane crying or he would think I was a basket case, so I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand and kissed him on the cheek again to let him know I was alright.<
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“It’s fine now,” I said. Rafa was so handsome that I didn’t know what to do sometimes when I looked at him. It was so easy to get lost in those blue eyes and forget there was a real person inside. I was just as guilty as every other woman who had been hypnotized by his physical beauty, but there was so much more to him than that. There he stood, in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, tearing my heart apart. As a doctor and as a man, those blue eyes had seen so much. He had witnessed the beginning of life, the end of life, he had left his home, endured war, disaster, poverty, and abject loneliness, yet he had remained strong and helped so many, including me. And instead of admiring him for his capabilities, all day I had cried because I craved his lips, his hands, and his beautiful body on mine. I was a shallow woman driven only by my own carnal desires, and if I had ever been an intellectual, two days ago I ceased to be. I’d been humanized by the feverish need for his touch, and I hated myself for being so affected.
“I don’t think you’re fine, but you will be. I’ll fix it.” He took my hand and kissed it, then my forehead.
“Come on,” I said, leading him inside. I’d been home since ten thirty this morning, and almost eight hours later I hadn’t made it past the foyer and the front room. My bags from the trip were still piled up where the driver had left them, large cruise line tags still attached, and it was pretty clear that I hadn’t even turned on a light or opened a curtain anywhere in the house. Now that the sun was setting, the timed landscape lights had gone on, but the interior of the house was still dark. I turned on the majority of the first floor lights as I led him through the marbled entry and great room. I set the food and his overnight bag down in the kitchen, moving past the living room quickly so that he wouldn’t notice the open bottle of vodka next to the couch.
“Should we eat now?” I asked. “What did you bring?” He was strangely quiet, so I stopped rifling through the bags and looked up at him. “Rafa?”
“I can’t believe this is where you live,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never dreamed of anything like it.” He stood in place and looked around in every direction, amazed by the size and fittings of the house. It was over the top, unnecessarily so, but it was how my parents wanted it. Money had been no object, and Kieran and I hadn’t bothered to change anything. My mother had loved Carrara marble and glass chandeliers, so they were everywhere, and the main house alone was over twenty thousand square feet.
“Here, let me give you a tour,” I said. I took his hand and we walked through the entire house, flipping lights on and off as we went through each wing. We went down a level and started in the cellar, where I showed him Kieran’s extensive collection of Bordeaux, and from there we took the elevator up and walked through the dining room, the library, the unfurnished art gallery and the formal dining room. Upstairs, I showed him each of the nine guest bedrooms and ten bathrooms, ending the tour in the cavernous cream and white French provincial bedroom that many years ago had belonged to my parents.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll show you the grounds and the boat,” I said, pointing at the bay through the large window. Rafa looked uncomfortable as he stood in the center of the room, taking everything in. He still hadn’t said very much.
“You live here by yourself?” he asked quietly.
I rarely ever brought anyone back to the house, but when I did, they were usually awestruck. I wasn’t getting that from him now, though. He didn’t like it at all. In fact, I sensed a strong dislike.
“Yes, my brother has another wing, but he’s almost never here. Most of the time I’m alone.”
“This is your room? Your bed?” he asked, as if he was afraid to touch anything.
“Yes,” I said, reaching out. “You can sleep here or in any room you like. Sit down.”
“No, I’m in street clothes,” he said, looking around. “It doesn’t feel like you.”
“Why are you acting strangely now? You seemed so happy to see me.” My words snapped him out of whatever trance he was in, because for the first time since I brought him inside, he focused on me instead of the house.
“Amada, I don’t know where to begin. I’m thrilled to be with you, but there are no words for this place. The house is beautiful, but it’s a museum. You really live here all alone?” La casa es una belleza, pero es un museo. De verdad que vives aquí solita? He regarded me with such sympathy that the tears came again.
“It’s been in my family for generations. I don’t think about it.” I put my hand on his arm, seeking his touch, but clearly he was picking up on something that made him uncomfortable.
“How old is this house?”
“It was built in 1928.” He nodded, as if I had confirmed something.
“Amada, I don’t want to offend you, but I can’t stay.”
“Why not? You’re not leaving again, are you?” I prepared to unravel.
“No, baby, I meant we can’t stay. You’re coming with me.” He caressed my face and kissed me on the tip of my nose.
“Where?”
“All I know is we’re not sleeping here tonight.” I didn’t know what to make of his behavior, so I said nothing. I could see his mind working, and finally he spoke again, choosing his words carefully. “You were sitting in this house all day by yourself, drinking, without even opening a curtain or a window. All those suitcases are still packed, and I’m sure you haven’t even thought about eating. Of course you were hysterical by the time I got here. This is a palace for a hundred people, not one woman. That’s why you take so many trips.”
He looked around again decisively, as if he’d just had an epiphany, and walked the twenty feet or so across the carpet to my closet. I heard him fumbling for the light switch.
“It’s a chain right above you,” I called out. He found it and the room flooded with light.
“Pack a bag,” he said, still deep in the other room. “Tonight we’re staying at a hotel, and then we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.” He stepped back out into the bedroom, holding one of my oldest Versace dresses, a barely there scrap of scarlet red fabric. “Wear this, and put on some red lipstick, mamita. We have to go out.”
Even though he wasn’t thrilled about the house, it delighted me to see him here in my environment, among my personal things. My heart swelled with affection for him.
“I have to take a shower first,” I said. “I’m still sticky.”
“If you must.” He looked at my thighs and smiled, remembering why.
***
Rafa told me we were going to a Latin club in Little Havana called The Copper Crown. Before we left, Rafa ate and changed into a fresh shirt and dress pants, while I showered and put on the red dress he chose for me. I never wore red lipstick, but I found some in my vanity drawer, and I had to say it looked nice. I pinned my hair back on one side and slipped into my sexiest high-heeled sandals.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I found Rafa bent over with his back to me, filling the refrigerator with food. My heels clicked on the marble floors as I walked slowly across the kitchen, and as I came closer, he straightened up but didn’t turn around. “Stop right there,” he said, “or that dress is going to end up on the floor.”
Rafa went to call a cab, but I told him that would be silly considering we had five cars at our disposal. He regarded me with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief when I told him to go down to the garage and choose the car he liked best. To my surprise, he passed up the two Jaguars, the Ferrari and my Lexus and picked me up at the front door in the black Range Rover, and when I got in I noticed that he’d tossed our bags, a few bottles of Evian and a box of pastries in the back, all the essentials we’d need to stay out for the night. In the car, Rafa visibly relaxed and turned on the radio, settling on a classic rock station. It was almost nine and the city lights glittered all around us, but I noticed them only because I was with Rafa. I closed my eyes and let the music of my beloved Led Zeppelin wash over me.
“I love Miami,” he said thoughtfully. I enjoyed watching
him scan the road and control the Rover with ease, and it only made me wish we’d taken out the Ferrari instead. “That reminds me. I kept your letter, but I left the check and the cash in your dresser drawer. I love that you want to help me, but that is never, ever going to happen.”
“Rafa—”
“No, listen to me, sweetheart. We have lot to talk about, but at the top of the list is the following: I am not taking any money from you, and I am not going to be your employee. My money is ours, and your money is yours. That’s the way it will always be. Always. Do you understand?”
“No, I really don’t because—”
“Do you like the way I make love to you?” He took his eyes off the road for a second and shot me a stern look. His usually sweet blue eyes narrowed considerably, revealing a few deep lines between his brows.
“Excuse me?” This was certainly not a topic I expected to discuss in the car, but he was full of surprises.
“Answer the question.”
I thought for a second. “You make love like Led Zeppelin sounds, Rafa.”
“Judging by the way you look listening to that song, I’ll take that as a yes.” He put the blinker on and sped ahead of another car to take the next exit, then turned his attention back to me once we merged onto the highway.
“Most definitely yes. Isn’t it obvious?” I crossed my legs suggestively and turned my body in his direction.
“Good. Let me tell you why you like it so much. It’s because I put you first. Sexually, physically and emotionally. I hold myself responsible for your happiness, and accepting money from you goes completely against that philosophy. I don’t care what other people think of my opinion. Even if it’s archaic, that’s just how it is for me. It’s not negotiable.”
The Cuban Page 9
