"What?"
"Rebecca told me you had a poster of Che Guevara."
"Ay, Diós mio."
"I wondered how it was that Rebecca Dixon had seen the inside of your apartment."
"And now you know. What else did she tell you?"
"Nothing—except she seemed familiar with your family history."
"It was a long time ago."
"Let's see. Twenty years ago I was fourteen, in ninth grade. Very skinny, with long straight hair. I wore knee socks and clogs. Jimmy Carter was president. What else was going on in the world? Disco? The first Star Wars movie?" Gail traced a line down Anthony's long nose, then around his full lips. "I was wondering about something."
"You always are."
"You spent three years at the University of Miami majoring in philosophy, correct? And then you went to New York and graduated in business. With only a year to go?"
"I wanted to get out of Miami and see the world."
"Come on. You're too sensible."
"Now, yes. Then—" He smiled. "I was young. My grandfather and I had argued again, and I wanted to get away for a while. So I went to NYU, then law school at Columbia. Married, had two kids, moved back to Miami, divorced. Then I met you. The story of my life. And here we are." He rolled toward her. "Guess what I want now."
She moved her hands lightly over the muscles in his back. His skin was like satin. "There's a lot about you I don't know."
"Nothing important."
"Would you tell me if I asked?"
"Not tonight." He kissed each corner of her mouth. "Tonight we're going to do something else."
"Anthony—"
"Shh. No more talking."
CHAPTER THREE
In winter Miami International Airport became a chaps of cars, tour buses and taxis, exhaust fumes and police whistles. Long lines formed at ticket counters. Aviateca, Aeroflot, Lacsa, Taca, Lufthansa, Halisa, Varig— humanity flowing in all directions.
Gail and her mother maneuvered toward Concourse E, where the 3:15 p.m. American Airlines flight would arrive from Puerto Rico, bringing Karen from her winter break as a ten-year-old first mate on her father's sailboat charter cruises. She had called a few times to say what a great time she was having. How selfish of me, Gail had , thought, hanging up the phone, to have hoped that Karen hadn't sounded quite so happy. What if she decided to stay with her father? What if he wooed her with sailboats and snorkeling and going to school barefoot on an island? Dave was not happy about the prospect of Karen's having a stepfather, particularly this one. Oh, Gail. A Cuban? Are you nuts?
On their way to the airport Gail had told her mother about the scene at the Dixons' apartment two nights ago, and her assignment to speak to Thomas Nolan. Who was he? What was the right way to approach him?
Irene Strickland Connor was the best source of information about anyone connected to the Miami Opera. A debutante in her day, and a member of Young Patronesses of the Opera (now defunct), Irene had been on the board for years. Comfortable but by no means wealthy, she worked like a bee collecting her required $10,000 a year from willing donors. This put her in the office frequently, where she would hear all sorts of tales. Her small stature, curly red hair, and innocent blue eyes made people want to talk to her. And she never revealed anything said in confidence-except to her dearest trusted friends, and of course her daughter.
"Let's see what I can tell you. Tom Nolan is thirty-five. Never married. As far as I can tell, he's unattached. He was born in Miami, did you know that? He left as a boy, though, and grew up in Virginia."
Irene stepped back to avoid a businessman running full tilt with his suit bag. She was quick on her feet today in a pair of bright yellow sneakers.
"He's spending the winter season with us. Most of the lead singers we hire fly in, stay for a few weeks during rehearsals and performance, then leave, but Tom is here for the semester, teaching classes at New World. That means he's approachable," Irene concluded.
"That's something," Gail said. "What's he like?"
"It's hard to say. He's very quiet. He can be charming, but there's a . . . distance. I've met quite a few famous people, and they seem so aware of being observed. Tom gave me that impression—he's always onstage playing the role of opera singer. Oh, they're like anybody else once you get to know them, but it must be hard, traveling so much, trying to please total strangers."
Irene checked her watch, then offered to buy Gail a soda at the cafeteria, lit up with neon and bustling with travelers.
"Listen, I've been meaning to ask you," Irene said, putting away the change. "In addition to a birthday gift for Mr. Pedrosa, I'd like to take his wife something, too. But maybe they don't do hostess gifts. I was thinking about some flowers from my backyard. What's the etiquette?"
Digna Maria Betancourt de Pedrosa, Anthony's elegant, platinum-haired grandmother, had invited Gail's family to join them for her husband's, Ernesto's, eighty-fourth birthday. Bring everyone, she had said. Irene had taken Señora de Pedrosa at her word. She had phoned relatives all over the state. Six of them had promised to fly or drive down for the event, which Irene was starting to refer to as an engagement party.
"Flowers," Gail said. "That would be good, but put them in a nice vase. A very nice vase. Maybe Baccarat crystal."
"What? Oh, my. No, that's too extravagant. They'd think we were showing off."
"This is upper-crust Cuban society, Mom. They'll love it."
"If you say so."
"They will. Take a look at the clothes and the jewelry at the party."
Irene swept her eyes over what Gail was wearing: sneakers and jeans and a Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt.
"I know, I know," Gail said. "Anthony's the peacock, not me."
They continued toward the arrival gates with their drinks. "You know, darling, you and Anthony shouldn't leave things to the last minute."
"Things?"
"Wedding plans. You don't even have an engagement ring."
"We haven't had time to look."
"No time to look for a house, either?"
"We've seen a few, but nothing we liked. Mom, it's six months away."
"How do you know, if you haven't set a date?" Irene poked her straw farther down in the cup and took another sip. "Is everything all right?"
"Of course."
"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
"It's wonderful. We're crazy about each other. Anthony refuses to move into a house that I once lived in with a former husband, and I agree." Gail added, "We're giving Karen time to adjust. She doesn't like change. It could be a disaster if we got married right away, moved into a new house in a strange neighborhood, and expected Karen to go along quietly. We'll wait till her school is out for the summer."
Irene nodded. "She seems to like him well enough."
"She does. And he likes her."
Gail stopped to study the monitors for Concourse E. "I don't see the flight from San Juan—Oh, wait. There it is. Expected on time." She gazed down the long corridor, which was blocked by X-ray machines and security personnel. Departing passengers were lined up at the metal detectors, and arrivals hurried toward baggage claim.
"Don't worry," Irene said. "She'll be with an escort. We won't miss her. Look what I found—a new Beanie Baby." She held up a green and orange lizard with splayed toes and shiny black eyes. "Isn't he cute?"
"Perfect. God know what she's going to try to sneak home in her suitcase. A boa constrictor. I can't wait to see her."
"I miss her, too." Irene tucked the toy into her pocket. "What do we do if somebody mentions Tom Nolan at the party next weekend?"
"They won't. The Pedrosas are too well-mannered to bring it up. Besides, Anthony and his grandfather have learned to avoid hot topics. That may be the only Cuban house in Miami where politics is not discussed—at least when Anthony walks through the door." Gail finished her soda. "Speaking of Tom Nolan, what do you think Rebecca wants to do about him? She says one thing, then another. She's president of the board. She'll h
ave to make up her mind."
"What she wants," Irene said, "is to survive. She'll do whatever is best for the opera, but there are so many egos to stroke. Not everyone is happy with her. Try to help her if you can."
Gail hesitated before asking the next one. "Is she having an affair with Seth Greer?" There was no immediate gasp of shock from her mother, only the wide blue eyes quietly demanding to know where that information had come from. Gail shrugged. "I saw the way he looked at her at the meeting."
"I've heard talk," Irene said in a low voice, "but it seems so unlikely. If her husband knew—!"
"How did Lloyd and Rebecca meet?"
"At the Biscayne Bay Yacht Club, I think. Lloyd is quite a sailor. There was a party after the Columbus Day Regatta ten years ago, and Lloyd took one look at Rebecca and told her, you're the one I want. He wasn't rich then, not like now. Rebecca was already married to an older man named Arthur Halliwell. Arthur's dad was a business partner of my father, in fact, and he shot himself over some scandal with a secretary, but that's another story."
As if someone might be listening, Irene came closer and put a hand on Gail's arm. "Anyway, Lloyd wanted Rebecca, and he went after her. He called her on the phone, sent her flowers—Well, Arthur threatened to cause a big stink. The story is, Lloyd went by Arthur's office to talk about it. No fights, no shouting. Lloyd came out, and within a week Arthur resigned from the bank, signed the divorce papers, and retired to Palm Springs. Rebecca never heard from him again."
"My God."
"You're not to breathe a word of this," Irene said.
When she was a girl Gail had overheard the women of her mother's bridge club talking while they played cards. They met at Irene Strickland Connor's house one Saturday, then the next week somewhere else, and so on. They would sit at three or four tables on the back terrace if the weather was good, and Gail could hear them from her bedroom window. They would have sandwiches and salad and get up from time to time to freshen their drinks, and the cards—and the stories—would go around and around.
One diamond. Why doesn't she throw him out, is what I want to know . . . One heart. She can't. She's expecting again. . . . Oh, my God. One spade. . . . She must have done it on purpose. . . . Two clubs . . . Two spades. And why should she just let him go, after what he's put her through? . . . Pass . . . What do you mean, pass? . . . Oops, I mean three spades. . . . He'll leave her, you watch. A man like that never changes—
Even as young as she was then, Gail could see the conflicts in the stories, how one version often contradicted another. There never seemed to be a resolution, only another chapter, another interpretation. Gail had propped her chin on the windowsill, listening, trying to make sense of it. She had finally come to the conclusion that these women just liked to talk. They were like the birds that fluttered out past the screen, twittering because it was their nature.
She might have continued to hold that view if she had not seen more twittering in the courtroom. Lawyers, witnesses, judges, all sure they had the real story. All going at it, wham wham wham. Power takes the prize. Gail had to hand it to the women of the Saturday bridge club—they were more willing to have their stories shaped, modified, or even discarded. Add to it, subtract, turn it over, look at it a new way. Around and around. The truth somewhere in the middle, spinning a foot or two above the table, only glimpsed, rarely fixed.
Irene denied that this was gossip. No, these were actual events happening to people she knew and cared for. They told stories not to gloat but to understand, and Irene had always said you never know a person until you know his past.
"Tell me more about Rebecca. Where is she from?"
"Her people are from Atlanta. You can hear it sometimes in her voice. Her father was in construction, but he died young. Betty Ott—you know Betty— was friends with Rebecca's mother through the Theater Guild, before she passed away. This is going back several years, now. Betty told me that Rebecca was one of those girls who knew everything, and she caused her mother no end of trouble. But she had brains. Rebecca was admitted to medical school, and she started classes, but all of a sudden she dropped out. Rebecca's mother told everyone, Oh, she changed her mind. But Betty remembers Rebecca sitting on the back porch alone. Just sitting there. If she had a book, it would be closed on her lap. This went on for weeks and weeks. It had to have been some kind of breakdown. Something terrible happened. A tragic love affair. Maybe she had to end a pregnancy. That's what Betty thinks. Of course Rebecca won't talk about it, and Betty would never pry. So after this thing happened, whatever it was, and she left medical school, and had her breakdown, she married Arthur, who was much too old. And then Lloyd Dixon came along. He made a pile of money with his cargo company, and Rebecca could have anything she wanted—except children. She was never able to conceive. Lloyd's not very nice to her. He must be difficult to live with. I don't think she has a happy life."
Rebecca's story—with so much left out. Which parts had really happened? Could the truth ever be fixed, or only guessed at?
At the meeting at the Dixons' apartment Gail had seen Seth Greer, half-hidden behind the open top of the baby grand, watching Lloyd Dixon's wife. But did that mean love? They had lived together when they were young, and had loved each other then, Gail supposed.
Chunky, gray-haired Seth Greer, wisecracking and stumbling over melodies on the piano. A world away from representing the indigent. And Rebecca had never become what she wanted, either. What turn had their story taken? What tragedy? But he still loved her. Gail wanted that to be the ending.
She jumped slightly when her mother grabbed her arm and pointed toward the stream of passengers emerging from the concourse—some speaking Spanish, others with tourist tans, some wearing T-shirts from Puerto Rico.
They moved forward. With her height, Gail could see better than Irene, who stood on her toes. The people streamed past. Gail looked, and looked. "What if she missed the flight?"
"She couldn't have."
"I should have called Dave."
"No, he'd have called you if she wasn't on it."
"Well, where is she?"
There, walking alongside one of the flight attendants. Karen. She seemed taller and browner, a gawky girl in shorts and big sneakers, ten years old, her sun-streaked hair hanging down from a baseball cap. Bright blue eyes swept over the crowd.
"Karen! Sweetie, over here!"
The bill of the baseball cap turned quickly. "Mom! Gramma!" Karen ran across the lobby, dropped her bag, and launched herself into Gail's arms.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was almost ten in the morning when Gail pulled into her space in the parking garage. The upside of having your own business, she told herself, was being able to take your kid out to breakfast on a Monday morning. Drive her to school instead of sending her off on the bus. Then linger at the curb to watch her run to catch up with her friends. Still be there when she turned around to wave goodbye. And after that, make a bank deposit, drop off some dry cleaning, and go by the computer store. At Hartwell Black & Robineau, Gail would have been at her desk for two hours already.
There was a downside, of course. Hartwell Black had been in business since the twenties. Gail A. Connor, Attorney at Law, P.A., had opened for business only three weeks ago. Gail had time to run errands today only because there were no trials, no depositions, and nothing that she couldn't put off until Tuesday. Except for speaking to Thomas Nolan. She would do that after lunch.
Sometimes Gail would imagine the clicking of pulleys and gears, and the laughter of crowds down on the midway, and seeing only sky with her back pressed against the seat like that, and her sweaty hands on the bar, hoping to God that the old leather belt they'd strapped her in with would hold. At Hartwell Black she had specialized in complex commercial litigation, and still had some leftover cases to finish, but they would soon be over. She did pro bono work for charities to make a good name for herself, and friends sent things her way. Even so, it would be some time before she would turn a profit. Anthon
y had said that if she ever needed help—No, no, I'll be fine.
When she came in, her secretary, Miriam Ruiz, was kneeling on the floor putting files into the bottom drawer of a cabinet. She scrambled up to take the bags out of Gail's hands. "Hi. What's this? Oh, good, you got the accounting software. How is Karen? Is she glad to be home?"
"Very glad. She brought you something—from Dominica, I believe." Gail found it in her purse, a tiny box wrapped in pink paper, tied with a bow.
"Ohhhh—" Miriam unwrapped the package and withdrew earrings made of shells on gold wires. "That is so sweet. I'm going to put them on right now." She took a mirror out of a drawer. At five feet and a hundred pounds, with long curly brown hair, Miriam looked more like a high school girl than a young woman of twenty-two.
She held back her hair and made the earrings swing and rattle. "I love them!"
"Que cute," Gail agreed. "Karen brought me a necklace with a shark's tooth. I should wear it to court." She picked her messages out of the giant plastic paper clip on Miriam's desk and shuffled through them. Nothing. Nothing. Do tomorrow. Return this call. Then one from Anthony. He would pick her up at home at 5:45 to look at a house. Gail showed it to Miriam. "Is this all he said? To look at a house? Where?"
"I don't know. He had to go right back into court. He said he'd try to call later."
Gail flipped through the messages again. "Nothing from Thomas Nolan?"
The New World School of the Arts had informed her that Mr. Nolan was holding a master class for vocal students at two o'clock, and could usually be found in the building before that. Gail had left word that she would come by.
"There were some calls, but nobody with that name. Who is he?"
"An opera singer." Gail pulled up the extra chair. "Let me get your thoughts on something. Thomas Nolan has been hired to do the lead in Don Giovanni for the Miami Opera. Two years ago he sang in Havana. Do you think that's going to be a problem?"
Miriam looked at her blankly, then said, "What do you mean?"
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