Gail found Rebecca in the lobby checking brochures that the young woman behind the reception desk was preparing to label and mail. The Opera Guild was sponsoring a program of lectures designed to pull in more donors.
Rebecca noticed Gail, smiled quickly at her, then told the girl to take messages, she would be in conference with Ms. Connor. Rebecca herself disappeared for a moment, then came back putting on her long white sweater. She pulled her shoulder-length hair free of the collar.
"Come with me, Gail. I need some fresh air." She unfolded a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses.
Once past the double glass doors at the entrance, Gail said, "I'm going to recommend that you hire a security guard to patrol the building." She explained the latest from WRCL. "If it means anything," she added, "I spoke to your husband in the rehearsal room. He said he had no objection."
Rebecca frowned. "Why didn't you just ask me? Lloyd doesn't have anything to do with running the opera."
"Well, I'm sorry," Gail said. "But what about the security guard?"
"I don't know. I don't think I have the authority to hire people."
"Of course you do," Gail said. "The executive committee has the power to take emergency action. You're the president."
"I could call Jeffrey Hopkins," Rebecca finally said. "I'll see what he thinks, but Jeffrey is so tight with money."
They walked to the corner to cross four lanes of Biscayne Boulevard, then took one of the smaller streets that led toward the bay. The sky was blue and cloudless. A front had come through last night, leaving temperatures close to fifty. In the wool suit she had worn to court this morning, with a scarf at her neck, Gail was warm enough. The wind sailed a scrap of newspaper along the sidewalk. She was on the point of mentioning the investigation of Thomas Nolan when Rebecca spoke.
"Gail, I need some advice. Legal advice. Please don't tell anyone. Not even Anthony."
"As long as it doesn't involve him—"
"It's about Lloyd. Do you . . . handle divorces?"
"Oh, Rebecca. I'm so sorry. Are you sure?"
"I've been thinking about it for a while." The wind whirled Rebecca's hair across her face.
Gail said, "I do primarily commercial litigation. I could handle a divorce, but for this marriage, I'd recommend an expert. Isn't there any way you and Lloyd could work it out?"
The bright sunlight accented her sharp features— the thin nose and small pointed chin. "We aren't suited. We never were."
"You must have loved him at one time," Gail said.
A weary laugh came from Rebecca Dixon. "I'm going to say some things that I hope you will keep private. Do you know why I married him, Gail? Because I couldn't take care of myself. That's the truth. My first marriage failed because . . . well, I got into a little problem with pills. Nobody knew, because I man-} aged to keep up appearances, but I felt like I was getting hollow, and that any minute I'd cave in. I carded but I didn't. It's hard to explain. Anyway, Lloyd came along. And Arthur? Well, he pretended to be shattered, and then he was gone. I really can't blame him. Lloyd took me to a clinic in England."
Gail remembered the story her mother had told her. It had been more than slightly inaccurate. "If you divorced Lloyd, what would you do?"
"Get out of Florida. Live in a small house. Read books and tend a garden."
Acorn caps crunched underfoot. They walked along a sidewalk that curved north, Miami Beach lying to the east, a causeway ahead of them. Small apartment buildings lined the inland side of the street.
"Rebecca, that sounds peaceful, but it isn't much of a life. You'd be bored in a week."
"I'd find something. I'm certainly not part of Lloyd's life. Except for music, we have nothing in common. We went to the opera in Moscow, and he left me in the hotel for three days. When he got back he had a cracked rib and a huge lump on his head. Lloyd just laughed about it and told me not to worry. He's out there having himself a grand old time. I can't deal with it anymore."
Gail let out a breath. "I see. Well, I'm going to give you the name of a friend who's an expert in marital law—"
"No, not yet. Let me think what I want to do. I'm not sure." She suddenly put a hand to her forehead, laughing at herself. "Listen to me. I can't make up my mind about anything. Seth keeps
telling me, Becky, leave him. You're in a swamp, get out. It's like someone shouting to you in a dream. It's impossible to move." The dark glasses turned toward Gail. "Seth and I have been friends for a long time. You know that, don't you? He said he talked to you.
"Yes." Gail let it go at that. Seth Greer had denied they were romantically involved, but she preferred not to ask. "Let me know what you decide to do. I'll help if I can."
They walked for a while, then Gail said, "I wanted to bring you up to date on Tom Nolan." She repeated what Nolan had told her about his trip to Cuba, and said that she didn't really believe it. The issue was beginning to hit the talk stations, and the opera had to know the truth.
"You can expect that soon the Miami Herald and the TV stations are going to come around asking for an interview. It would be embarrassing if our facts were wrong. That's why I'd like to hire an investigator. We should make Jeffrey Hopkins aware, so I'll be calling him in New York, with your approval."
"An investigator? I doubt Jeffrey would pay for it."
"No, Anthony's paying. He says it's his gift to the opera."
"Well, hurrah," said Rebecca. "I thought he was deserting us entirely. Go ahead, then. Is Anthony finding somebody, or do we have to?"
Gail looked at her. "Didn't you talk to him? He said he would call you."
"I got a message yesterday and called back, but we've been missing each other. If he wanted to ask about the investigator, it's all right. Go ahead."
For a moment Gail hung on the edge of letting Anthony explain, but decided it didn't matter. "He told me about the trip to Nicaragua in 1978." Into the pause, Rebecca nodded. "The investigator is Felix Castillo. You met him there. He went back to Cuba, then came to Miami in 1980 in the Mariel boatlift. Anthony has used him on many criminal investigations. He's supposed to be quite good, and he still has contacts in Havana, so I have no doubt—"
She noticed that Rebecca had drifted to a stop.
"No doubt he can do the job. Rebecca?"
White-faced, Rebecca took hold of Gail's arm.
"Rebecca, are you all right?"
"Yes." She took several deep breaths. "I'm fine."
"I don't think so," Gail said.
"Really, I am. Let's go."
The street would curve around and come back out on the boulevard, so they kept walking. A gust of wind sent leaves and dust flying along the street. The debris whirled into a vortex, then vanished. Rebecca had recovered her firm, steady stride. Gail said, "Before I call the general director, I need to ask if you approve of Castillo. He'll want your opinion."
"Approve?" There was a hesitation. "I don't want to see Felix Castillo or hear from him. Otherwise . . . all right. Call Jeffrey. Tell him it's necessary."
"Look, if there's some problem with Castillo, what is it? If I'm going to be working with him, give me a clue."
Rebecca made a dismissive wave of her hand. "Felix is all right. I just don't like being reminded."
"Of what?"
That brought a smile. The wind blew from behind them, and her hair danced around her face. "Oh, this is priceless. He hasn't told you a damn thing, has he? Felix was in Nicaragua with us."
"I know."
"Oh, you do. Have you ever seen a bloated body lying in the open? I have. It was horrible. We got out of there as soon as we could. It was hard because we had no transportation. Try hitchhiking in a situation like that. You just don't know who's going to pick you up. You should have seen us. We looked like guerrillas! Picture me—right?—in men's cutoff army pants and a filthy T-shirt with my hair cut short. Anthony spoke Spanish fluently, so he managed to steal or beg food. We slept anywhere we could. On the ground if we had to. And God, the rain! I was so exhausted
. We all were, and sick of each other, but Anthony said he would leave us if we stopped. And he would have, too.
"Seth and I don't talk about it anymore, but in a strange way, it holds us together. When I was in that clinic in England, I told Lloyd about it. I wish I hadn't. I would like to forget it ever happened. Anyway. There we all were again last Friday, Seth and Anthony and me in the same room—I didn't sleep at all that night. The bones were rising from the earth." She tossed her hair back from her face and laughed again. "In a manner of speaking."
Stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, they looked at each other.
"Gail, your eyes are as big as saucers." Before Gail could respond, Rebecca spun around and headed up the sidewalk. "Come on. Let's go back. I have things to do."
As they pushed open the glass door, Gail heard the excited babble of voices. The receptionist was bent over her knees on the sofa, red-faced and crying. Irene was trying to calm her down, and two other women argued back and forth about whether or not to call the police. The girl said this was too much, she was scared, she wanted to go home.
"What happened?" Gail said to Irene.
"Another phone call. The third one in the last fifteen minutes."
Rushing to the sofa, Rebecca sat down in a whirl of white cashmere and took the girl's hands. "What did they say? Tell me."
"It was in Spanish. He's going to kill me, kill all of us. We should die!" From the reception desk the phone started ringing, and the girl jumped. "No quiero contestarlo. Somebody else answer it. I can't."
"Bastards," Gail muttered. "Bastards!" On the next ring she grabbed for it, her heart thudding. "Miami Opera ... Just a moment, please." She released a breath, then held the receiver out to her mother. "It's for you, returning your call about the tour for the high school."
Irene said she would take it in the other room. Her blue eyes snapped with anger, and she marched off, business as usual, her little pumps pounding on the tile floor.
Gail took Rebecca aside. "We were discussing a security guard. You might consider changing your mind."
Wearily Rebecca nodded, then asked the other women to answer the phones while she got some estimates from security companies. She said to the receptionist, "We'll have someone here from now on, just in case. You can come back tomorrow if you want, and I'll make sure you get paid for today."
The young woman said she was all right now. She returned to her chair and began stamping envelopes where she had left off.
CHAPTER NINE
After dinner on Friday, Karen said she would teach Anthony to play Spit while Gail took a shower. Wearing jeans and a long T-shirt, Gail came back through the kitchen to make some coffee. She heard the sound of cards snapping onto a table in the family room.
Karen's voice said, "If I had my own stereo, then I wouldn't have to be in here making noise when you and Mom want to talk."
Anthony replied, "You aren't a bother."
"Well, she tells me all the time to turn it down. If I had a stereo in my room, then I could listen to music in there, and you guys could be out here."
Gail peered around the corner. Anthony sat forward on the edge of the sofa, and Karen was cross-legged on a floor pillow, the coffee table between them. Karen's sunstreaked hair hung down her back. Her thin arm flashed back and forth, dropping cards, picking them up.
"The problem is, Mom won't get me one. She says I have to pay for it myself."
"I see." Anthony shuffled through the cards in his hand. "You have an allowance, no?"
"Ten dollars a week. It would take forever"
"What about your chores in the house?"
"She won't give me any money at all unless everything is done. I want to start a corporation and do odd jobs for people."
"Like what?"
"I could wash car windows. I could wash the windows in your car."
"Well, I'm very particular." Anthony snapped down a card. So did Karen, then another. "It has to be a good job. How much do you charge?"
"Those are pretty big windows. Plus the sunroof."
"What about . . . five dollars. Two extra for the chrome."
"Okay. Next time you're here, I'll do it." Karen suddenly shrieked and bounced on the pillow. "Spit! Spit!"
Anthony tossed his cards and moved a quarter across the table.
Gail leaned over to kiss Karen on top of the head. "Time to get ready for bed, sweetie."
"Mom! It's Friday!"
"And we're having an early breakfast at Gramma's house. Go on, brush your teeth, I'll be right there."
"I have no life," she muttered. She dropped the playing cards into their box and scraped some quarters and dimes into her palm.
Anthony reached across the table to pat her cheek. "Good night, Karen."
"Night." Then an angelic smile appeared. She came around the table and kissed him on the cheek. "Buenas noches." She bounced off the sofa and skipped toward the hall.
Watching her go, Gail said quietly, "I heard that little conversation about your car windows. Be careful. She wants her own phone, too."
"Karen says she's going out with a boy at school. I didn't want to say anything to her. Did you know this?"
"His name is Bobby."
"She's only ten years old."
"Listen, 'going out' means sitting together at lunch and calling each other on the phone. You hear these long silences, but neither one wants to be the first to hang up. It's perfectly innocent."
"I guess so."
"I'll be back in a minute."
He stopped her with a slow smile and a tug on the hem of her Miami Hurricanes T-shirt. "Put something else on."
"What's the matter, you're not a 'Canes fan?"
Of course she knew what he meant. After tucking Karen in, Gail changed into a soft cotton dress that buttoned up the front. She put a touch of perfume at the low neckline.
When she came back, Anthony was listening to the radio so intently he didn't notice she was behind him. It wasn't music but a talk show in Spanish, the volume turned so low Gail had not heard it until she came into the room. The thin voice of an older man said, "Repugnante . . . un insulto a la comunidad cubana."
Then the host replied. Gail recognized the voice immediately: Octavio Reyes. His convoluted sentences made translation difficult. Yes, an insult to permit a man to sing who has performed for the dictatorship. Arrogancia. The arrogance of the Miami opera not to—not to—
"Anthony, what is he saying?" He looked quickly around. "No, don't turn it off. What's he saying?"
"He says the opera and its supporters arrogantly refuse to acknowledge the suffering of our people-meaning the people in Cuba."
The two of them looked at the blue digital display as if Reyes's face might appear. Gail had seen him at Ernesto Pedrosa's house, once at a family dinner and more recently on Christmas Eve. Gail remembered an expensive suit, silver-rimmed glasses, and steel-gray hair combed back from his forehead.
Another call. "Buenas noches, está en el aire."
"Octavio?"
"Sí, señora, está en el WRCL. Adelante."
"Que barbaridad, que la opera invitó a una persona comunista a nuestra ciudad. "
"Estoy de acuerdo, señora—"
Anthony hit a button and the room went silent. He continued to stare at the radio.
Gail murmured, "Such a barbarity, the opera inviting a communist to our city. Does he truly believe Tom Nolan is a communist?"
"Well, their definition of communist is fairly broad. It can mean anyone who supports the regime of Fidel Castro in any way." Anthony glanced at Gail. "Does Octavio believe Nolan fits that definition? I don't know. But he is patriotic, so he will use it."
"Strange definition of patriotism," Gail said.
"In a war," Anthony said, "to yield one inch is to lose everything. It's what we call 'noble intransigence.' The struggle to liberate Cuba comes before anything."
"Like your grandfather," she said.
"Precisely."
"I'm not sure," Gail
said, "whether Octavio is principled or just ambitious. I suspect that if I weren't involved with the opera, and you weren't engaged to me, he would find some other issue to hammer on. I do regret that."
"Don't let it bother you," Anthony said.
"It's hard not to. He's putting a knife between your ribs." I know you don't care about inheriting your grandfather's businesses, but he could alienate you from your family. That's what concerns me. I know how much they mean to you." She put her arms around his waist. "I love you. They'll be my family, too."
He kissed her forehead. "Don't worry. Ernesto is too smart to fall for Octavio's bullshit."
"He's almost eighty-four years old," she reminded him.
"So hard to believe. I never thought of my grandfather growing old, and now he has. I don't want to think about it."
"Then I guess we'll just have to find something else to do."
Gail turned off the torchiere, leaving the soft light of a smaller lamp across the room. When she came back to him, Anthony finally noticed what she was wearing. His eyes moved slowly over her body, then up to her face. "Ay, tú estás pa' comer."
Holding his face, she stroked her thumb across his mouth. "Te quiero."
He bit the end of her thumb before she could pull it out of the way. "Yo te quiero más. " I love you more.
She wanted to go for his buckle, but settled for a kiss deep enough to make her dizzy. He would spend the night, but until Karen was soundly asleep, he would not go near Gail's bedroom.
They brought their coffee to the sofa. With a long exhalation, Anthony slumped into a pillow and closed
his eyes. He had delivered final arguments in a manslaughter trial this morning, but the jury had not come back with a verdict. They would resume deliberations on Monday.
Her head on his shoulder, Gail said, "Tell the truth. How will your grandparents feel about my being at the party tomorrow night? Not just me. Karen, my mother, my aunt, my cousins—"
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