"You have managers for all your companies," Anthony said. "They do an excellent job. I don't understand this."
"Los managers no son familia," Octavio said.
"Neither are you. You're in the family because you married my sister. You sell furniture. What do you know besides bed frames and cheap sofas?"
"Anthony, por favor," Digna said.
Unable to look at the others, Gail put a hand on his shoulder and said in a low voice, "We should go."
For a long moment he seemed frozen, staring at Octavio Reyes as if Reyes had struck him across the face. Then he let out a breath. "Yes. We should." He glanced at his watch. "Nena, thank you for inviting us. Grandfather." He made a slight nod in the old man's direction. Ernesto Pedrosa did not reply.
Passing by his chair, Gail stopped to say, "Thank you."
His pale blue eyes lifted to meet hers, and he took her hand. "Come back to see us anytime."
Her heart beating erratically, she glanced around the room. "I hope to see you again soon. I'll tell my mother that you asked about her." Her gaze seemed to snag on Octavio Reyes just long enough for her to see the quick smile of satisfaction that vanished back in like the tongue of a snake. She knew that he had taken only the first step to destroy Anthony Quintana, and that his revenge would be total.
In the hallway, Gail had to hurry to keep up with Anthony's fast pace. She told him to slow down, but he seemed not to hear her. A vein stood out in his forehead. His skin seemed drawn to the bones of his face as if pulled from inside. They had reached the front door when they heard someone calling his name.
Alicia ran into the foyer. She went around him and leaned on the door. "Anthony, please."
He said quietly, "Get out of the way, Alicia."
"Don't leave like this. They're getting so old. It was my idea to help them. Mine. Please don't leave until you tell me it's all right."
His laugh ended in a sigh. "It wasn't your idea. I know whose it was. And why are you asking me now? You could have asked beforehand, if it mattered."
"It does! I didn't think you would care." She moaned. "Oh, my God, I saw your face when Nena told you—"
He held up his hands and spoke in a low, calm voice. "Do what you want. But don't expect to see me walk through that door as long as Octavio Reyes lives here."
Alicia stared at him. "Why?"
He smiled. "Would I be welcome?"
"You're crazy. You hate Octavio so much you'll hurt everyone else. How do I tell Nena? What are you going to do when your children come for Christmas? Drop them off and wait outside?
He studied his car keys. "All right. I will come in and speak to the family as long as Octavio is not here at the time."
She was close to tears. "I can't tell my husband to get out whenever you decide to come over."
"That's up to you. Alicia, move out of the way, please."
Gail felt ill. "Anthony—"
"No. He won't listen to anyone!" Alicia pushed herself away from the door, broke into sobs, and fled down the hall.
They drove the few miles to Gail's house in near-total silence. Her head was a storm of emotion, and her chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. She glanced at Anthony from time to time. He seemed deep in thought but otherwise unaffected by what had occurred. She was afraid to speak until she had decided what to say.
He wheeled into her driveway and turned off the engine. "Did you say that Karen is with your mother tonight?"
"Yes. She has a school holiday tomorrow."
"Good. Let's have a drink. We'll have some dinner and go to bed early."
She felt her head pounding as she got out of the car. He locked it, and they went inside. The house was eerily quiet.
He took off his jacket and hung it neatly on the back of a chair at the table, then took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and the opener from a drawer. Expertly he cut the foil off the top of the bottle, then twisted in the corkscrew. "What do you want to eat? We could go out or have something delivered."
Rubbing her temple, Gail set her purse on the kitchen counter and opened the cabinet for the bottle of pain reliever. "Look and see if there's some frozen lobster."
He left the corkscrew half in the cork and opened the freezer door. She heard the rustling of packages.
At the sink she tossed back two pills and drank some water. Her hands were shaking. "Let me say just one thing, Anthony, then I won't say anything else about it tonight. I hope you can calm down enough to reconsider what you said to Alicia. She was right. If you cut yourself out of your family, everyone will be hurt. Everyone but Octavio."
"I am calm." He frowned at the instructions on a package of frozen lobster tails. "And I'll say one thing, too, then maybe we can enjoy the rest of the evening. My grandfather is letting Octavio in for a reason. He is still punishing me for the past. It has become part of his character, and he is too old to change. I won't keep slamming my head against a wall. If my kids want to go over there, I have no objection. And that's all we need to say about it." He read the other side of the bag.
Gail grabbed the wine bottle by the neck to finish opening it. "Oh, I see. He's punishing you for the past. And you aren't doing the same?"
Anthony tossed the lobster into the sink, where it hit with a clunk. He unfastened his gold cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, each fold quick and precise. "What else should we have with this? Potato? A salad?"
Twisting the corkscrew, Gail said, "Really, it's a mutual misery society. For years you and Ernesto have held grudges for sins in the past. In some weird way maybe you both enjoy it. It's how you get to each other. But if he lives another year, it will be a miracle. Then what? You've just walked away, and I don't think he's going to beg you to come back."
Hand on his hip, Anthony looked at her for a while, then said, "Are you finished?"
"Yes."
"Good." He took the wine bottle from her and levered out the corkscrew, which ripped through the cork. "Cono cara'o."
"Octavio can slide in there like the snake he is because you left a vacuum. He's going to take everything, and you don't care?"
Anthony poked at the cork. "Is that what you want, Gail? The house? All that money?"
"Dammit! How could you—I don't care about that, and you know it!" She leaned against the sink.
He closed his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry I said that to you." He touched her shoulder and let his hand slide off. "We shouldn't talk about this tonight."
"What I want—" She grabbed a paper towel and blew her nose. "I want you and your grandfather to get along. That's all. Forget Octavio, if he lives there or doesn't. This is your family. Don't pretend they don't mean anything to you. Until you fix what's broken, you will never have anything right with them. And maybe not right with us, either."
"Until I fix it? You saw how he is." Anthony set the bottle down so hard the toaster oven clattered.
"He's an old man! The past is all he has. What do you want him to do, say he's sorry? He won't. He will grow old and die and you'll keep insisting it's up to him. That is so selfish! You're blaming him for sins he committed when you were thirteen years old—taking you out of Cuba! He did it because he loved you. And now—oh, yes, he's as much of an idiot as you are— he blames you for going to fight for the Sandinistas." She laughed. "I mean, it's all so incredibly stupid."
Anthony smiled at her. "Have you said everything now?"
"You want me to ignore it, don't you? Just be a good girl and agree with you."
"Right now, yes, that would be very nice."
She felt herself sliding toward the edge. "Well, I won't. That is not who I am. I do not ignore things—" Her throat ached. "—that matter to me . . . and to the people I care about. I don't understand how you can. Ernesto doesn't know what really happened in Nicaragua, does he? You gave him the censored version. You're afraid to admit that somebody died. You took your girlfriend to Los Pozos and she was murdered. You wouldn't let her go home, and you think you're responsible."
&n
bsp; His black eyes narrowed to slits. "I told you not to bring that up again."
"Why? Because you don't have the guts to face the truth?" He pointed at her. "Don't."
"You know what Rebecca said? The bones are rising from the earth. You can't keep them buried. They haunt you." She followed him to the chair where he had hung his coat. "I want to know who shot her. Tell me the truth."
He leaned on a hand braced on the back of the chair. His knuckles were bloodless.
"It wasn't Pablo, was it?"
He shook his head.
"Then who? Oh, God. Did you—"
"No. It was Felix." He squinted as if the kitchen was too bright, and held his hand over his eyes. "Pablo wanted to kill all of us. Felix convinced him that Emily was to blame. Seth broke down crying. He fell on the ground and shit his pants. Rebecca was screaming. And I . . . couldn't ... do anything."
Gail looked at him for a few moments, then asked, "Are you telling me the truth?"
"What the hell do you want me to do, get down on my knees and beg you to believe me?"
"I just need to know I can trust you."
"Trust?" His face was red and twisted, a man she didn't recognize. "Tu hablas all that bullshit about trust and feeling. You want control, esto es lo que tú quieres—a man you can control. No soy americano como tu esposo. I will never be an American, forget it, I don't take this shit from a woman. I am what I am. Okay? ¡Yo soy como soy! If you don't like it, too fucking bad. ¡No me hace falta esa mierda o tú tampoco!"
"Great. You don't need me? Then leave!" Gail screamed back at him. "Go find yourself a nice little cubana like you had before, who couldn't stand being married to you."
Panting for breath, he stared at her a moment longer, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the kitchen. The front door slammed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Irene Connor's house was just north of downtown in Belle Mar, a waterfront area that looked out on the islands between the city and Miami Beach. A girl Karen's age lived across the street, which gave Karen someone to play with. While Gail lay on a lounge chair, the two girls swam in the pool. Shrieking happily, they made cannonball dives, and Gail would flinch at the occasional drops of cold water that hit the backs of her legs. She had untied the top of her swimsuit and propped herself on her elbows to read.
Along with a suitcase for the weekend, she had brought all her files relating to Miami Opera, Inc. v. City of Miami. Gail had spent yesterday drafting the complaint. There would be an emergency hearing in front of whatever judge might be assigned to the case—if it were filed. That was looking less likely. The mayor was on the opera's side. A local TV station had conducted a poll, and respondents—those who recognized the name Thomas Nolan—voted five to one that he had a right to sing in Miami. A Little Havana civic leader had been interviewed: "It is unfair that a few troublemakers can create a bad image for all of us."
She lay on the lounge chair reading old newspaper articles about exile terrorism that her secretary had copied from library microfilm. The purpose had been to give some background to the lawsuit. Gail had not used the research after all, but flipping through it on Friday had piqued her interest. Today, reading about bombings and assassinations suited the bleak mood she was in.
She had read that in 1975, the publisher of Réplica, a Spanish-language magazine in Miami, had the nerve to suggest working with Cubans inside Cuba, even participating in elections if they were held. He was gunned down outside a children's hospital.
A radio commentator preached against such violence. When he left the studio and started his car in the parking lot, a stick of dynamite tore off his legs.
Raids were planned. Men trained in paramilitary camps in the Everglades. Armed militants were arrested by the FBI or Customs on their way to Cuba in boats riding low in the water. Weapons were seized.
The name Ernesto José Pedrosa Masvidal had appeared several times, referred to variously as exile leader, hard-liner, right-winger, extremist. Suspected of financing terrorist acts, Ernesto Pedrosa had been investigated by the FBI. This image did not fit the old man Gail had seen the other night, who had dreamily gazed at a faded photograph of a house in the country.
If Anthony had wanted to be cruel, he would have said, Sorry, abuelo, your country estate was paved over, and the framboyán tree is gone. But he let his grandfather believe in a gentle lie. Gail had loved him at that moment. Then he had closed up entirely, shut her out, and screamed at her for pushing to know the truth.
Gail jerked when a splash of cold water hit her back. She held a towel to her front, turned around, and yelled, "Karen! Lisa! Stop that!" Two faces appeared grinning, their owners dog-paddling in the sparkling pool. Giggles. There was another face, too— a fifty-nine-year-old woman in a swim cap with yellow daisies.
"Mother, what are you doing?"
"Come in with us, you grouch."
"I'm working."
She put her sunglasses on, fastened her top, rearranged the towel, and sat down. Reaching into the box on the patio, she pulled out a book titled The Exile: Cubans in the Heart of Miami. She tossed it back, not in the mood to read another word about Cubans in the heart of anything. She suddenly longed for a romance novel set in Montana. The hero would have cool blue eyes and a monosyllabic name. Jake. Ted. Luke.
She heard the patter of wet footsteps. Her mother hurried across the patio in her sea blue swimsuit with the little skirt, pulling off her swim cap, fluffing her red hair. Her skin—once so luminous and smooth— was sagging at thigh and upper arm, and her petite torso had thickened. How sad, thought Gail. Or maybe it wasn't sad at all, but a liberation from the demands of the flesh.
"Brrrrr, that was invigorating." Irene dried herself off and tucked in the towel at her bosom. "Are you still reading those depressing newspaper stories?"
Gail said, "It was pretty exciting around here in the seventies. I was in high school, then I went away to college, so I don't remember very much. Do you?"
"Not clearly," Irene said. "It was mostly in Little Havana, and nobody I knew was affected. There wasn't as much violence as those articles make out, but a lot of my friends left Miami during those years. They said the city had been ruined. It wasn't, of course."
"We should have gone, too," Gail said. "Put one of those bumper stickers on the U-Haul. 'WILL THE LAST AMERICAN LEAVING MIAMI PLEASE BRING THE FLAG.' "
"What a thing to say!"
"Why didn't you and Dad leave?"
"This is our home," her mother said.
Gail stretched her arms over her head. "Last time I saw Ernesto Pedrosa he was talking about those Cuban tourist hotels that were bombed last summer. He says the people will rise up. He thinks he's going to make it back home." .
"Maybe he will."
"He could go if he wanted. He's just stubborn and contrary."
"He's very old, Gail. You're in a mood, aren't you?"
"I've had a hard week."
Slipping into her sandals, her mother said, "I'm going to get dressed and make some fruit daiquiris. We'll get our vitamins."
In 1978 Ernesto Pedrosa had been investigated by the FBI for funding sabotage raids, the same year that Pedrosa's eldest grandson, whom he had rescued or kidnapped from Cuba, depending on one's view of it, had gone to Nicaragua to fight with the leftists and get the innocence blasted out of him for good.
The telephone in the kitchen rang. Gail stopped breathing. When her mother didn't lean out the door to call to her, she pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and lay down. Spots of color swam in the darkness like miniature fireworks. She dozed.
There was a thump of a tray being set on the metal table. Gail ratcheted up the back of her lounge chair and felt the prickle of a sunburn. Her mother, dressed now in white slacks and a bright green T-shirt, filled two tumblers with frothy pink liquid. She had put on fresh lipstick and mascara.
After handing Gail her drink, Irene went to the edge of the pool. "Little mermaids! Little mermaids, time to grow legs and come out of the wa
ter. Cookies and juice." Dripping and shivering, the girls wrapped themselves in colorful beach towels that hung to their ankles. Irene gave them a bag of bread and told them to carry their snacks to the seawall and throw crumbs to the fish.
Then she stood at the foot of Gail's lounge chair, stirring her frozen daiquiri with a cocktail straw. "Jeffrey Hopkins called just now looking for you. He wanted to know if you had seen the interview on Channel Seven last night with Tom Nolan. He tried to reach you at home."
"Oh, God. What happened?"
"Well—" Irene made a little smile. "Tom said he was happy to have sung in Havana. The U.S. embargo is causing all the problems down there. Washington is afraid of the exile lobby. What else? Oh, yes. Fidel has done more for the Cuban people than the exiles ever would have, if they'd stayed."
Gail took a long breath in, then let it slowly out. "I'm going to kill him. I'll tear out his tongue. Does Jeffrey want me to call back? He has got to be boiling." She imagined his smooth cheeks flaming over his bow tie.
"You can call later," Irene said. "He was on his way out. Who you should call is Tom Nolan before he makes it any worse. I have his number in my address book by the phone."
Knotting her towel at her hip, Gail strode barefoot into the kitchen. She grabbed the phone off the wall and punched in the numbers.
Four rings. Then an answering machine. Then a soft, deep voice informing her that no one was home. "Tom, this is Gail Connor. Are you screening your calls? If so, please pick up." Silence. "I suppose you're at rehearsal. I hope you made it there without being shot at. I heard about your interview on Channel Seven last night. How can I put this without being rude? I can't. That was so incredibly stupid. We agreed, no interviews!" She paused for a breath. "All we can do now is pray that nothing happens. And meanwhile, if anyone asks, would you please say it was a joke, a misunderstanding, you lost your marbles, you didn't mean it. And call me immediately. I'm at my mother's house, Irene Connor."
She left the number and hung up. "Dammit!"
At the table outside, she gulped down half her frozen daiquiri, then felt the ache grab her throat. "Shit." She held her mouth open and breathed in some warm air. "Idiot. What is he doing this for, the publicity? I'm going to kill him."
Suspicion of Deceit Page 22
