“I’m not,” I insisted. “I think it only fair I know what I’m your guinea pig for today.”
“I infused the oil with fresh garlic before I fried the potatoes,” he confessed. “Then I sprinkled more cheese over them and popped them under the broiler. It can be a casual item for the luncheon menu or I can play with it further, make it a gratin Savoyard for dinner.”
“More a lunch item, wouldn’t you think?” I selected a crystal goblet and filled it with ice. “The ladies will never want to leave their dinner reeking of even the merest hint of garlic whereas for most men, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.”
“Eh, you’re right, of course,” he agreed with a laugh that faded to a wry half-smile. “Not that I mean to imply in any way that you’re not a lady, chère. You know if anythin’ I think you’re twice the lady than half them rich bitches darken our doors,” he finished with an indignant sniff.
As he ranted, I finally allowed myself the smile I’d been holding back. “It’s all right, Remy. It would only matter if I had anywhere to be after work tonight.”
A full ring of white surrounded the deep blue irises. “No date?”
I filled the goblet with the house specialty sweet tea. “No.”
“On a Friday.”
“Which means both my favorite bookstore and coffee shop are open late.”
He leveled a dark glare at me from beneath the floppy brim of his chef’s toque. “It’s not natural, Natalie.” Annoyance colored my name with even more lilt than usual. “You’re what—twenty-two? Twenty-three? You should be out, tryin’ on all them boys who ain’t worthy of you until you find the one who is before you settle down and have yourself your own sweet bebes. Not livin’ the life of a widow woman three times your age.”
“Oh, Remy.” The smile held even as I fought back the old, once too-familiar pain, hot and needle-sharp. “What’s natural, really? Juggling three mistresses?”
Glowering shifted to a satisfied Cheshire-cat smirk. “It is if you’re an Abelard man.”
“And laissez le bon temps rouler?” I teased, relieved to feel the pain receding.
Putting the fingertips of one hand to his lips, he kissed them. “You got it.” He put the still-warm plate in my hand and held the kitchen door open. “Now go eat. And tell me what you think of the potatoes.”
“Mais oui.” I kissed both cheeks and headed for my usual secluded corner table, grateful to find the restaurant close to deserted as expected, save for the few early cocktail guests, like Mr. Barnes and his party. I would have time enough to enjoy my meal before the Friday night dinner crowds descended with the added benefit of avoiding the rush hour commute on my way home. Amazing how one learned to savor the small gifts. Especially when accompanied by a heavenly bite of warm, melted cheese on rich, buttery bread.
“De Maupassant last week, now Parker. Is it that you’re particularly fond of short works or are you on a jag?”
It took a moment for the words to penetrate, another for their meaning to crystallize in my brain, and still another before I glanced up at Greg Barnes, meeting his gaze. His undeniably curious gaze.
“I suppose you could say I’m partial to short works right now. Perhaps a bit easier to set aside if the moment demands.” I took the small card—the business card he’d given me the week before, I idly noted—and marked my page. “I’m not certain, however, that Dottie would care much for interruption.” I smiled as I traced Dorothy Parker’s name, the black slashes against the sepia cover every bit as bold as the author’s wit.
“Back in the day, Dottie reveled in being the interruption.”
“You know her?”
“Mostly by reputation.” He braced his hands on the back of the empty chair opposite mine. “A handful of memorable cocktail parties where I was more observer than anything else, too young and far too intimidated by the formidable Mrs. Parker to do little more than watch in awe as she shredded any hapless fool who happened to cross her into very precise, very bloody ribbons.”
“How delicious,” I murmured, more to myself, as I stroked the cover once again, my finger catching on one worn, bent edge.
“I’m sure Dottie thought so.” Straightening, he crossed his arms and smiled down at me. “Are you tutoring this evening?”
“No—never on Fridays.” Relaxing against the padded back of my chair with a sigh, I was able to return his smile. Even allowed myself the luxury of releasing a lovely, slow breath. “And since finals are over at Concord, I’m at liberty until next semester. So I currently have nothing more pressing on my schedule beyond dinner and browsing bookstore shelves.”
“Christmas shopping?”
It took more effort than I might have expected to keep the smile fixed. “Well, perhaps some.” Helen wasn’t much of a reader, but she was nevertheless easily appeased. A lovely engraved lighter or even a box of imported truffles would suit her fine. However, perhaps I would slip into the consignment store next door to the bookstore and indulge in a rare splurge. Something just for me that was frivolous and purely, unabashedly pretty. Or not. While I needed at least one new dress to be able to wear to work and while it could be pretty—one had to make allowances, after all because it was those little things that kept the dull reality of life at bay—frivolous was not so much an option. So no doubt, another basic black it would be.
Regardless of what the season brought, in whatever form, I could definitely be assured it would be a far cry from the glittering gifts and endless rounds of parties that would always culminate in the expansive Noche Buena celebrations that were a hallmark of my childhood. In my mind’s eye, I could still picture our house, the Italian crystal chandeliers blazing warm light through every window as cars lined the brick-paved circular driveway, waiting to drop off beautifully dressed families, most related to us in some fashion, some business or political acquaintances, and all of them wanting to share this beautiful, blessed night with the San Martíns.
There would be cocktails and toasts galore, deep into the evening until finally, we were called to the feast, the centerpiece of which were always the lechóns that Coquita’s staff had tended throughout the day, the pigs roasting slowly in the backyard pits, lined with banana leaves, the scent as tantalizing as a beautiful woman. The whole pigs would be carried out and placed on their own table, crispy brown skins glistening and fragrant with the garlic, cumin, and imported Spanish olive oil of the mojo and hiding deliciously tender, succulent meat. In the kitchen, the counters would practically be groaning under the weight of the platters holding all the gastronomic accoutrements that comprised a proper Cuban Christmas Eve dinner.
Even now, I could envision the scene, down to the most minute detail. The vast, sprawling blue and white-tiled courtyard, with its elaborately set tables. Towering palms and oaks and immaculately manicured hedges interspersed with multi-hued hibiscus, pink oleander, and fragrant night-blooming jasmine surrounding the perimeter while the multileveled flower-shaped fountain dominated the center, the sound of cascading water providing an elegant counterpoint to the strolling musicians and animated lilt of conversation. From the smaller adjoining courtyard would come the occasional squeals of the little children as they were entertained by the hired clowns and magicians. The Waterford crystal would chime like delicate church bells in multiple toasts to our continued health and good fortune as breezes tinged with the fresh scent of the sea caressed shoulders and necks left bare because we could in the decadent, balmy late-December air. No cold, numbing winds or harsh, stinging snow to contend with—not for us.
I could still recall those Christmas cards Papi would receive from business acquaintances in the States and Europe with their snowy scenes depicted in shades of white and silver and pale blue and that, to me, had always appeared so pallid. So … boring. My numerous cousins would pore over them, exclaiming over their beauty and exoticism, but this fascination for what was deemed a “traditional” Christmas had always escaped me. How could Christmas be anything but warmth and color and
vibrantly, shockingly alive? Those winter scenes, filled with snow and bare-limbed trees and lengthy shadows—as a child, they’d felt so desolate and lonely. And as I’d grown older and learned about the cycle of seasons, more and more, they seemed to represent death. A shroud for a world that required rejuvenation, whereas the paradise where I lived was in a constant state of renewal, never allowing itself to fall into such a state.
The ignorance—and hubris—of youth, I suppose. A dangerous, disheartening combination.
“Well, I won’t keep you—however, I did want to extend an invitation on my wife’s behalf before you left for the evening.”
Half-lost in memories of ghosts of Christmases past, Greg Barnes’ words emerged as little more than gibberish.
“I beg your pardon?”
Carefully, he slid a stiff cream-colored envelope beneath the hand still resting on the volume of Parker, slowly obliterating her name beneath a wash of fine, heavy linen.
I made no motion, save to move my hand far enough to stare at the inscription—and yes, there it was, my name, written in an elegant, feminine script.
“It’s for a holiday party. Nothing overwhelming, I promise—mostly for my benefit since Constance swears that anything over twenty guests leaves me hiding in my study,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Anyhow, it’s for a week from tomorrow and Constance and I both hope you’ll be able to attend. I’ve told her about you and she’s absolutely dying to speak to another woman with tastes in literature that go beyond Vogue and True Confessions.”
“Surely she can do far better than me.”
As heat from the impetuous words suffused my skin, Greg Barnes’ thoughtful gaze studied me for a long moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he finally said, his tone no less authoritative than usual and certainly no less kind, but with an unexpected … gentleness? So unexpected, I felt a surprising prickle at the backs of my eyes. “Please, Natalie, do consider attending.”
“I usually work …” I began, but temptation swept over me in a powerful rush, rendering the words weak and ineffective. Like the wine last week, it was a taste of what had once been mine. Already my mind was categorically sorting through my closet, wondering if there was anything even remotely appropriate lurking in the depths and just as quickly dismissing everything as completely wrong. While a trip to Saks or Bendel’s was supremely tempting, the more practical aspect of my nature immediately reasserted itself, sternly scolding that yes, something new was in order, but it would have to be new only to me.
“I hardly think Marguerite would begrudge you one Saturday evening off.” Stated with a definitive edge to the words and a slight smile that had an answering one tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“You’ve already asked her.”
His smile grew broader. “When I delivered her invitation.”
“Of course.” There was no use even putting up token resistance. Not with Mrs. Mercier in on it. Why they had singled me out for this, I wasn’t at all sure, but at this point, I had neither energy nor inclination to question too closely. It was too dreary a time of year and I’d been feeling the loneliness of my self-inflicted isolation more keenly than ever before.
Forget wanting this. Deep down in a place I rarely acknowledged, I needed this. I needed a moment to remember who I’d been.
REBELS CLAIM 80% OF A PROVINCE AS FIERCE CUBAN FIGHT CONTINUES
R. Hart Phillips
The New York Times
December 30, 1958
* * *
Five
New Year’s Eve 1958
“Oye, Nicolito, shh …”
“You worry too much, Natalia. No one’s going to bother us here.”
“You really imagine we’re the only ones with this idea?” I pushed at his dinner-jacketed chest, as if to put some respectable distance between us, but not really. Even though it wasn’t cold, the damp breeze coming off the ocean reached even the vine-shrouded pergola tucked away in a far corner of his family’s expansive Varadero Beach property, making me grateful for his body’s warmth. As if sensing my thoughts, he pulled me closer, drawing my hands beneath his jacket until they rested against the strong length of his back.
“No, not the only ones, not by a long shot, Talia. But who would dare bother us here? This has been our spot forever.”
His hands caressed my shoulders, fingertips teasing along my collarbone in a way that left me breathless while his words conjured images of the ghosts of our younger selves. Cavorting across the rolling lawns and along the stone pathways or slinking along the walls of the kitchen, pestering the staff as we’d been wont to do. Many years on, we no longer lurked in the kitchen, hoping for one of the tolerant cooks or maids to give us a sweet pastelito or a bowl of fresh, hot mariquita chips before shooing us off, but instead preferred huddling together in the cool, leafy alcove we’d stumbled across one blistering summer day around the same time we’d discovered that we liked each other as far more than childhood playmates and friends.
I could hardly recall a time when we hadn’t been together. In some way.
“I can’t believe you’re really going to Paris.”
He looked so crestfallen, I drew my hands from his back and raised them to his face, one thumb rubbing at the two small lines between his fine, black brows. He was so beautiful, my Nicolito. Always had been—inside and out.
“Please don’t look like that. We’ve already survived your being in Miami the last two years.” Ever since Batista ordered the University closed because of those idiot student protests and he’d had to find alternate means by which to finish his degree. So horribly unfair, but we had survived and grown closer for all that. It made the child in me want to stick my tongue out at the fools who would try to keep us apart.
“It was ninety miles and a quick plane trip, Talia. You’re hardly going to able to come home almost every weekend.”
“No—” I said slowly. He was right and admittedly, it was the one aspect dulling my joy. “But we will have every holiday break and the summers. I’ll visit you or we can both come home or we can even travel. See the world together. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
“With the dueña your parents would insist on hovering over us the entire time?” His eyebrows rose. “Exciting isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind, mi amor.”
“You know what I mean.” I delivered a light smack to his arm. “We’ll find a way. You know I can’t be away from you for too long.”
“Then why go?” His hands were restless, stroking my shoulders, dropping to my waist, then rising again to stroke along the length of my arms before taking my hands in his and lowering them to our sides, gripping them tight. “It’s not as if I don’t want you to continue your education. There are schools in the United States every bit the equal of the Sorbonne. Maybe even better.”
“But they’re not Paris. And Paris is what I’ve wanted since I was five.” A powerful dream, borne from a childhood infatuation with Madeline, nurtured by subsequent books and photographs, and finally cemented with a trip that showed Paris was everything I had imagined and more. Impossible to set aside—even for Nicolito. Nothing could usurp his place in my heart—could derail the future we knew lay ahead of us—however, neither could I deny the restless insistence that kept whispering I had to do this. That if I tasted and experienced and spent some time with myself—a privilege I’d never before been granted—it would make everything else so much better and richer. I’d told Nicolito all of this. And I knew he understood. But I also knew how he was feeling. How I’d felt when he had to leave for Florida two years earlier.
“I know how hard this is, but this is something I have to do. It’s the one choice I can make for myself before we’re together for always.”
“I would never try to stop you from making your own choices.” His thumbs traced light, restless patterns along mine. “I’m just being selfish—wanting you with me as well.”
“I am with you. I have been since our first sand castle.” Almost wi
thout thinking, I added, “You could come to Paris, too. Go to law school there.” And even as much as that seemed like the perfect solution—as much as I wanted to be with Nicolito—a small, dark part of me was rebelling. Wanted to have this one thing, just for myself. Just this once. I hated the thought of being so far from him and I didn’t want anyone else. Ever. But I wanted Paris for myself.
But even as the silent war raged inside me, he was shaking his head, sending relief chasing after hope and rebellion and making me drop my gaze, hoping the shadows would mask the conflict I was certain was reflected in my eyes.
“I don’t have your gift with languages. English, yes, but I would never be able to handle the demands of law school in French. But you know, there are other alternatives…”
I jerked my head up, fighting the shadows to search his face, fresh hope flaring.
“England? Are you thinking of England?”
He couldn’t be. For so long his dream had been the Ivy League. Harvard and Yale and of course, Columbia, since it was in New York, with its skyscrapers and brash attitude that had captured his imagination every bit as much as Paris’s quaint buildings and cool elegance had captured mine. To hear that he was willing to give up his dream of New York and the prestige of an Ivy League law school in order to be closer to me?
“I was saving it as a surprise until I knew for certain.” A self-satisfied smile crept across his face. “How does the University of London sound?”
“London,” I breathed out on a long sigh, desperately trying to envision the map and attempting to recall the distances. Almost immediately giving up because all that mattered was that it was London. A world closer than New Haven or Boston or New York. And I would still have Paris. For me. “I almost can’t believe it. But are you certain? Absolutely certain? I don’t want to keep you from your dreams any more than you would keep me from mine.”
I continued to search his face, looking for signs of any disappointment, any doubt, and finding nothing but a smile and a hopeful expression.
Between Here and Gone Page 5
