Carefully easing the top open, I tucked the remainder of the money into a corner. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. Common sense dictated I should keep it, that I needed it. Por todo los santos, I deserved it. But at the same time, it was blood money and I wasn’t sure I wanted it anywhere near me. Perhaps better to return it to the gateman. Let him live with the consequences.
A question for another day. Right now—I couldn’t think. I couldn’t…
My fingers toyed with the various items in the box, picking each up in turn. The shell, found on a childhood adventure along the beach, the exterior worn as smooth as the box, only the faintest of indentations remaining to mark where spirals had once cut deeply into its surface. Turning it over, however, revealed how the inside had remained vivid, corals and pinks shading to creamy white, carrying a trace aroma of its former ocean home. A red ribbon, snatched from my hair during my tenth birthday party, produced, faded and frayed, from the pocket of a tuxedo and returned with a shy apology during the first dance of my quinceañera ball. A postcard with a picture of a bridge along the Seine on one side, a hurriedly scribbled te quiero, on the other.
A bent, salt-stiffened, grayed scrap of leather that I’d refused to leave behind so very long ago. That had represented so much to that young, idealistic girl and ultimately, meant nothing. Such a stupid, naïve girl she’d been.
From its hiding place deep in the toe of the black flat, I removed a small folded square of ivory satin. Gently drawing the edges back, I gradually revealed the platinum and diamond ring—every bit as sparkling and beautiful and full of promise as the night I’d received it. I slipped it on my finger, clenching my fist to keep it from sliding off because it no longer fit the way it once had.
Very slowly I curled onto my side, the box and all its treasures held close.
• • •
I stood before the imposing glass doors, makeup carefully applied, hair pinned in a neat twist, and dressed in a midnight blue silk shantung suit normally reserved for only the most special of occasions, alternating glances between the card in my white-gloved hand to the gargoyles doggedly guarding the Fifth Avenue behemoth. The lingering hesitation that had the uniformed doorman eyeing me curiously stemmed less from reluctance than from the knowledge that crossing that threshold was as much symbolic as it was literal.
One way or another, everything would be different if I chose to walk into this building.
Then again, everything was already different, wasn’t it?
“You lost, miss?”
I took a final look at the gargoyle closest to me, oddly reassured by its homely, grinning visage.
“Actually, no, I’m not.” With a deep breath, I stepped into the marble-floored lobby and crossed to the vast elevator bank. When the doors finally slid open on my desired floor, I strode past the startled, impossibly young receptionist, ignoring the string of questions, delivered in an increasingly panicked voice—did I have an appointment, who was I looking for exactly, and really, if I would just give her a moment she could help me…
“Miss … Miss—”
“I’m here.” With a final glance at the discreet nameplate beside the door, I turned the knob and walked into Greg Barnes’ office, the young woman tagging close behind, the stream of questions now a stream of apologies.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. She wouldn’t say who she was, just barged on in here. I know I should have called security first, but I didn’t know what she wanted or who she was looking for, and Lorraine wasn’t at her desk to stop her from coming in to bother you—”
Greg’s face was impassive, revealing nothing, his gaze never leaving my face as he addressed the young woman. “It’s fine, Rosemary. She’s a family friend. You can go.”
“Thank you, sir.” As the door closed with a quiet click behind the visibly relieved girl, Greg rose from behind his desk and came to stand in front of me, his face losing its mask of calm as close up, he could see what the makeup couldn’t fully hide.
As his hand rose, as if to touch—to see if it was real—I flinched, unable to help myself. Hand falling helplessly to his side, he asked, “Natalie, what the hell happened? Who did this?”
Rather than answer I moved past him, away from that probing gaze with all its questions, to stand in front of the enormous picture window overlooking Fifth.
“Natalie?”
Staring out at the blinding cloudless blue of the sky, I asked the question that had tormented me for a month—that had kept me awake all of the night before, cold and aching everywhere.
“Why?”
Eleven
So many ways in which that could have been answered. Which was why, of course, he didn’t.
Common sense would dictate that I was merely asking why he’d singled me out for the ghostwriting project. After all, everything had seemingly snowballed from that one simple query. But that would have been naïve, no? And naïve was the last thing anyone would accuse Greg of being.
So I was willing to wait, first while he made the call out to his secretary, for tea and coffee and who knows what all else. Then there were the few minutes where he oh, so politely excused himself, which led to the shock of seeing Constance Barnes, slowly making her way across the office to sit beside me on the sofa.
“Were you not aware I work here as well?”
No. Although not surprising. Clearly an intelligent woman, more than capable of holding her own, and she and Greg—a team, in all ways. Perfect sense.
“Keeps me out of trouble.” She attempted a smile—something reassuring and warm, but the small vertical lines between fine, blonde brows belied her concern. “Greg hoped that with me here, perhaps you’d feel a little less ganged up on.” Her worried gaze searched my face, smile fading as she took in the bruises and light abrasions I’d done my best to mask. “However, I’d understand completely if you would prefer to speak with him privately.” Punctuated with a pointed look toward the doorway through which Greg’s secretary was wheeling a beverage cart, Jack Roemer close on her heels.
She was the only one who ever offered alternatives. Who, that night, had been the only one taking into consideration that I might not be ready to have my past revealed. Not then, or maybe ever.
“Please stay.”
She nodded and patted my hand, her eyes widening a fraction before her gaze flickered down, taking in the details. “This is lovely.” She lifted my hand, gently tilting it from side to side, taking in the fine Victorian-style workmanship with the delicate scrolls engraved on the band winding their way up to a brilliant solitaire—the same ring that had once been a long-ago gift from Nico’s grandfather to his grandmother.
“My family wanted me to get married again.” I stared down at my ring, held firmly in place with the layers of adhesive tape I’d wound around the underside of the band, creating a makeshift guard. Raising my gaze, I focused on Constance—pretended she was the only one in the room. It was easier to tell the story that way. To say out loud these things I’d never before revealed. “They didn’t understand … they thought it had been long enough, but I couldn’t. That’s when I left.”
“Again?” I looked over to where Jack Roemer leaned against Greg’s desk, eyebrows raised. “That would mean—”
“That I was already married.” I broke in. “Yes.” Drawing my hand away from Constance’s I reached into my handbag, retrieving a folded sheet of paper that I held out, indicating with a nod that he should take it. He or anyone else could contradict me until they were blue in the face. As far as I was concerned, I’d been married—and had the proof. Hidden first in the lining of my suitcase, then buried at the bottom of the cigar box. I’d protected this sheet of parchment every bit as fiercely as my ring.
“It’s a church certificate—saying you and Nicolas de Betancourt were married. My men found the announcement of your engagement, but … married? We found no evidence—”
“So … what? If your people didn’t find it, it doesn’t count? You can go to hell.” I a
lmost laughed at the expression of shock that flashed across Jack’s face before it was replaced by his habitually neutral expression. But it was enough. He was beginning to understand how very little he did know.
“I’m not sure how well it would stand up legally, not that there’s anything to legally defend. However, in the eyes of God, and as far as Nico and I were concerned, we were married. Not long after Castro took over.” I answered the unspoken question reflected in Constance’s eyes. “At first, Father José didn’t want to perform the ceremony. Without our parents, without the banns or Pre-Cana, but Nico—he knew. He understood how everything had changed irrevocably. How there was no time for any of the niceties and he wanted to be sure I was protected.” My gaze shifted to the windows, seeking solace in the endless blue expanse of sky stretching above the buildings. None to be found unfortunately.
“It was important for us to be married. In retrospect, maybe it seems silly—what difference could having that piece of paper possibly have made? But at the time, it seemed like the most important thing in the world to do. Like the only thing we could do.”
Constance’s voice was extraordinarily gentle as she asked, “What happened?”
I took a shaky breath, held it for a moment. “I’m sure you know he died.”
I sensed, more than actually saw, her nodding, since I’d shifted my focus from the window to Jack, whose face revealed nothing other than yes—he knew Nico had died. “Do you know how?” I asked softly, waiting for him to shake his head. I knew they didn’t know. The Revolución—they had a way of keeping these types of details quiet unless it suited their purposes.
“While I think both our families wanted to hope that things wouldn’t change any more than they had in the past, everything was going so completely insane, it was foolish to imagine they wouldn’t. So as a precaution plans were made for Nico and I to fly to Miami as soon as possible, taking Carlito with us. We’d be married again in a civil ceremony, as soon as possible, just so there were no loose ends.”
“But then he died.”
“Was killed, Jack.” I responded to his raised eyebrow with a small, humorless smile. “Come now, surely you’d guessed?” Ever so slowly—reluctantly, even—that eyebrow lowered. “I was there. Days before we were to leave, he was killed—by his own cousin. Lazaro—who’d left university to join Fidel’s thugs, taken in by all the pretty, idealistic words of creating some utopian society. The idiot.” They had all been idiots—these well-bred children who’d never worked a day in their lives, sending home photos of themselves clad in army fatigues and boots, pointing their pistols and rifles at imagined enemies.
“Then he appeared at the house one morning with a jeep full of his fellow comrades, all of them spouting the propaganda they’d swallowed along with their cheap rum and the smoke from all of those campfires. Told us to get out of the house. It was no longer ours, but belonged to the people. To Cuba.” I twisted the ring around on my finger, around and around, the sharp edges of the tape digging into my skin, until my hand was captured in a firm grip—Constance, nodding her head, saying it was all right, I could keep going, she was right there, holding on.
“He … shot Nicolas—” My voice broke, then I shook my head, determined to say it, because they’d wanted to know the whole thing—all those damned missing pieces. And because I wanted someone, anyone, to know just how brave my Nico had been. “He shot him because Nico was trying to get him to see reason. Trying to get him to understand how completely insane this was. Did he really understand what he was doing? That it didn’t have to be this way. And when he realized that there was no longer any reaching Lazaro, he tried to get an extra day—just one day—for their grandmother to have in the house in which she’d been born. To gather a few things. But Lazaro didn’t care. Right there, in the living room where we all played together as children, he shot Nico, in front of his family. For treason against the people, he said. First his chest, then … then …”
I struggled to breathe, my vision graying out as the images replayed themselves in my head—images I’d fought so hard to keep buried.
“Another shot … between his legs.” Bile flooded my mouth in an acid rush before I swallowed it back. “He said … he … said he wanted to make absolutely certain there was no possibility of any more devils being born that could weaken the new Cuba. The free Cuba. And he laughed while Nico screamed.” Haunting screams that I would never forget.
I spoke faster, ignoring Constance’s gasp and Greg’s muffled “Jesus.” From Jack, nothing as he continued holding my gaze, expression inscrutable. “I don’t know what they did up in those mountains—before they came parading into Havana like some damned conquering heroes. They weren’t heroes, they were animals. Ese hijo de puta, he just laughed and laughed as one of his bastard friends held me back—wouldn’t even let me hold Nico as he slipped away. He—” I turned to Constance, my voice rising in pitch even as it dropped to a whisper. “He was so frightened—all he wanted was for me to hold him and I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
I doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit as the sheer helplessness overtook me as violently as if the whole nightmare was happening all over again. It might have only been moments, perhaps more, as Constance rubbed small circles between my shoulder blades with one hand, the other, cool and smooth, holding my forehead as she quietly ordered Greg to fetch a wastebasket and pour a glass of water. Time moved around me while I remained trapped, staring into Nico’s eyes as the light gradually dimmed, his final words not even a whisper, but a mere movement of his lips, meant only for me.
“He … made Nico’s father drag him out to the street in front of the house and ordered me and his mother and grandmother to get on our knees and clean up the blood. Wouldn’t allow the servants to help. People who’d known Nicolas since he was a baby, who were crying and sick right along with us. Told them it was their first step toward freedom. To see their oppressors finally spill blood for Cuba. Do you know what a body looks like after it’s been scavenged, Jack?” I asked, my voice sounding dreamy and distant—a graceful, disconnected specter weaving around the frozen tension holding my body completely still. I straightened far enough to look into his face. “Picked over and ravaged?”
I was momentarily shocked as he slowly nodded, a haunted expression darkening his eyes, his knuckles white as they gripped the desk’s edges.
In any other moment, I’d doubt him. Suspect him of lying because how could he possibly? But that slow nod spoke of an unflinching honesty I couldn’t deny. Nor could I deny that same emotion reflected in his eyes as his gaze never left mine, rendering us the only two in the room for the span of those few seconds.
“I’ll never forget what that looked like.” I put my free hand to my stomach, trying to settle the nausea that continued to roil, slow and acidic. “Now you see why, when my parents suggested I marry again, I wasn’t exactly … enthusiastic? I’d lost Nico—how could I be expected to replace him? And for the reasons they put forth? It was unthinkable.
“I know they honestly had only good intentions. They no doubt felt it the best way for me to recover. But to them, recovery included not simply an advantageous marriage but the expectation of a return to Cuba.”
I shook my head, recalling once again the blank looks on my family’s faces that last night. The sheer lack of comprehension. “While as far as I was concerned—that whole world—that life—it died along with Nico. So I left. And came here. He always wanted to live in New York.” My breath shuddered out on an enormous sigh—almost done.
“But I never wanted to abandon my family. I wanted to help them—help my brother.”
I could still see him, that sweet, slender boy whose head I’d cradled in my lap—the young man I’d left behind, pale green eyes flashing with anger and confusion as I’d argued with Mami that last night, sequestered within the walls of his own self-centeredness as only an adolescent boy could be. Then … a gradual understanding dawning. Which was why, late that night as I’d left
, I’d found him huddled on the couch, waiting. Why I’d hugged him, the promise implicit in my embrace that I’d always, always take care of him, to the best of my ability.
Perhaps it was unrealistic, perhaps he’d already moved beyond this and I hadn’t realized, but my instinct had been to protect—to allow him be a boy, for just a while longer. He had so little that resembled the life we’d been forced to leave behind. I wanted to give him something—anything—that might allow him opportunity to become the man he was meant to be.
“I could have sold my ring, I suppose.” Pulling my hand free from Constance’s, I resumed twisting it on my finger, studying the way the brilliant rose-cut captured the sunlight streaming into the office. “I went so far as to take it to a diamond merchant, but in the end, I couldn’t. If I lost this too, it would make it all seem too much like a dream. As if it had never existed. So instead, I answered the ad to tutor at Concord. I suppose what happened afterwards—it was a product of my own pride and selfishness.”
For the first time during my story, I looked Greg directly in the eye. “You realized what was going on, didn’t you? The day you dropped me off.”
He sighed. “I suspected as much. There have been rumors for years.”
“The first time it happened, I was … outraged. Sick. Violated … shamed … every reaction you could imagine. That boy—he … held me down. Took what he wanted. As if it was his right. And I was so angry. I threatened to report him. He told me to go ahead. Which should have been my first sign, really. Stupid me—” A laugh escaped, as I recalled huddling in the hard wooden chair, rearranging my clothes with shaking hands and trying not to vomit at the feel of wetness between my legs. “After all I’d seen and experienced, that I was still capable of the illusion that the world was fair—or that at least here, it would be different. When I went to the athletic director the next day, his first words, before I even said anything, was that it would be a waste of my time to go to the police. The young man in question was from a quality family, attended a quality school, and who was I again?”
Between Here and Gone Page 13
