Screaming curses, Lynn drew back her other foot and kicked. She hopped, tripped over Irene, and went down. Her shoulder thudded into the dresser. The red container of gasoline went over. Lynn hit the floor. Liquid gurgled, splashing onto her shirt and into her hair. She flailed out with her hands and sat up, blinking and sputtering.
Gail leaped at her, and her hands went around Lynn's neck, digging in. Lynn swept them away. Her teeth showed, and madness flooded her eyes. She pushed Gail off her as easily as a doll, then rolled to her feet. Gail scrambled up. There was no way to win. Lynn was stronger, and fueled by her lunatic rage. Gail circled around her and grabbed the snapshots off the dresser and held the lighter under them.
Gray eyes narrowed. "Give me those pictures."
Gail backed toward the door. Still holding the lighter, her fingers slid on the doorknob. Frantically she sought a better grip. Lynn took the knife off the dresser. "Give me the pictures!"
The doorknob turned. "Come get them."
Lynn raised the knife. Gail ran down the hall. She tried the lighter. It clicked uselessly. She whirled around in the living room. "Stop or I'll burn them right now. Jason and Timothy, up in smoke. Say goodbye, Rita Lynn!"
"Give me my kids!"
Gail went sideways toward the glass doors, the nearest way out. Night had fallen—she didn't know when. She pressed the latch and slid open one of the glass panels. Her heart was slamming at her ribs.
The lighter caught, and Gail held the pictures over the flame. "Hell is waiting, you bitch!"
"No!" Lynn rushed at her, snatching them out of her hand.
The gasoline in Lynn's shirt ignited with a whoosh, and the blue and green stripes seemed to writhe. Orange tongues licked across her body, down her legs. Her eyes opened wide in agonized terror, and a scream tore from her lungs. Hair burned and crackled.
Gail stood immobilized, horrified.
The knife clanged on the terrace.
Shimmering, dancing, the flames ate into the darkness and leapt up, outlining the aluminum frame supporting the screen. The fire spun and beat at itself, mouth agape in a soundless cry. Its image flickered on the surface of the water. Then image and fire came together. Flesh hissed. Water surged upward and fell back.
Bits of curled, blackened paper floated on the surface.
TWENTY-FOUR
Irene had been complaining about the orange jasmine, which had overgrown the trellis and invaded the cassia tree. She had wanted to trim it, but her sprained back had been slow to heal. Home from work, Gail glanced through the kitchen window and saw her mother out in the backyard with a pair of clippers. Her movements were still stiff, but a pile of green tendrils, heavy with leaves, had accumulated on the grass beside the trellis.
She unlatched the screen door on the porch. "Mom! Want something to drink?"
Irene's sun hat turned toward the house, and she waved. "I have some ice water. Call Karen."
"Is she all right?"
"Sure. Just wanted to say hi."
Gail went back inside, dropped her purse on her bed, then sat down to dial the number for Dave's apartment in Cruz Bay. Karen would be in the islands with her father for the rest of the summer.
A thousand miles away, Karen picked up the phone.
"Hi, sweetie. It's me. How's it going?"
"Fine. We went to Tortola on the ferry today." Karen's high voice, piping into her ear, described the trip. The seas had been so rough that waves had crashed into the bow, and the salt spray got everybody wet.
"Weren't you scared?"
"No, it was fun." Karen told her how most of the passengers had huddled together on the lower deck, while she and her dad went to the top and hung on to the front railing, yelling like rodeo riders.
"I'd love to have seen that."
"You could come visit. I asked Dad, and he said it would be okay. Do you think you could, Mom? You could stay with me in my room."
"Well . . ."
"Say yes. Please?"
"I'll think about it."
"You always say that."
"Karen, I'm just so busy right now. Besides, you'll be home in another month. Listen. What about having your birthday party after all, when you get back?"
"I'm already eleven."
"Hmm. I don't think you can be officially eleven without a party."
"Oh, Mom."
"We could invite all your friends. Come on. It would be fun."
There was a silence on the line, then Karen said, "Do we have to have my party at Gramma's house?"
"It doesn't look the same at all, you know." Irene's bedroom had been stripped bare and repainted. The gasoline-soaked carpet was gone, and every piece of furniture had been replaced. Karen wouldn't recognize it when she got back.
Karen said, "I know, Mom, but ... I don't want to. Okay?"
Memories. Gradually receding, but dark currents of terror still swirled through their dreams.
Gail said, "No problem. What about at Molly's house? I'll bet Molly's mother would love to play hostess for you. Then we could take everyone to the beach, or go to a movie. What do you think?"
"Okay. That would be great."
Gail heard Dave's voice in the background; then Karen said she couldn't talk much longer. She had to go to bed early. Her dad was taking her along on a charter fishing trip for some guests àt the resort. "He said I could help them bait their hooks. Really, these people are so dumb you wouldn't believe it. The women make these faces and go, ewwww. Mom?" There was a pause. "Are you and Gramma okay? I'm worried."
"Don't worry. We're fine."
"You don't have bad dreams or anything?"
"Me? No."
"Swear."
"Well, sometimes. But not that bad."
"Me too, sometimes. You know what works? Pretend we were all in this, like, really scary movie. That's what I do. Try it."
For a moment Gail was surprised into silence. Karen had never seemed quite this practical before, or so grown-up in her concern. She wanted to reach out through the phone and hug her. "That's a good idea. All right, I'll try it, but really, we're fine. And so are you? Really, truly?"
"Really, truly. Mom, I have to go. You can call tomorrow if you want to."
"I will. Love you, Karen."
"Love you, too. Bye." She made a kiss into the phone and was gone.
Gail closed her eyes for a moment, then replaced the phone, leaving her hand on the receiver, reluctant to break even that connection. Karen was all right. She would be home soon. And then Gail would talk to her. Or not, depending. The decision couldn't be put off much longer. Time was running out.
Taking off the jacket to her suit, Gail felt the weight of something in the pocket and found the small box she had dropped inside as she left Ferrer & Quintana. The box was covered in black velvet and trimmed in gold. She pressed the catch and the lid slowly opened. A pair of earrings glittered on white satin, big emerald-cut aquamarines surrounded by diamonds. The color of the warm water off Varadero Beach, he had said, giving them to her. He had kissed one ear, then the other. I'll take you there one day.
This afternoon Gail had tried to return them, going first to the house on Malagueña Avenue at a time when he was least likely to be there. The last she had seen of him had been a week ago, a photo in the newspaper, walking with Harry Lasko into the federal courthouse. Resort owner pleads guilty to charges of tax evasion, money laundering.
At the Pedrosa house, Tia Fermina had reluctantly shown Gail into the living room, which seemed to echo with silence. Gail had asked if Digna was at home, but a few minutes later Elena Godoy appeared. Gail stated her purpose, but Elena refused to take the earrings for Anthony. He was no longer in Miami, and no one knew where he had gone—perhaps straight to hell, Elena added with a brittle smile. A few days after the party on the Fourth, muffled shouts had come through the door of Ernesto's study. Anthony had moved out that same night. Since then the old man had barely eaten or spoken to anyone. If he died, it would be on Anthony Quintana's conscie
nce.
Getting back into her car, Gail glanced up at the second floor, the southwest corner where the master suite overlooked the fountain in the circular drive. She saw high windows, heavy brocade curtains, and the vacant, pale face of an old man slumped in a chair. Then a woman's arm reached over and jerked the curtain across the window.
Gail went next to Ferrer & Quintana. She'd had an appointment at four o'clock to sign some papers relating to the house on Clematis Street. Raul Ferrer was acting as trustee, handling the sale and dividing the proceeds. Gail had felt an odd shortness of breath walking through that door, even knowing that she would not see Anthony. After the papers were signed, Gail asked about Ernesto Pedrosa. Raul told her that the grandchildren, led by Elena Pedrosa Godoy, had filed an action in probate court to have the old man declared incompetent. Gail asked if Anthony knew about this. Raul gave an answer that conveyed nothing: Anthony was currently out of the country.
The house of Pedrosa was falling.
Then Gail had put the box on Raul's desk and asked if he could forward the earrings to Anthony, or at least hold them until Anthony returned. Raul sat without speaking for a moment, then shook his head. He had been instructed not to accept anything from her. No letters, no property, no messages. Nothing. Then he had risen from his desk and escorted her to the door. She had seen the regret on his face.
Gail closed the box. She had thought of sending the earrings to Anthony's daughter. Or giving them to charity. Or throwing them into the sea. But that would be foolish, and Gail had decided not to be foolish anymore. Being careful, she could live for several months on what these earrings had cost. She put the box in a drawer and changed her clothes.
A glass of lemonade in each hand, Gail went outside, walking past the pool, feeling the cool tile on the bare soles of her feet. The deck had been scrubbed and bleached, and the pool itself had been drained and refilled. New porch furniture made everything look different. She pushed open the aluminum screen door and kept to the walkway. It had rained, and the grass was soggy.
Irene looked around and smiled. "There you are. With lemonade! You read my mind."
The three-sided rectangle of posts and trellis, with slats for a roof, made a shady spot in the yard. There were uneven pavers on the ground and a wooden bench. The old cedar, silvery with age, was supported more by the jasmine vine than by its own supports, which had rotted after twenty-five years. Gail's father had built it himself, and he'd been no carpenter.
The sun winked orange light through the branches of the live oak tree. The rain had washed some of the humidity out of the air. The day was letting go like a held breath.
"Did you reach Karen?"
"She's going fishing with Dave tomorrow. She sounds so happy. I couldn't ask for more than that, could I?"
"We were all very lucky." Irene took off her hat, unneeded now that the sun was fading. As she set it and her glass down on the bench, her face tightened.
"Mom? Maybe you've done enough for today."
"No, this is good for me. Gets the kinks out." She picked up her clippers and went back to work. Her cheeks and forehead glistened with perspiration. Her eyes moved to Gail, then back to the trellis. "So. How did it go at Mr. Ferrer's office?"
"The papers are signed. All I have to do is wait for the house to be sold."
Irene squeezed her clippers with both hands through a particularly thick vine. The leaves were thin and pointed, the starlike flowers giving off a sweet fragrance. "You know what I mean."
"No, I didn't leave a letter for Anthony. Raul isn't allowed to accept my letters."
"You didn't tell Raul?" When Gail shook her head, Irene said, "But Anthony has a right to know. It's his decision too."
"It's mine. I fell in love, I was careless, and I have to accept the consequences. Mother, don't look at me that way. I'm not the first woman this has happened to."
"Are you afraid he wouldn't take responsibility? Afraid he'd reject you—"
"It's over. There is nothing between us anymore, and for the first time in my life I'm truly free. That may sound very odd, under the circumstances, but it's how I feel. Free and alive and fearless. And not confused about a damned thing."
Irene was still looking at her intently. "Even so, he has a right to know."
Gail kissed her cheek. "I love you, but really, what do you expect, that everything would suddenly be all right between us? It won't. Not ever."
"Oh, darling. Everyone has troubles. You can't have a perfect life."
"Don't I even get to have my life, imperfect as it may be? That's all I want."
Irene said quietly, "What are you going to do?"
Gail shrugged.
"Just don't do anything . . . irreversible. I mean, without some serious thought."
"That's all I've done lately—think about it." Gail picked up the yard bag. "Let me help you finish before it gets dark. Here, hold this open."
"Darling—"
Gail dropped an armful of clippings into the bag. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Mother. That's the truth. But What I do know is that it’s going to be all right. Whatever happens, I can deal with it. I’ve never felt that before, not so completely." She smiled at Irene, and perhaps her mother could see the effort it took, but perhaps not.
Irene's blue eyes moved slowly over her face. "All right. I don't understand you, but as long as you're happy . .." She stepped back and looked at the trellis, brushing a hand over the foliage she had just trimmed. "This is better, isn't it? I think it's coming right along."
A breeze came off the bay and wandered through the trellis, filling the evening air with the sweet scent of jasmine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, I relied on the help of others in bringing this story to life. Thank you, thank you to lawyers Adele Blackmore, Laura Fabar, Milton Hirsch, Eric Cohen, and Richard Cahan. For insight on many of my characters, I am grateful to Norman Powell, Merry Haber, Rick David, Patti Neill, and Andrea Lane. For details ;I could not have done without, my thanks to Jorge Milian and Mary Hoerber Milian, Dave Gilbert, Jerry Reichardt, and Harry Coleman. For my wonderful sister, Laura, another round of applause.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Barbara Parker
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-3186-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Suspicion of Betrayal Page 34
