“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching for the door. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I can.”
Maria pointed at the clock on the wall. “It’s just after two now,” she pointed out. “So you’ll be back by four o’clock?”
God, being around lawyers had certainly rubbed off on her.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’ll be back by then.”
I left an openly angry and disappointed Maria standing in my office, and guiltily walked out to the reception area. Maria knew that I wasn’t leaving for a family crisis—I would have explained that to her. Now she would speculate, and none of her explanations for my rapid disappearance would prove very flattering to me.
Ashley wasn’t at her desk, so I was spared having to say anything to her as I headed for the elevator. No doubt a second e-mail would get out, alerting everyone to the fact that I had gone already. I pressed the button for the elevator and realized that my involvement with Luther was screwing up my professional as well as my personal life. Two weeks ago, nothing short of a calamity could have pulled me away from working on the files that Maria had meticulously laid out on my desk.
I didn’t know what the hell was happening to me.
[17]
I sat in my car in the driveway of the Grand Bay Hotel, waiting my turn with the valet, and nervously checked my watch—about ten times in just a few minutes. I felt the muscles in my jaw tightening as I watched the seconds tick by on the watch face. I was already fifteen minutes late for lunch with Luther, and I counted three cars ahead of me. It looked like I was going to be even later.
Usually there were several valets on duty at the Grand Bay, but on this day naturally there was only one young man tending to the entire line of cars. I tapped away on the steering wheel and cursed under my breath about his leisurely pace. Everything he did—handing out tickets, moving the cars—seemed to be taking much longer than it needed to. Finally, after an eternity, it was my turn to hand over the Escalade. I sprang out of the car so fast that the valet’s eyes popped in wonder. He probably thought I was a sprinter in the Senior Olympics.
Inside the lobby I rushed past the arrangement of beautiful flowers in an enormous Chinese vase, past the front desk. I decided not to wait for one of the four elevators, and instead rushed up the stairs two at a time to the mezzanine level where Bice was located.
Luther was waiting at the bar, just outside the restaurant, but instead of fuming over being kept waiting he was comfortable perched on a bar stool. I had been desperately worried about making him angry with me, I realized, but he was calmly talking on his cell phone and writing something down on a pad of paper. It was clear that Luther was completely immersed in his conversation—but even as he nodded and jotted down notes, his body and manner remained relaxed and at ease. Luther was a year older than me, but still at thirty-six he retained an athlete’s natural grace; even though he was wearing a suit he seemed obviously fit, toned, ready for any challenge. He was more physically attractive now than when he was in law school. Back then, he always wore baggy clothes and seemed rangy, lanky almost. Now he seemed to have fully grown into his body.
All his life, Luther had loved playing squash, and he was even captain of his team at Dartmouth. I remembered how, at Duke, his opponents would invariably underestimate his abilities when they challenged him to games. They may have heard how good he was, and they may have even seen him play before, but few believed he was capable of being a fierce competitor. He gave off such a relaxed and laid-back impression that, when he won, it seemed a fluke rather than the consequence of his talent and abilities. Still, many times we had gone out to dinner with the money he won off one of the suckers who thought they could beat him.
I could tell that Luther was about to conclude his conversation when I approached him. I admired the way he was dressed, in his navy-blue suit, white shirt with French cuffs and gold cuff links discreetly peeking out from under the sleeves of his suit, and a wine-red tie. He gave off an aura of power and self-assurance. I timed my arrival perfectly, because he clicked off his call just as I slid onto the bar stool next to him.
“Daisy,” Luther kissed my cheek. “You look wonderful.”
In one graceful move, he stood up to look me over. My slight embarrassment over my casual outfit vanished, and I felt as though I was decked out in Chanel. Luther’s blue eyes ran over my face and my body, giving me such a feeling of intimacy that I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks.
“Thanks,” I said, reduced to monosyllables. “You, too.”
And, God help me, he really did. I was glad I was sitting down, because otherwise my knees might have started knocking. He was making me feel like a moderately popular schoolgirl who couldn’t get over the fact that the quarterback of the football team had invited her to the senior prom.
“Shall we?” And, without waiting for an answer, he took my elbow, guided me off the bar stool, and led me to the dining room. I was very aware of how close he was to me; if I were wearing high heels, I probably would have tottered on them.
Even at this late afternoon hour the restaurant was still quite full, with only a couple of empty tables. Luther and I waited at the maître d’s podium to be seated, and I scanned the place to see if anyone I knew was at a table. Mercifully, I didn’t recognize any of the other patrons, so I might be spared a potentially uncomfortable encounter. We were led to a row of booths in the center of the dining room, and seated at one of the most coveted tables—at the corner, by the terrace. With great ceremony, the maître d’ pulled out the table; I slid onto the light-yellow leather banquette. Luther took the seat directly across from me.
The maître d’ handed us each a menu, then the wine list to Luther. He glanced at it and immediately ordered. The man knew his way around a wine list, I thought, when I saw the self-assured way he told the waiter his selection. It was certainly a development since the Gallo jug-wine days in law school.
We were brought bread while we waited for the wine to arrive. The decor at Bice was sleek and sophisticated, yet managed to somehow be warm and welcoming—kind of an upscale trattoria. I had been there half a dozen times, and enjoyed it more with each visit. It reminded me of Italian ambience with faintly Japanese undertones. My favorite part of the design was the floor—alternating planks of smooth, highly polished two-toned ash and dark woods. The lighting was soft, and the cream-colored tablecloths were soothing. On the center of each table was placed a single, perfectly formed, aromatic rose in a vase.
A bottle of Banfi Chianti Classico was brought to our table and, just like at Nemo’s, Luther waved the waiter away after he had opened it. The waiter’s expression as he listed the specials broadcast the fact that he didn’t like being summarily dismissed before he completed the wine ritual. To make amends I ordered two specials: the appetizer—mussels—and red snapper with roasted fennel as a main course. The waiter’s spirits lifted visibly. Luther chose a goat-cheese salad, followed by the veal chop Milanese.
Just before he hurried off with our orders, the waiter paused.
“I must inform you,” he said with great gravity. “The chocolate soufflé takes more than fifteen minutes to prepare. Please take this into consideration if you wish to order it.”
“Thank you,” Luther and I said, nodding with such solemnity that anyone watching would have thought we were listening to a decision being handed down by the Supreme Court.
Finally we were alone. Other than a few words at the bar, we hadn’t spoken to each other. During our years together, Luther and I had never lacked for conversation. But things were different now.
Luther obviously sensed the awkwardness between us and, like me, he didn’t know how to break the suddenly heavy silence. He busied himself pouring a little more wine into each of our glasses, offering a shy smile. I picked up the basket of bread and offered it to him. Nodding, Luther accepted one of the thickly cut slices. I looked around for something else to do and, without asking, poured a healthy dollop of olive oil onto his butter plate. Th
en I helped myself to a packet of Grissini and placed it on my bread plate. I made opening it up much more difficult than it really was, carefully taking out the thin bread sticks one by one and aligning them side by side. I was tempted to dip the ends of the sticks into the pad of butter on my plate, but thought better of it. Awkwardness or not, I didn’t want to add more calories to my meal than absolutely necessary.
I looked up. Luther was staring at me.
“Daisy, this is ridiculous,” he said. “We’ve always been able to talk. I’m still me, you’re still you.”
I was so relieved that I began to laugh out loud. Cubans don’t generally do very well with silence.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Let’s start over.”
We got into a discussion of the case that had brought Luther down to Miami. We never stopped talking, even when the waiter brought us the food. And we ordered the chocolate soufflé, which brought a smile to our waiter’s lips. I was glad not to have dipped my Grissini in butter.
Then, during the espresso, we finally got personal. My blood chilled.
“I meant what I said about wanting you to be with me,” Luther said, folding his napkin. “I love you. I know how hard this is, but I love you. I always have and I always will.”
He reached across and took my hand, pressing it gently. I was surprised by how warm it was. I looked around nervously, half afraid to see Ariel emerge from some hiding place.
“I believe you, Luther. But I have a life now.” Then I uttered the words that I knew would jolt us both back to hard reality. “A husband. A child.”
My words hit their mark; Luther jerked back a few inches, as if he had been slapped by an invisible hand. It took him about ten full seconds to compose himself.
“I know I’m running the risk of completely alienating you forever,” he said. “But I am going to point out a fact of life to you. Obvious as it may be, it might have escaped your notice.”
My heart beat faster. Somehow I knew what he was going to say, and I didn’t want to hear it. I sipped my espresso as if nothing was happening.
“If you were absolutely happy and fulfilled with your life, you never would have met me at Nemo’s.”
I started to talk, but he held up his hand to silence my protestations. He knew my counter-argument in advance.
“You can tell me you met me out of sheer curiosity,” he said. “Because you wanted to see how I was, how I turned out, if I had lost my hair or gotten fat. You wanted to see if I’d gotten married—all the things that normal people wonder about their former lovers.”
I felt trepidation about where this was going, but I allowed myself a small smile.
“I was wondering about all those things,” I said. “And you passed with flying colors.”
“Thanks,” Luther said, but he was obviously not going to be sidetracked by my compliment. “But one time was enough to satisfy your curiosity. Then you met me again. I know you, Daisy. You don’t take anything lightly, you don’t make any move without considering the consequences. In your whole life, you’ve never gone into a situation without knowing what you were doing.”
Until now, I thought.
“All right,” I said. “But this is more than a legal argument, Luther. I’m confused. I can’t make a decision yet.”
The strange thing was that everything felt right when I was with Luther: I had no overriding guilt, or feelings that I was betraying everything I held dear. It was like stepping into another dimension. My instincts told me to propose we get a room upstairs at the Grand Bay Hotel, but I held back from crossing that line. I could attribute some of my lustful urge to the wine I’d just drunk, but not all of it.
Luther dug into his pocket and produced a small manila envelope. He slid it across the table to me.
“It’s for you,” he said. “There’s a key ring inside with two keys—one is to get into the building, the other is for my apartment door. There’s a slip of paper with the address and the security code. There’s underground parking. All you have to do is come see me. It’s as simple as that.”
Simple. That’s the last word I would have used to describe the implications of Luther’s little parcel. I looked down at t
he envelope as though it was going to rise up and bite me.
“Luther, I don’t know.”
“No pressure,” Luther said calmly. “I just want you to have these in case you decide you want to be with me.”
I still hadn’t picked up the envelope. “I can’t promise you anything,” I told him.
“I know that, Daisy,” Luther said. “I can’t deny that I want to make love to you, but I know I have to wait for you. I had that in mind when I made these keys for you, but I figured that, if nothing else, they would allow us to meet in less public places.”
I picked up the envelope slowly, feeling my life change, then put it in the zipper compartment of my purse. I couldn’t shake off the sensation that some kind of bargain had just been sealed.
“No pressure, huh?” I said, lamely trying to joke.
I closed my purse. Now we both knew there was no going back. It was just a matter of when.
[18]
I wasn’t a genius at introspection. In fact, I thought it was a waste of time. If I couldn’t understand something about myself or others quickly, then I just left the matter alone until an answer revealed itself. It was Vivian and Anabel, in a moment of high insight, who pointed out to me my greatest fear: That I would become as self-absorbed as my mother. Maybe that was why I shied away from contemplating my life, and why I prided myself on being a doer rather than a thinker.
I didn’t make it back to the office after lunch with Luther. There was no point, I was too preoccupied by what had happened at Bice. Dealing with Maria and pressing matters at the office was too much to contemplate. I would have to return to Weber, Miranda another day. Still, I remembered wincing at Maria’s tone of righteous indignation when I called her from my cell phone and confirmed her worst fear—that I wasn’t coming back as promised.
Instead, I went straight home after leaving Luther and played with Marti for the balance of the afternoon. I needed to get grounded in my real life and real responsibilities. Marti had been gleefully surprised when, upon arriving home, I invited him for a romp in the pool. We didn’t actually get into the water until late afternoon and the sun had started to weaken. There wasn’t a sunblock strong enough to fend off the afternoon summertime Miami sunshine.
I was tempted to tan a bit, to add some color to my skin, but I didn’t give in to the idea. Only the tourists are tanned in Miami; the residents know how harmful the sun is, and avoid it as much as possible. I have olive coloring and probably could withstand some sun without turning into a withered old lady, but my mother had for decades instilled the fear of God in me about spending a single moment unprotected in the sun. My gynecologist once startled me during an examination by observing that I was his only patient with no discernible tan lines whatsoever. Mamá would have been proud.
Splashing around in the pool, I realized that too much time had passed since I’d last played with Marti. I knew that I took care of his needs, and I made play dates with his little friends. I made sure he ate right, got enough sleep, and saw the pediatrician when he was supposed to. But I had neglected to spend time with him one-on-one, playing the games that he liked to play.
I turned my head to keep from being splashed in the face: For about the fiftieth time, I caught Marti as he dove from the side of the pool into my arms. It had been just over ten months since I’d worked, and gradually in that time I had filled my days until I spent a couple of hours at most with my son. If I wasn’t with Vivian and Anabel I was with a family member, or checking out antique stores or art galleries, or going in to the office. It was amazing how busy I could be without working. The time away from the firm had gone by in a flash, and now I was feeling like I had little to show for it. I had taken a leave to spend more time with my family, but lately it had felt as though I was simpl
y developing a new lifestyle. I was no closer to figuring out whether or not to go back to work, and Luther had come into my life and made me face some pretty unpalatable truths.
It wasn’t easy to make big life decisions while playing Marco Polo with a three-year-old boy, so I decided to put them off. Thankfully, Marti was beginning to slow down, and his splashes and thrashes grew a little less maniacal. I figured it was time for a break, so I swam over to one of the brightly colored plastic floats we kept by the side of the pool. I put it in the water, and heaved Marti on top of it. He must have been exhausted, because he just lay there with his eyes closed, not putting up a fight as he usually did. Looking at his face, I was struck again by his resemblance to Ariel. If anyone ever doubted Marti’s paternity, they could just place father and son side by side—that would be enough to make anyone throw out the DNA test.
Ariel came home and found us lying on chaise longues, wrapped up in huge beach towels and staring up at the sky, laughing as we identified the clouds as different animal shapes. The game was going to end soon, because the sun was beginning to set; soon it would be dusk, and the clouds would disappear.
As soon as he saw us, Ariel dropped his briefcase and, apparently not too worried that his fancy British suit would get wet, slid onto Marti’s chaise and joined in the game. A few tigers and several elephants later, it was clear that Ariel was even better than Marti and me at spotting the animals in the sky. I must have still had some Chianti from lunch in my system because I couldn’t stop giggling.
Lying there, happy with my husband and son, I asked myself why I was even contemplating starting an affair with Luther. It was strange. When I was with Luther, it seemed that everything was right with him. Now that I was with Ariel and Marti, I couldn’t imagine risking my happy family life.
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