Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

  “We’ve hit a couple of rough patches,” he admitted with what was for him amazing candor. He rarely wanted anyone to guess his failings. Hal DeWitt, partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in town, preferred that the world maintain its impression of him as a brilliant, successful attorney who was totally self-confident and untouched by the doubts that plagued ordinary men.

  “What sort of rough patches? Over your new girlfriend?”

  Hal’s chuckle surprised her.

  “So he told you about that?” he said.

  “Is it something serious?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Seeing her treat Brian like an unwelcome intruder in my home woke me up.”

  “You don’t suppose he did anything intentionally to antagonize her?” Molly asked, knowing that their son could be plenty devious when it suited his purposes.

  “Not really. I think his presence was sufficient. I made it clear that his presence was welcome, and if she couldn’t accept that, then her presence wasn’t.”

  “And?”

  “She left.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Trust me, in retrospect I can see that it wasn’t a great loss. I’m too old to be trying to keep up with some ambitious twenty-three-year-old law clerk anyway. Sooner or later I’d have begun to wonder if her interest in me was personal or professional.”

  Molly had no comment on that. Well, to be perfectly honest, she had one, but it was best left unspoken if she intended to maintain this aura of amiability.

  Hal hesitated, a rare occurrence for a man known in court for his quick-witted silver tongue. “There is something I should probably tell you.”

  “What?” Molly asked with a sudden sense of impending doom. Broken arms and chicken pox came to mind. Naturally he’d want her off guard before dropping such a bombshell. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said irritably, then caught himself. “It’s just that having a kid around all the time, well, it can be damned difficult. Not that I haven’t loved it, you understand,” he added hurriedly.

  Molly’s mouth dropped open. Hearing such an admission from her extraordinarily competent, smug ex-husband was like unexpectedly wringing an honest response from a politician.

  Hal chuckled again. “I’ve stunned you into silence, haven’t I?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “The last few days have taught me a greater appreciation of what you’ve been coping with ever since we split. Juggling work and parenthood isn’t quite the snap I expected it to be. I thought it was all a matter of organization. Boys don’t always stick to the program, do they?”

  “Almost never.”

  “You’ve done a good job with him, Molly,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  She couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “Thank you.”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always. Tell Brian I love him and I’ll try to call him tonight.”

  “Will do.”

  Michael came up behind her as she hung up. “Everything okay?”

  “Amazingly enough, yes. He was actually decent about everything.”

  “That will make things easier between the two of you, yes?”

  Molly nodded. “I feel as if this great weight has been lifted.” She glanced up at Michael and said ruefully, “I wonder how long this accommodating mood will last.”

  “Just savor the moment,” he suggested.

  “Probably a good idea.” She glanced beyond him toward the restaurant’s main dining area. “Anyone here you were hoping to see?”

  “There’s one group of old men huddled in a corner. I’ve gotten the table closest to them.”

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve called Walt Hazelton. Order a sandwich for me, okay?”

  Michael nodded. He turned to go, then came back. He reached up and cupped her face in his hands, his gaze steady on hers. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For sticking with me through this.”

  She turned her head and pressed a kiss against his palm. “I wouldn’t be anyplace else.”

  • • •

  Walt Hazelton did have news from inside Cuba. Whether it was good or bad probably depended on the viewpoint. Molly couldn’t quite decide what to think when he confirmed that in fact there had been reports of a handful of armed men arriving on the beaches along Cuba’s north coast between Cojimar and Santa Cruz del Norte.

  “One group was spotted and greeted with a hail of gunfire from Cuban soldiers. One man was killed and two others were wounded. A fourth escaped.”

  Molly’s breath caught in her throat. “Any names?”

  “Miguel García was not among them.”

  She released a pent-up sigh of relief. “Thank God. Were they the only ones?”

  “There are several wild rumors circulating, including one saying an entire boatload of guns made it through and that even now guerrillas in the hills are arming themselves for a coup.”

  “Are you sure this is just a rumor?”

  “No one I spoke with had seen these guns for themselves. It was always the friend of a cousin or some such who’d reported it. I wouldn’t go to press with information that vague, but I heard it enough to suspect there may be some truth to it.”

  “But the bottom line is that Miguel could have been part of an attempted invasion and he could be inside Cuba now.”

  “It’s possible,” the reporter agreed.

  He said it without much enthusiasm. Molly wondered about that. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “One thing doesn’t make sense,” he admitted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Miguel took his boat out from here on Sunday morning. You went looking for him at midday and found the boat Sunday night, early Monday morning, right?”

  “We found it an hour or so before sunset in Cuban waters. It was just before midnight when we got back. The explosion occurred just after midnight.”

  “According to the people I spoke with, those arrested said they had taken off from Key West.”

  “Perhaps Miguel was to meet up with them,” Molly suggested, stretching to find a reasonable explanation. “That would explain why we found his boat adrift where we did and why his raft was missing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this incident didn’t take place until just before dawn this morning. I began getting calls as soon as I hit the office, calls from people I had spoken with just yesterday who had no news of this kind to report.”

  Molly wasn’t willing quite yet to accept the implications of what he was saying. “Couldn’t they have staged this to go in over a period of days? That way if one wave of guerrillas was picked up, others might still have a chance to get past the soldiers.”

  “It’s possible, but everyone reliable I spoke with indicated that all those arriving safely had also arrived just today.”

  When Molly said nothing, Walt Hazelton said quietly, “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you hoped to hear.”

  “At least it’s something,” she said finally. “We just have to figure out what it means.”

  When she told Michael what the foreign correspondent had learned, the color drained from his face.

  “Miguel could still have gone in with them,” Molly insisted, refusing to give up hope.

  “And what has he done since Sunday? It is Tuesday now. Has he been floating around on a raft in Cuban waters waiting to rendezvous with his coconspirators?” He shook his head. “I don’t like this. Something tells me Miguel was up to his neck in the planning for this, but that something went terribly wrong.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I know who would,” he said with an air of grim determination.

  He rose and walked over to the tableful of men across the aisle. They regarded him warily as he pulled up a chair and joined them.<
br />
  Ignoring the food that had just been placed in front of her, Molly watched their faces, hoping she could detect something from their expressions since she couldn’t understand their rapidly spoken words. All she heard were what sounded like vehement denials, accompanied by angry gestures. Michael’s exasperated shouts rose above the uproar of the others, stunning them into furious, stubborn silence. He threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust and left them.

  “What on earth did you say to them?” Molly asked when Michael stalked back to the table, picked up their check, and headed for the door. She had to race to catch up with him as he tossed a handful of bills onto the counter by the cash register.

  “Michael?” she prodded him.

  “I told them they were crazy old men if they believed they were any match for Castro’s guns. I asked them if this was a plot by Paredes. Just like last night, they denied any knowledge of such a plot. Then they gave me a bunch of hogwash about the triumph of freedom against a godless regime.”

  He settled into the driver’s seat of the car and rubbed his eyes before sliding his sunglasses into place. “I don’t know how to deal with men like that,” he said with a rare display of helplessness. “How can I make them trust me?”

  “Not by calling them crazy old men,” Molly replied.

  He scowled at the rebuke. “Okay, it wasn’t exactly tactful,” he admitted, “but I’m out of patience and I may well be running out of time. If Miguel is still at sea on that damned raft without provisions, he could be dying while they talk ideals and politics.”

  Molly had one thought, but she knew instinctively that he was likely to resist it. “Michael, I really do think you must go to Señor López and talk to him.”

  “About what happened the night before Miguel disappeared?”

  “About that, but more importantly about what it was like for them in Cuba when they were young. You saw them in that photo with Paredes. Those ties have never weakened. Paredes isn’t likely to open up with so much at stake, but José López might. Maybe more than anyone else, he can make you understand what has gone on in your uncle’s head and how he feels in his heart. I think this is something you need to hear.”

  As she’d expected, he dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I’ve listened to Pedro. I’ve listened to all of them. What do you think the talk is at Sunday dinner three hours out of every four? Cuba in the old days. Havana in its glory. The faith that soon they will return. In every toast at every holiday, they repeat that next year’s toast will be made in Cuba. No matter how long it’s been, they say it with the same deep conviction each time.”

  Molly regarded him skeptically. “Do they really believe it? Or is it a habit they can’t overcome because then they wouldn’t know how to go on? They’ve talked for all these years, but have you listened?”

  “I tell you it was impossible growing up in my family not to hear these things,” he said impatiently.

  “But have you really listened?” she repeated. “Perhaps it’s time you discover what it means to be a Cuban in exile, especially to a man like Miguel García.”

  “I am a Cuban in exile.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re a Cuban who’s grown up here, who has acclimated. If anything, you’ve rebelled against the dreams of Miguel and the others, just as many teenagers rebel against the expectations of their parents. You were educated here. Your friends are Anglos and African-Americans, as well as Cubans. You’re a policeman, for goodness sakes, a part of the system. How much more acclimated could you be?”

  When he started to argue, she held up a hand. “No, wait. Have you dreamed of going home, as they do? Are there things you lie awake nights remembering, longing for? Have you wanted to return to the Havana you remember, to walk its streets again? How much do you even remember about the first five years of your life, except for the sound of your grandmother’s laughter?”

  He sighed heavily. “Perhaps not enough,” he admitted eventually. “Perhaps not enough.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  José López agreed to meet Michael and Molly that night at a performance by Cuban salsa queen Celia Cruz.

  “I tried to talk him out of it,” Michael told Molly when he’d hung up. “A club is no place for a quiet conversation. He said it would be an appropriate backdrop to what I need to hear, whatever that means.”

  “It probably means that they heard her perform in the old days in Havana. She really is quite something.”

  “You’ve heard her?” he asked, clearly amazed.

  “At the Calle Ocho festival. She usually performs.”

  “You’ve been to the street festival?”

  “Why are you so surprised? Hundreds of thousands of people are jammed along Eighth Street every year to hear the music and pig out on the food.”

  “I’m just amazed that you were one of them.”

  She regarded him closely. “What about you?”

  “I haven’t been in years,” he admitted. “Pedro talked me into helping with his food booth five or six years ago. There were too damned many people for me. I told him I’d pay somebody to help him out the next time.”

  “Another rebellion, perhaps?” she inquired dryly.

  Michael frowned at her.

  “Never mind. Speaking of Pedro, though, do you suppose we could stop by his restaurant and grab another sandwich?” she asked wistfully.

  “We just ate.”

  “Maybe you ate. I barely got to the table before you dragged me out of the place.”

  “Sorry,” he said, looking contrite. “I wasn’t thinking.” He drove the few blocks east and pulled into the parking lot beside Pedro’s restaurant. Inside they found his uncle working the cash register, his expression somber. He gave them a distracted glance.

  “Sit anywhere. I will join you when I can.”

  Although it was nearly two o’clock, the restaurant was still jammed. As they worked their way between the crowded tables, Molly spotted the two young rafters who’d been rescued the day before. She pointed them out to Michael. They were surrounded by people, clearly being treated as heroes. At the sight of Michael, though, they stood up and came forward. Molly was relieved to see that the color in their cheeks was more normal, even though their sunburn blisters had broken and still looked painful.

  “Gradas, amigo,” Ricardo said to Michael, a smile spreading across his face. “You were right. Your uncle has promised us work. We will work hard to repay his generosity.”

  Tony clasped Michael’s hand. “Sí, we are very grateful,” he said in his low, shy voice. “We will start tonight. That will be the beginning of our new life.”

  “I’m glad it worked out,” Michael told them. “I see you have found some admirers.”

  “Everyone has been very good to us,” Ricardo agreed with his ready grin.

  Tony, however, regarded Michael worriedly. “There is so much to learn.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Molly told them. “You already speak English amazingly well. Soon you will fit right in with those your own age. By the time school starts in the fall, you’ll already have friends.”

  “I am not so sure about school,” Tony said. “Unless we can locate our uncle and he will take us in, we must work to live here.”

  “I’m sure my uncle will adjust your hours so that you can attend classes,” Michael said, dismissing their concerns. “You’ll need an education if you are to get ahead in this country.”

  “Get ahead?” Ricardo repeated. “No comprendo.”

  “To be a success.”

  The teenager nodded emphatically. “Ah, yes, a success. The American success story, sí?” Both boys glanced down at their new jeans, fancy sneakers, and the teal-and-black T-shirts of the Florida Marlins baseball team. “With these gifts we look American already, yes?” Ricardo asked.

  Molly nodded, thinking how desperately they wanted to be part of their new land while so many other exiles simply longed to go home again. Perhaps it was because th
e two teenagers understood better than anyone the harsh reality and desperation of life in Cuba today. Would they be able to find a common understanding with men like Miguel, or would their perceptions of Cuba be so at odds it would be as if they were speaking of different countries? Would the glamor of this new land wear off when they realized how hard they would have to work to attain what others had? Right now it all must seem a fantasy come true.

  When Molly and Michael were alone at their table and the boys had left with their new friends, she looked at him. “How much do you recall about your first days here?”

  A faraway look came over his face. “I was just thinking about that, trying to identify with what those two boys must be feeling. I can’t. I was so young. All I remember was crying when I realized my mother wasn’t getting on that plane with me. I remember how alone I felt, even after I was living with Pedro and Elena and my cousins. A child at that age needs a mother more than freedom, I think.”

  His expression hardened, as if he’d been transported back in time. “That is why I had so much anger,” he said quietly. “I threw incredible tantrums. Sometimes I would go to bed so hoarse from crying, there was no sound left in me. I was probably hoping they would send me back. I didn’t understand that they couldn’t. I was still angry when my mother finally came. I didn’t speak to her for days. I refused to allow her close enough to hug me.”

  “That must have pained her deeply,” Molly said, barely able to conceive of the heartbreak she would suffer if Brian ever shut her out so cruelly.

  “I suppose it did. I was too caught up in my own hurt to think of hers.”

  “Perhaps you were afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “That she would leave you again.”

  A faint, rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Have I ever told you that you are very wise, querida?”

  She grinned at him. “Not nearly enough. Do you suppose they would have heard any rumors of an impending attack by guerrillas from the U.S.?”

  Michael shook his head. “They are boys. Like all teenage boys, I would guess their interest is in girls, not politics.”

  “Michael, they risked their lives to get to a new country. That doesn’t sound like a couple of kids who are unaware of anything except their hormones. This wasn’t some lark or an adventure.”