one hot summer (10 page)

We watched as a woman joined him on deck; the two prepared the fifty-foot boat for a journey out into the bay. She took care of the ropes on the bow, he untied the cords on the stern and threw them onto the dock. Then he sprinted onto the bridge and carefully guided the boat out
of its slip while she fended off, making sure the red and white rubber bumpers hit the wooden pilings and not the hull.

Luther and I were silent, watching the boat slowly motoring out to the channel that would take it to the bay. I wondered where the couple was heading during the hottest part of the day. They would probably be one of the only boats on Biscayne Bay in this heat and sun. Maybe they were stealing moments, enjoying the sea while they could.

“Well, we’re here,” I said, breaking the silence. “And you’ve told me all this. But what’s changed, Luther?”

In perfect Spanish, Luther replied, “Everything has changed, Daisy. I’ll change my entire world for you, if I have to. Anything.”

We had just finished the main course and were waiting for Jacinta to clear the plates for dessert.

“Margarita, are you all right?” Ariel asked me. “You seem so distracted.”

We’d put Marti to bed and were having dinner alone. Lately Ariel had been coming home from work a little earlier, so he had time to play with Marti before putting him to bed. That day, of all days, Ariel had come home even earlier in the afternoon, excited and full of plans to play in the pool with his son. Knowing Ariel’s insanely hectic work schedule, any other day I would have been pleased. But that day I’d only gotten home a half hour before him, and I hadn’t had time to digest everything that had happened.

“I’m fine,” I said, avoiding looking into his eyes. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

Ariel cocked his head to one side—his problem-solving posture—and looked at me intently. It took all my self-control to sit there quietly while he examined me. I felt as transparent as a sheet of cellophane. I wondered how I would feel if I had actually been unfaithful to Ariel, rather than merely having listened to Luther broach the subject.

“I know what’s wrong with you,” Ariel said with quiet triumph. I felt my blood run cold. “You went to see your mother today, didn’t you?”

As soon as his words registered, I suppressed a sigh of relief. If Ariel suspected that I had been with another man—even just to talk—I probably wouldn’t have been sitting there in one piece. Ariel might have been enlightened and liberal, but beneath the surface he was still a Cuban man. And Cuban men don’t react kindly to other men making suggestions to their wives of the sort that Luther had proposed that afternoon.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to lie to Ariel.

“Yes,” I said. “I had lunch with Mamá.”

Apparently satisfied that Mamá was enough to account for my mood, Ariel went back to telling me about a personal-injury case that he was considering taking. He knew the effect Mamá had on me sometimes, and he knew better than to ask for details.

Moments later Jacinta appeared with dessert—coconut flan, my favorite, which I usually devoured. I hadn’t eaten much of the main course, chicken in white wine sauce, so I dug into the flan with the gusto of a woman on death row.

It was still warm out, but it had cooled to the point at which we could have dinner outside on the terrace. I remembered the afternoon sun burning into my eyes and the back of my neck. From our table we had an unobstructed view of Miami across Biscayne Bay: The tall buildings of downtown illuminated in an array of colors, the bridges linking Miami Beach to the mainland outlined in neon light, the city lights reflected in the water. I could never tire of the view.

As soon as Ariel had tucked away his flan, he resumed telling me about a client who had come into his office. I gave every sign of listening to what he was saying, but my eyes kept darting to the lights shimmering in the distance, as if by focusing on the shore across the water I could discern what Luther was doing at that moment. It was only four miles from Miami Beach to Miami on the causeway, but just then it felt like a continent away.

Ariel was so intent on what he was saying that he didn’t notice me drifting away. Or else, having thought he’d figured me out, he didn’t care to make any further comment. I knew that as long as I made occasional eye contact and nodded from time to time, I could think about anything I wanted while Ariel was talking. It wasn’t a strategy I’d set out to develop, it was just something that had happened over the years. I was physically seated on the terrace, sipping after-dinner coffee and listening to Ariel’s story. Mentally, I was back on that park bench with Luther. I would have given anything to be able to withdraw from my life for a few hours, just to get my thoughts together. I didn’t understand how a one-hour meeting with an ex-lover could threaten my eight-year marriage. I never imagined things were so tenuous, and delicate.

But apparently they were.

I had never been unfaithful to Ariel, and I’d never even been tempted. I had thought our marriage was solid and secure, but now I wondered if my fidelity was simply a matter of the right person never coming into my life. Luther had showed up, declared his love, and made me wonder if he had been the right man for me all along. He knew I was married, with a child, and still he had contacted me. And I had listened to him.

My mind raced while I looked into Ariel’s eyes. I was suddenly angry and disgusted with myself for the way I was thinking. But then, with a power beyond my control, Ariel’s familiar features in the candlelight began to morph into Luther’s. I shook my head to banish the image, and to concentrate on where I was.

“Ariel,
amor,
it’s so nice out here,” I said, standing up. “I think I’m going to pour myself a Courvoisier. Can I get you one?”

I had read somewhere that people cheating on their spouses often compensated by being extra nice. I wondered if I was already falling into that pattern. Nonsense, I thought. Jacinta had retired for the night, and it was up to us to serve ourselves. That was all.

Ariel’s face lit up with delight, and he smiled so lovingly at me that I had to turn away.

As I walked into the den, I condemned myself for even considering having an affair with Luther. I reminded myself that I had rarely even thought about Luther before he contacted me. I was happily married to a man I loved, and who loved me. We had a great sex life. I had a child I adored, I lived in a beautiful house. I was a partner in a top-tier law firm.

And an ex-lover I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years was making me feel like a teenager in heat.

I opened up the bar and took down two heavy, intricately cut balloon glasses. I measured out two healthy servings of brandy, watching the richness of the amber swirling in the glasses. I knew the alcohol would leave me with a little headache in the morning, but I wanted to sleep well that night. Ariel and I had split a bottle of white wine over dinner, but it had seemed to sharpen my mind rather than mellow me out. I had a lot of thinking to do, but not while the memory of seeing Luther was so fresh.

“Gracias,”
Ariel said when I handed him his glass.

I sat down and tipped my glass to him.
“Salud.”

It had been a while since we relaxed together on the terrace, quietly enjoying an after-dinner drink. If it weren’t for Luther coming back into my life, I could have been at peace with myself and the world around me.

I sipped the brandy, feeling my throat burn and my eyes water slightly. I stared at the waves of Biscayne Bay lapping gently at the seawall just a few feet from where we sat. I wondered if Luther was out there, looking out at the same water, wondering which of the lights shone from my house. I remembered when I was a child, I used to look at the water and wonder w
here each drop had been in the past. I used to think about faraway places like China, but now I was thinking only of Coconut Grove.

My heart was beating faster, and it wasn’t just the brandy. It was Luther. Thinking of him was making me melt. I remembered that afternoon, on the bench, when he had started talking in perfect, unaccented Spanish. It had floored me. I’d received plenty of gifts from men in my life, but no one had ever learned a language for me before. Brilliant as he was, I knew Luther had a hard time picking up languages. Learning Spanish was Luther’s declaration of love for me, and his way of demonstrating that his feelings were more than just a passing fancy.

There was no point trying not to think about Luther. And there was only one way to find out what the future held. It was time to go see Violeta.

The next morning, after Ariel had left for the office, I placed an emergency call. As usual, Violeta gave every indication that she was expecting my call at that moment.

Violeta Luz was a psychic whom I’d been consulting for the past three years. Vivian had introduced me to her—Vivian, who doubted everything she couldn’t see, feel, taste, and have notarized. Tough and hard-nosed as she was, Vivian also had a firm belief in seeking out spiritual advice on the big issues in her life. Even when we were children, Vivian was the one who would keep shaking the magic eight ball until she liked what it said. When she grew up, she realized that the eight ball could be manipulated and was an unreliable adviser. That was when she moved on to the Ouija board, and she became so obsessed with it that Anabel and I ended up throwing its plastic arrow into Biscayne Bay. Within a couple of years Vivian had moved on to tarot cards and palmistry.

Before she discovered Violeta, Vivian went a few times to see a pair of middle-aged Cuban twins who operated out of their house in Hialeah. They predicted the future using seashells that they rubbed in their hands before rolling like dice. Vivian liked the twins fine, but there was always a big crowd at the house, and a long wait that turned Vivian off. She didn’t think mystical advice should be dispensed like products off an assembly line. And she hated to be kept waiting for anything.

After the twins, Vivian twice visited a Santeria priest also based in Hialeah. His predictions and advice were good, but the setting in which he worked started to freak Vivian out. She could overlook the life-size statues of San Lazaro and Santa Barbara that were prominently placed in the corners of the dimly lit room, along with feathers, beads, and other odd paraphernalia. But on her first visit she had seen a goat munching grass in the backyard: The second time she went there, the goat was gone. She could only think of a recent case that had gone all the way to the Supreme Court, in which a Santeria priest sued after the State of Florida tried to prohibit him from keeping goats for ritual sacrifice. He claimed that Santeria was an established faith, and that animal sacrifice was an essential part of it.

The priest had won his case. For Vivian, it was one thing to read about it in the newspaper, and another thing entirely to see it in action. The only way Vivian wanted to deal with a dead animal was to see it wrapped in plastic in the meat section at Publix. The goat’s disappearance from one visit to the next definitely dampened her enthusiasm for the priest as her spiritual adviser. That, plus the fact that he kept a store behind his house in which he sold merchandise to help the spirits do their jobs—Vivian didn’t want to be tempted to whip out her American Express gold card to buy a voodoo doll representing an opposing counsel on a case.

God only knows why, but at one point Vivian decided she would give Santeria one last chance. The religion was thriving in Cuba, with hordes of practitioners both in Miami and on the island. She hoped her experience with the goat-owning priest had been an anomaly. Naturally, it turned out she had gotten off easy with the goat-sacrificing Santero.

She was talking to one of her clients—a prisoner on death row for killing and mutilating his wife’s relatives because they hid his TV remote control—who highly recommended a palero, the most hard-core of the Santeria priests. Vivian later realized she should have been more discriminating about the people from whom she took advice, but the prisoner swore by the palero. The man’s plight might not have looked great on the surface, but it had taken three separate trials before he was actually convicted. The judge in the first trial, a forty-year-old marathon runner, had dropped dead of a heart attack and caused a mistrial. In the second trial, two members of the jury succumbed to food poisoning after eating in the courthouse cafeteria. And he almost got another mistrial the third time around, when the lead prosecutor went down with an appendicitis attack. The lawyer was so tough, though, that he only took two days off—he was so determined to convict, he said he’d have been willing to try the case from a stretcher. Vivian’s client had enjoyed two years of delay, however, time for which he thanked the palero.

Vivian was instructed to go to the palero’s house during the full moon—the most auspicious time for the Santeria gods. The priest lived in a normal-looking, middle-class neighborhood in South Miami. The only clue to what the man might have been into was a pervasive smell of incense in the house—
really
strong, enough to smell from the street.

The palero was a thuggy-looking mulatto guy in his late twenties, dressed entirely in white with brightly colored beads on his neck, hands, and feet. He ordered Vivian to sit with her eyes closed in a chair in the middle of his darkened living room. Vivian wasn’t comfortable with the priest or the situation, but she did as she was told. After all, coming there had been her idea, she guessed. She tried to focus, figuring that she would need to concentrate for what was coming. A moment later, she felt a thwack and a sharp pain on her head, then hot liquid spreading downward. She reached up, felt around, and grabbed something warm from her hair. With horror, she saw that it was a dove, still bleeding from its neatly severed neck. Vivian was covered in blood, and the palero was nowhere to be found.

With as much strength as she could muster, Vivian threw the dove across the room, nearly vomiting when she saw the bird’s blood trace an arc in the air. Then she jumped and ran as fast as she could. Her primary regret was that she hadn’t gotten a refund on the eight hundred dollars she had paid—in cash, in advance—for the experience. Years later, she still shudders whenever she remembers what happened, although even she has to laugh at the fact that in Miami someone covered in blood can drive by a police car without getting stopped.

Vivian tried a few more possibilities, such as past-life regression and channeling—swearing Anabel and me to secrecy each time, lest someone in the Miami legal community find out. Then she found Violeta, a grandmotherly woman who rocked in a wooden chair while she spoke with the spirit world. What really convinced Vivian that Violeta was on the level was the fact that the spiritualist didn’t charge for her sessions. There was a glass bowl placed discreetly by the front door, and clients could pay as much or as little as they felt they should.

I know how all this sounds. I was completely skeptical at first, but Vivian started to wear me down with little details of things that Violeta had predicted for her. I still wasn’t convinced entirely, and I knew that most things supernatural and psychic were bullshit designed to free fools from their money. As time went on, Vivian told me more and more things that Violeta had predicted—at work, in her family, in her love life. And, as a bonus, Violeta offered commonsense advice and insight. As Vivian pointed out, it was a hell of a lot cheaper than seeing a shrink.

Three years ago for Vivian’s birthday, she surprised me by declaring that I didn’t need to buy her a present—instead, she wanted me to go for a session with Violeta. If I didn’t get anything out of it, Vivian insisted, then she’d never bring up the subject again. Having listened to stories of Violeta for years by then, that promise of silence appealed to me almost more than the prospect of the visit itself.

Violeta, it turned out, didn’t accept just anyone as a client, and I had to be introduced to her over the telephone before she agreed to see me. While we were driving over to Violeta’s house in Little Havana for the birthday session, I kept thinking that Vivian and I should both have our Florida Bar cards torn into little pieces. At the very least we should have lobbied to have our tuition money reimbursed, because obviously we hadn’t learned much in law school. As practicing attorneys, we were trained in facts and logic; now, here we were consulting a psychic about our lives. Even the most practical and hard-nosed Cubans harbor a healthy amount of superstition within us, I knew, and respect anyone who claimed to be able to foretell the future. I thought I was the exception who proved the rule—until I met Violeta.

I was hooked right away. We had walked in, Vivian had told her that my first name was Margarita and that I was a friend. That was it. From there Violeta had talked about my childhood, about my family, about my career concerns, all in a totally convincing fashion. It was as though she knew me long before I came to her. I may have been put off at first by her appearance—my mental image of a psychic didn’t involve a woman in her mid-sixties with a too-tight perm in a lavender leisure suit and little white sneakers. But her eyes were kind and soft, and her voice was mesmerizing. Soon I thought of her more as a spiritual adviser than a psychic, more a wise and trusted friend than a fortune-teller.

Violeta lived in a three-bedroom house in a middle-class section of Hialeah. Nothing about her or her home advertised her profession. Sessions were conducted in a sunny, tiled room in the back of the house. It was decorated with the usual smattering of Santeria saints, along with bowls filled with water, coins, apples, and lots of lit candles everywhere. There were a couple of statues of the Virgin, and a huge, impossible-to-miss oil painting of a Native American chief hung in the middle of the wall behind the spot where Violeta always sat. I hadn’t yet mustered the courage to ask who he was, and why he was hanging in such a position of prominence. During sessions, Violeta sat in her rocking chair three or four feet from me, her eyes closed as she searched for visions. She would open her eyes only when she had information to impart, or to ask me a question if she needed clarification about something she was seeing.

While I drove on the causeway from Miami Beach for my latest appointment with Violeta, I was filled with gratitude for the police having raised the speed limit on that stretch of road from forty to fifty. I needed to see Violeta as soon as possible, and getting stopped by the cops for speeding would surely spoil my frame of mind. Besides, the Courvoisier from the night before hadn’t done its job; instead of falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, I’d spent a fitful night and woken up with a low-grade hangover.

Ariel, thankfully, hadn’t recommended his tri
ed-and-true remedy for sleeplessness, which was to make love repeatedly until sheer exhaustion made us both fall asleep. He probably assumed that I was still upset from seeing my mother, and that she had surely voiced her opinion again that I should leave my job permanently and have another baby. He was in total agreement with Mamá, of course, but he also knew that he had nothing to gain by bringing up such a hot-button issue between a mother and her daughter. Ariel was wise and intuitive. But he was surely wrong about what was bothering me the night before.

I could hardly wait to see Violeta. I needed spiritual counsel, not to mention the sense of serenity that normally came over me after I had visited her. In the last twenty-four hours, the life I thought I was living had been thrown into turmoil. I needed to find out why.

And I hoped I could deal with the answer.