one hot summer (21 page)

I knew they spoke often and that I was the primary topic of their discussions. Mamá and Ariel didn’t feel they were being malicious or in any way conspiring behind my back—they thought they were trying to do what was best for me, and looking out for my best interests. They both thought I was too involved with my career to know what was best for me. My head had been turned by success and women’s rights, and it was up to them to lend a hand and show me what was important. Sometimes I was insulted that they thought of me in such a patronizing manner, but I knew their attitude came from love and not condescension. It was simply part of being a Cuban woman with a strong mother and a husband who felt protective toward me.

Still, it pissed me off sometimes.

That night they had probably been talking about the possibility—no, the probability—of my return to the firm after my leave of absence concluded in a few weeks. Neither of them would come right out and say anything to me, but I knew how they both felt about the decision. I should stay home with Marti, and have another child with Ariel right away. They were as close to me as anyone could be, but I couldn’t trust their clouded judgment or come to either for an unbiased opinion. They each had an agenda, and I was at the top of it.

Ariel was ostensibly a liberated Cuban man. He voted a straight Democratic ticket and even admitted to doing so—an amazing feat for a Miami Cuban. But at heart he was still traditional. He wanted his wife at home waiting for him, and at the end of the workday he wanted to be greeted by his numerous children and smell food cooking in the kitchen. He was proud of me and my accomplishments but, to his mind, it was time for our family to get back to basics. Scratch the surface of any Cuban man—Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative—and he wants his woman barefoot and pregnant, cooking up some arroz con pollo in the kitchen while her children all play around her.

Mamá’s reasons for wanting me not to work were more complex. She wanted more grandchildren, first of all—Mickey was a bachelor, and Sergio was newly married and couldn’t be counted on to produce children with his wife anytime soon—so I was the best candidate to fill that need. Mamá’s competitive side kicked in when it came to family size. All of her close friends had many grandchildren, and she had only one. I could see in her face that she felt she was losing ground.

There was another, unspoken reason. Because I worked and had a career, she felt she suffered in comparison, as though her value was lessened because she stayed at home, and because her greatest achievements were radical home redecorations. The truth was, women of her generation and class weren’t expected to work outside the home or have careers. I’m sure that, if she had really wanted to, Mamá could have worked outside the home. She hadn’t chosen to, and she still believed that wives should only work if it was an economic necessity. The reality was that Mamá lacked the education and skills necessary to find work that was on a level with her social standing. Her reasoning on this topic was pretty much bullshit, and I had gently hinted as much, but she didn’t take my opinion into account. I knew it was harsh for me to think this way, but I knew part of Mamá wanted me to quit working because then I would be on her level.

There was a third reason Mamá didn’t want me to work—if I didn’t, I would be available to meet with her more often, and spend days together with her at Bal Harbour, the very upscale mall in North Miami Beach. What she didn’t realize was that, if I started to live my life like that, pretty soon I would start adding vodka to my orange juice at breakfast.

For all the frenzied activity and fuss that filled her days, the bottom line was that Mamá was lonely with a big void to fill—and she had decided I was the perfect candidate to do so. I had encouraged her to take up a hobby—apart fro
m spending Papa’s money redecorating—but she had never been the slightest bit interested.

Mamá got up, stood between Ariel and me, and slipped her hands through the crooks of our elbows. She guided us toward the living room.

“Shall we join the rest of the family?” she asked regally.

With a wink at Ariel she must have thought I wouldn’t notice, she led us to the din and smoke in the living room. Nino was busy dispensing yet another round of mojitos, which were being thrown back with alarming speed. My relatives’ voices were getting higher pitched, the laughter was becoming more shrill, and the clink of dominoes was getting louder. Another family dinner was underway. With any luck, this one wouldn’t turn out like the others in the past. But from the speed with which everyone was drinking, I knew I couldn’t count on it.

“Señora Margarita,” Nino said, nodding to me with a smile that I returned, a gesture of silent commiseration.

“We’re keeping you busy,” I said to him.

“Many limes,” he rasped. “Many limes used up in the kitchen.”

I noticed there were still a few mojitos on his tray that hadn’t been pounded back by my cousins.

“Go ahead,” Nino said. “Take one. I don’t think it’s possible for you to catch up with everyone else, though.”

I finished off my mojito while he was standing there, then took another before they were all gone.

“I can try, Nino,” I told the old man. “I can always try.”

My prayers for peace and civility were, for once, answered. There was no blowout during the family dinner. All the mojitos consumed during cocktail hour had actually put everyone into a pacific mood. Mamá, in particular, was gracious to everyone and to me in particular. She never once mentioned my going back to work, and she took my hand in a touching gesture when the family decamped for the patio after coffee. I was so relieved, I didn’t even think to question her behavior.

Later that night, at home, Ariel didn’t mention my working late at the office. He talked a little about the difficult personal-injury case he was working on, and how he was convinced his client was lying to him but he didn’t know how or why. The client was a driver for a water-delivery company who claimed to have hurt his back while making his rounds on his route. According to the client, the trolley he used to carry the water into the homes broke apart while fully loaded, causing several bottles to fall on him and ultimately to incapacitate him. He claimed that not only couldn’t he work, his injuries had also deprived him of the ability to conduct a sex life with his wife. Ariel was suing the water company—as well as the manufacturers of the trolley—for millions of dollars.

Listening to Ariel describe the case, I pointed out that it was no surprise he thought the client was lying somehow. Most of our clients routinely lied to us; those were the facts of life for attorneys.

“Hire a private investigator,” I advised. “Have the client followed around for a few days, just to see what he’s up to.”

“I’m definitely going to do that,” Ariel replied. “I’ll get in touch with Paul Street on Monday.”

Paul Street was a former federal agent Ariel had used several times in the past and whom I’d met a few times. I was glad to hear that Ariel was going to use a private eye, but I wished it were someone other than Paul. I neither liked nor trusted the man, and I never would have recommended him to my firm. Maybe Ariel’s liking him was just a matter of personal chemistry, but I always thought there was something sleazy about Paul, and I was always interested in finding out why he no longer worked for the Feds. It wasn’t my case, so I kept my opinions to myself.

“It seems strange, spying on my own client, but I’m going to do it,” Ariel said. “I wonder how I’m going to account for it in the client’s bill.”

Ariel was semi-joking, and I laughed along with him until a strange thought struck me: Would Ariel ever resort to hiring Paul if he suspected something was going on with me?

“What’s the matter?” Ariel asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I lied. “I’m just exhausted. You know how family dinners always take it out of me.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ariel said, smiling. “But it was nice to see you and your mother getting along so well tonight.”

“Almost too well,” I said quietly.

Ariel let my comment pass, and, since we were both spent, we wished each other pleasant dreams and turned out the lights. I was so tired I slept like the dead, and didn’t even run through my day before falling asleep, as I liked to do. My last thought before passing out was that each of my days was turning out to be stranger than the one before it.

On Monday morning Ariel was still clearly preoccupied by his case, and eager to speak with Paul Street, so he left for the office early, while I was still in bed. That was fine with me; if we’d had breakfast together, Ariel would have asked me about my plans for the day. I wouldn’t have outright lied to him, but I would have committed the sin of omission—and, for a Catholic, that amounted to the same thing. I was happy to avoid breaking any more sacraments and commandments than I already had.

It was going to be a busy day. I had plans to meet Luther at noon, and I wanted to stop by and see how Vivian was doing with Margarita Anabel. Chances were, I wouldn’t have much time to play with Marti later on, so I knew I had to go to him soon if I wanted to spend time with him.

Groaning, I got up and headed for the shower. It took about ten minutes standing under steaming hot water before I felt human again. I would follow that with about a gallon of Cuban coffee to revive me. After I showered, I lathered myself with Chanel No. 5 lotion, which I knew would be both subtle and long lasting.

The first time I went to Luther’s apartment I had gone ill-prepared; this time, I was able to choose my outfit with more care. After a thorough search of my underwear drawer, I settled on a light gray satin bra and matching panties. I thought black lace would be making too much of a statement, and I had already worn white, so gray would strike just the right note—sexy, but not verging on femme fatale.

The rest of my outfit was easier to pick. I chose a black, narrow-cut gabardine skirt, an olive-green cotton twin sweater set, and black leather slides. Casual and comfortable, but I looked good. And easy to get in and out of. I was always thinking practical.

I thought about blow-drying my hair to straighten it, but there was no point, not with the Miami humidity. Mother Nature had defeated me once again before I could even put up a fight. No wonder I always resisted going to summer camp when I was a child. I never did well with the elements.

Instead of blow-drying, I opened up a bathroom drawer and pulled out one of the half-dozen tubes of Alberto VO5 conditioner that I kept there. I squeezed a dollop on my palm, rubbed my hands together, and ran them through my hair until I was sure the conditioner had coated every strand. That conditioner had changed my life. I used to think it was old-fashioned, used only by balding men, but it was a worthy opponent to frizzy hair. I braided my hair back and tied it off with a bit of rope threaded through with gold filigree. I put on sunblock under my makeup, then put two sets of diamond studs—one larger, one smaller, in my ears. I wasn’t working that day, and so I didn’t have to be mindful of clients’ opinions and could wear double-pierced earrings without offending anyone. After a few squirts of perfume, I was on my way.

I glanced at the clock in the hall on the way to Marti’s room to check if he was awake, and saw with alarm that it wasn’t even eight yet. I immediately felt exhausted. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so active already, at such an early hour—and without a drop of Cuban coffee in my system. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to become Americanized.

Marti was still sound asleep, looking so angelic that I didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead, I stopped by the kitchen to wish Jacinta a
buenos dias,
and to ask her for breakfast on the terrace. I picked up a mug from the counter and filled it from the pots of coffee and hot milk that were simmering on the stovetop, slowly sipping the hot fragrant liquid as I went outside. I sat in my usual chair, skimming the newspaper. It was hot already. I wondered how bad it was going to be by afternoon.

At around nine, after I’d finished the paper, Marti came out and got in my lap. He smelled sweet, and was still warm from his bed. I felt a wave of tears and tenderness wash over me as he nestled close.

We heard a splash from the nearby waters of the bay that startled us. Marti and I looked up at the same time and spotted three dolphins jumping several feet out of the water, their gray skin shimmering like sparkling diamonds in the morning sun. They hit the water, one after the other, and swam off with speed. Marti and I said nothing, preferring to share the perfect moment.

Marti and I stayed awhile longer, looking out over the bay. We speculated about all the boats passing by, wondering where they were going and where they might have been. Around ten, when he started to become restless, I handed him over to Jacinta. It was time to go if I was going to spend any time with Vivian and her new daughter before meeting Luther at noon.

I wouldn’t trade living on Miami Beach for anyplace else, but the reality was that a big part of my life took place off the Beach. That meant twenty minutes to half an hour added to my travel time, in addition to the usual Miami driving insanity. I always enjoyed driving on the causeway into Miami, but when I was in a rush I begrudged the extra effort. But life on the Beach was different than in Miami—after all, Miami Beach was actually an island that ran parallel to the city. Sometimes I wondered if I chose the Beach to live on because it was a tiny island off the coast of the United States, as though, in some subconscious way, it made me feel a little bit closer to Cuba.

I wondered if I would have had an affair with Luther if I were living in, say, Coral Gables. Living in Miami Beach made me feel less constricted emotionally, more open to experience and seeking freedom. I felt as though being surrounded by water somehow lifted my inhibitions. I had changed since I moved there, and I wasn’t entirely sure if it was because of my new environment or if it was something deep inside me

Traffic was light to Coconut Grove, and I got to Vivian’s house in plenty of time for a visit. I pressed the call button on her gate and waited for her to let me in. This was the first time in a while I had been to Vivian’s house during the day; I could see that the materials for adding the extra rooms necessary to accommodate her expanding family had already begun to arrive.

Vivian herself came outside to let me in. I had to admit, she had aged in the day or so since I dropped her off. But as she approached, I also noticed that she was radiating a sort of happiness that I’d never before seen in her.

“Margarita.” Vivian leaned into the car to kiss me through the open driver’s side window. “Thanks for coming to see us.”

I slowly pulled into the driveway and parked next to the house. When I got out, Margarita led me to the door.

“Margarita Anabel is sleeping right now. It was a rough night. Not much rest,” Vivian said, without giving me the impression that she was complaining. I was surprised because Vivian had always insisted on sleeping eight hours a night. It was something she wouldn’t compromise on—even when we were teenagers, during sleepovers at each other’s houses, we could almost set our watches by the times Vivian went to bed and got up in the morning.

She led me inside to the guest room, where she opened the door just a crack for me to look in. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I made out a dark little form lying in bed, her chest rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. I could sense that Vivian was waiting for me to say something.

“She’s beautiful, Vivian, a beautiful little girl,” I said, even though it was impossible to see much in the penumbra of the room.

I may not have been able to see the child clearly, but I got a pretty good look at her new bedroom. Vivian didn’t live in Disney World, but that hadn’t stopped her from bringing the amusement park to her house. Every wall was filled with Disney characters: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, the Lion King. There was a pink bookcase overflowing with Barbies, and an underwater scene from the Little Mermaid on the ceiling. It would be a miracle if the child slept in there every night and retained her sanity.

Vivian closed the door quietly, beaming at me. The whole ride over from home, I had debated with myself about bringing up the fact that the little girl we’d picked up at the church wasn’t the one in the photograph. I knew that Vivian had been deeply shocked that night, but she had said nothing. She had apparently made a choice to accept the switch and, as her friend, it was my job to support her decision. I had no idea, after all, why the switch was made, and under what conditions. I also didn’t know what Father Tomas might have told her behind closed doors in the rectory that night. Maybe the original Margarita Anabel had been too ill to travel, maybe someone from her family had appeared to take her out of the orphanage or, far worse, maybe she had died.

The lawyer in me found it impossible to accept the situation without asking questions. The way the adoption had taken place seemed pretty shady to me, but the Church was involved, and so it must have been legal. I couldn’t imagine Father Tomas being involved in anything illegal. What I
could
imagine was a church so eager to find homes for children that they were willing to at least finesse certain legalities.

More than once I’d read in the
Herald
about illegally adopted children’s parents showing up and demanding the child back. These situations had taken place both domestically and internationally. I hated to imagine this happening to Vivian—that a parent in Honduras would come out of nowhere and file suit in Miami to get the girl back—but these days, it was a mistake to assume much of anything.

I hadn’t said a word to Anabel about my apprehensions. I figured that, if Vivian wanted her to know, she should be the one to tell her. Anabel was so blind that she might not even notice that Margarita Anabel wasn’t the little girl from the picture. Vivian might even hope as much.

“Something to drink?” Vivian offered.

“Sure,
gracias
.” I noticed that Vivian had become a bit tense since I arrived. “A Coke would be great.”

We walked together to the kitchen. When we opened the swinging door leading in from the dining room, I was startled to see a woman in white shirt and pants standing over the sink, washing dishes. As soon as she heard us come in, she turned around to look.

“This is Marisa,” Vivian said, motioning to the middle-aged woman who, upon hearing herself introduced, broke out in a smile that transformed her expression from one of surprise to one of genuine kindness and serenity. “She’s here to help with Margarita Anabel.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“This is my friend Margarita, the one who my daughter is named after,” Vivian told Marisa. Marisa nodded, smiled, and returned to her washing. I thought that Vivian had chosen well—Marisa seemed competent, warm, and, above all, motherly.

Vivian opened up the refrigerator and took out a can of Coke. I saw that the fridge was completely full. There were little stacks of juice boxes, puddings, flan, fresh fruit, bread, eggs, all kinds of kid food. I remembered a time when there was nothing in there save for a couple of bottles of Cristal for when men came to visit. Clearly, those days were gone. I would have liked to have snooped some more, but she shut the door.