one hot summer (23 page)

Dios mio.
The gringo was right.

“How long has it been since the three of us got together, Maggy?” Anabel asked, as we walked up the driveway to Vivian’s house.

Anabel and I had decided that it was time that we formally welcomed Margarita Anabel into our world. Earlier that week we had announced to Vivian that we would be coming by to visit and to see her daughter. Of course, I had already met her, but not under the most auspicious of circumstances—once in the car when I had driven Vivian to fetch her, and the other when the baby was sleeping, so I felt I had not really met her. I was almost resentful I was going to have to give up one of my precious afternoons with Luther to visit Vivian, but this was something I had to do.

I had not mentioned anything to Anabel about my suspicions surrounding the adoption, figuring that she was so blind that she could not even match the child in Vivian’s home to the one in the photograph we had been shown at Greenstreet’s a few weeks ago. It was up to Vivian to say something, if she felt it necessary.

That afternoon Anabel had outdone herself in choosing her outfit, and, given her history, that was quite a track record. I had driven over to her house to pick her up, so we would go in one car. I think I was still in shock when I saw my friend emerge from her house dressed in several different shades of yellow, looking like a demented chicken who had escaped from an Easter basket. I resisted the temptation to reach for my sunglasses to ward off the glare. Anabel was wearing a skin-tight pair of canary yellow jeans with an even brighter-colored T-shirt on top. I know it was probably my imagination, but I thought I could discern a fluorescent yellow brassiere under her shirt.

For some unfathomable reason, Anabel had decided to sport a lime-colored straw hat adorned with daffodils. Apparently, the flower motif had greatly appealed to her, for both her platform shoes and belt also had variations of the same flower. As Anabel got into the car, I could swear I was able to smell the scent of daffodils, whatever that might be, emanating from her.

I was so stunned at my friend’s appearance that I was rendered speechless for much of the ten-minute drive over to Vivian’s house. However, Anabel did not seem to notice, because she chatted on about inconsequential matters all the way. I knew Anabel well enough to realize that something was worrying her. I also knew not to press, as she would eventually get around to bringing up whatever it was that was troubling her.

Sure enough, just as we pulled into Vivian’s street she suddenly stopped telling me a long-winded story about the triplets’ swimming class at Waters-R-Us, and asked, “Maggy, what do you think about Vivian going out and adopting this child?” Anabel reached over and grabbed my right elbow, surprising me with her intensity.

My heart thumping, I took my eyes off the road for a second and looked at her squarely. Anabel’s huge blue eyes zeroed into mine as might a laser that had located its target. It was almost impossible to believe that eyes with a gaze as powerful as hers could be lacking sight. Not wanting to cause an accident, I looked back at the road and concentrated on my driving. Clearly, Anabel did not expect a reply, for she continued: “She kept such an important secret from us! Us!” Anabel shook her head in disbelief. She could not keep the anger out of her voice. “Her best, closest friends! You know the rule we have always lived by, ever since we were eight and played on the soccer team. We have no secrets from each other—we never have, and never will.”

I shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as I could, even as I felt myself beginning to break into a light sweat. I had been on the receiving end of Anabel’s anger a few times, and therefore knew from painful personal experience that my pint-size friend was nothing to be trifled with.

“Well, at the lunch, she explained to us the reasons why she had done it.” I knew my answer was weak, but just then I did not feel comfortable discussing Vivian, especially since I had such a momentous secret of my own.

Mercifully, just then we arrived at Vivian’s house, so the conversation ended. I had sensed that Vivian’s actions had bothered Anabel, as they had me, but I had not realized exactly how much until she spoke. I knew my answer had not satisfied Anabel, but there was nothing to do except to park the car and go inside.

As this was a formal visit, Anabel and I had come prepared. We were both clutching oversize packages, large boxes wrapped in the distinctive shiny gift-wrapping from F.A.O. Schwarz, the upscale toy store. I noticed that our boxes were almost identical in size, and hoped we had not bought the same gift, a miniature Victorian wooden dollhouse. Oh well, Vivian could exchange one, if not both of them. She was good at that.

Holding the present in front of me, I was having trouble balancing myself on the high heels I was wearing as I walked on Vivian’s pebble-strewn driveway. Anabel, with her three-inch-high platform shoes was not faring any better. Still, however, I was grateful that I had an advantage over Anabel, for, unlike my friend, I could actually see where I was going.

Vivian must have been watching our approach from one of the windows facing the street, for she opened the door as soon as we arrived at it. I was shocked to see how worn out she looked. All I could hope for as I kissed her hello was that Anabel could not see the deterioration of our friend’s physical appearance that had taken place since the baby’s arrival. Even her roots were showing. Had Vivian skipped her twice monthly touch-up at Great Locks? I was truly worried.

“Margarita! Anabel!” Vivian greeted us effusively, kissing and hugging us, as if we had not seen each other in years rather than days. “It’s so wonderful to see you!” It must have been true, for she had not made any comment on Anabel’s outfit.

Anabel and I looked at each other with alarm. Even though Anabel could not clearly see Vivian, she knew our friend would have never physically touched us voluntarily. Vivian was certainly not known for being demonstrative, especially to women. We had been friends for almost thirty years, yet I could not recall our ever having been this awkward with each other.

“Where’s the baby?” I asked, holding the present out to Vivian. “I can’t wait to see her and give her this!”

“Me, too.” Anabel chimed in, holding out her own present.

We trooped into the house, single file, as if going to some sort of ceremony. Vivian led us to the Florida room, where we stood in the doorway, looking in at Margarita Anabel, who was sitting in the middle of her playpen, dressed in a pair of not-too-clean pajamas even though it was now afternoon, quietly playing with one of the dozen or so toys surrounding her. I could not help but notice that the room was a mess, with toys and clothes strewn everywhere.

“Is Marisa here?” I wondered if it was the housekeeper’s day off, and that was why the house was in such disarray.

“Actually, she’s not working here anymore,” Vivian mumbled as she walked past us on the way to the playpen. She bent over and picked up Margarita Anabel, who promptly began to wail.

The more Vivian tried to comfort her, the louder the child’s screams became. “She’ll quiet down eventually.” Vivian explained. “Sorry.”

Anabel and I just stood there helplessly, holding on to the presents for dear life, as we watched our friend try to shush the screaming child. By then, the little girl was screaming so loudly, and her face had gotten so red, that I was afraid she was going to have a stroke.

Hoping my eardrums would not rupture as a result of the bloodcurdling screams, I was beginning to understand why Marisa had quit. “Maybe she wants to stay in the playpen,” I suggested. If that did not work, I was going to suggest Vivian give her a Valium, of which I knew she kept a stash in her medicine cabinet. Anything to get the child to shut up.

Vivian placed her back in the playpen, and the child quieted down instantly. Observing this brief, but loud, interaction between mother and daughter, it was not difficult to see who was the boss in the outfit.

“Well, sorry about that.” Vivian took the presents from us and led us into the kitchen. She opened the door of the refrigerator, rummaged around a little bit, and took out a bottle of Cristal. Without saying anything to us, she popped the cork and poured healthy servings of the golden liquid into flutes she took down from a cabinet. Just like old times—drinking champagne at three o’clock in the afternoon.

“To motherhood!” she toasted, tipping her glass in the direction of the Florida room before draining it. She finished hers before Anabel and I had even had a chance to taste ours, and quickly replenished her glass. “I know it’ll get better, but until then,
mierda
!”

“What happened to Marisa?” I could not resist asking.

“She quit.” Vivian explained without elaborating further.

Anabel put her glass down on the counter and stood next to Vivian. “When was the last time you went to the office?”

Vivian shrugged. “I don’t know, a few days.”

I was almost certain that our friend had not been to work since the morning she had brought the child home, and I could see from Anabel’s incredulous look that she thought the same. We stood there in the kitchen, sipping our drinks, when the child in the next room began to cry again.

“Look, Vivian, you need help with the child,” I began. “Would you like for me to ask around and try to find a replacement for Marisa?”

The screaming got louder. Anabel turned and started to walk toward the Florida room. “Maybe she’s hungry.”

Vivian looked at us, her eyes blazing in anger. “I can manage very well by myself, thank you.” She put down the empty champagne flute, and declared, “You both have children, so you think you know everything. You’re so smug about how well organized your lives are, and how well you manage mot
herhood. You come in here to check out how I’m doing, to find fault with me. You resent me now that I have a child, too.”

Anabel and I just stood there, speechless. What the hell was Vivian talking about? Where had all this anger and resentment come from? What was happening to our friend? When was the last time she had slept? The circles under her eyes were not even bags anymore. They were more like steamer trunks.

“No, Vivian, no,” I protested. “We came here to celebrate your daughter.”

Vivian would not buy it. “No, you just came here to show off what great mothers you are, how much you know about children, and how little I know.”

“Vivian, please let us help you.” Anabel pleaded, even as the screaming in the next room turned into howls of rage. “Everyone needs help with children.”

“Well, I don’t! I know exactly what I’m doing. I don’t need any help. I can manage just fine without you.” Vivian then added, “Maybe you’d better go now.”

I could not believe Vivian was kicking us out of her house. I took Anabel’s arm and escorted her to the front door. Without saying a word, we let ourselves out and walked toward the car. What had happened back there was like a bad dream.

It was only when I had driven for a few minutes that Anabel spoke. “See, I knew she should have told us about the adoption. We could have helped her.”

We continued in silence until we arrived at her house. Then, just as she was getting out of the car, Anabel declared somberly, “Secrets are bad. Vivian should have told us what was going on in her life. We would have helped her through this.”

My heart beat faster as I watched Anabel walk toward her house. What price was I going to pay for keeping my secret?

For the weeks that remained in July my life slipped into a distinct pattern, one that I welcomed without difficulty. After a few days of juggling my schedule I found that I was able to balance the three main components of my life: time with Ariel and Marti, days in which I went to the office for work, and afternoon rendezvouses with Luther. Sometimes I even managed to see my family and friends, but not regularly. For the time being, I had more pressing concerns.

Mercifully, Vivian had come around and apologized to Anabel and me, claiming it had been sheer exhaustion which had made her act that way, and she accepted our offer to help. She had been so ashamed of her behavior that Anabel and I forgave her. We knew what it was like to be so tired from caring for children that one acted in ways that were out of character.

In spite of having been kicked out of the house in such an unceremonious manner, Anabel had found her a housekeeper the following day, a strict no-nonsense experienced mother of ten who knew exactly how to manage Margarita Anabel, and, in no time at all, Vivian was back on track. I had made her a present of a full day at the spa connected to Great Locks, and, once she had been tinted, manicured, pedicured, and massaged, Vivian was back to her old life.

The matter of why Vivian had arranged for the adoption without discussing it with us was not brought up again. Maybe we would discuss it later, but for now, we were not about to risk another blowup. I, of course, did not press that issue, as I had my own skeletons in the closet as far as secrets were concerned.

Every so often I would go by her house and stop in for a brief visit, but never did I see the presents that Anabel and I had brought over that fateful day. I was reasonably certain that the two wooden dollhouses were back on the shelf at F.A.O. Schwarz, but I was too busy with my own life to follow up and check.

Three times during the week I would meet Luther at his apartment. I always stopped off at Scotty’s to buy lunch, paying cash so I wouldn’t leave a paper trail for Ariel to discover. After eating, Luther and I would retire to the bedroom. I was probably becoming too used to drinking champagne at lunchtime. The more time Luther and I spent together, the more comfortable we were with each other and, although our attraction was probably growing with each encounter, our frantic urgency to make love all the time began to diminish. It was a welcome development. Our relationship was becoming more natural, sensual as well as sexual, and definitely more relaxed.

We shut out the rest of the world during the time we were together, retreating into one of our own making. Once in the apartment, we turned off our cell phones, removed our watches, made sure Luther’s phone ringer was switched off. Our time together felt precious, and we wanted to be able to concentrate on each other without all the distractions of the everyday lives we were both escaping from. The apartment’s decor reinforced the feeling that we were in our own little cocoon, with the billowing white fabric framing the treetops and the gently undulating ocean outside the windows. Luther said that at night when he came home alone the place made him feel like he was on a deserted island. To me it felt heavenly, as though I was living up in the clouds and listening to the music of nature.

I could still talk to Luther about anything, the way it had always been. He was understanding, helpful, and in no way judgmental. As open as we were together, though, there were some topics that we didn’t touch—such as the state of my marriage, and the fact that the case that brought him to Miami was going to conclude soon. The future became a sort of taboo between us, and we lived as though under a divine order not to discuss it.

We did discuss the career deadline I was facing, and how I had just weeks in which to decide what I was going to do. I told Luther all about the firm, the various players I had to deal with, and the importune complication of the immigration attorney waiting to take my partnership in anticipation of my resignation. I was showing up regularly and holding back the threat, but I knew plans had been made to replace me. The partners were waiting to hear my decision, but, clearly, their patience was wearing out.

In Luther’s mind, there was really no point in my agonizing about the decision. He felt I’d already made the decision subconsciously, and that I was processing it. I wasn’t so sure I agreed with him. I’m a Catholic, but I didn’t take great pleasure in torturing myself. Luther listened to me lay out the pros and cons of the situation for about an hour one afternoon.

“Look, you should really go back to the firm,” Luther finally said, after listening in silence. “You know that’s what you want. You don’t want to stay at home all day. You’re not made for it, and you’d go crazy. You need the challenge and the stimulation of your work.”

“You’re right,” I agreed.

“For Christ’s sake, it’s such a gender thing,” Luther added. “No one’s pressuring any of your male partners to raise their kids full time and leave their partnership.”

“I’d like to see their reaction if someone suggested it,” I said.

“So what you need is to figure out a practical way to make your life bearable,” Luther said, lightly touching my hand. “You burned out before, right? Why?”

“Because of the hours,” I said. “And the pressure of coming home to Marti, not to mention always feeling like I was coming home too late and never spending enough time with him.”

“Okay.” Luther paused. “From what I hear, your firm isn’t that much different from mine. You’re a partner, so you have clout. You need to adjust your hours and not get sucked into a frantic schedule like you did before.”

“But there are other considerations,” I said. “I’m the first Latina partner. I have to think about—”

“You have to think about your own well-being,” Luther said, “and let all the bullshit sort itself out. You put a lot of unnecessary pressure on yourself. Really, you can basically say: I’m back, and this time I’m not going to get burned out. I’m a partner, and I get to call the shots.”

Luther had seen how hard I worked at Duke, and he understood how much being a successful lawyer meant to me, and how much it cost my identity and self-worth to give it up. Luther had all kinds of constructive suggestions: get a full-time paralegal assigned to me, start looking into preschools near the firm so I could see Marti in the afternoon when he was old enough to start. He stopped short from suggesting any rearrangement of my domestic situation.

I knew that Luther wasn’t exactly a disinterested party to my life, but he was able to distance himself enough to offer practical advice—and advice that was made with my own interests in mind. With Ariel, it was impossible to talk over the situation at the firm: His bias was so strong, I knew it colored anything he might say. It wasn’t that Ariel was incapable of being fair and impartial; it was that he wanted me to stay home so much that he was incapable of separating his desires from what might be best for me.

Talking about the matter with Luther, I felt a stinging pang that I was being disloyal to Ariel. But then, I reminded myself, I was already betraying him as deeply as a wife could. During the days when I didn’t see Luther, I was spending hours at the office—and I wasn’t always telling Ariel about it. After I took my leave of absence, I promised Ariel I would only go to the office sporadically, when my services were needed on an emergency basis. Now I was slipping back into a regular schedule and, by working hard to keep my profile as high as possible, I was refamiliarizing myself with the office culture. In the month of July I had managed to betray Ariel in two different ways. I couldn’t even blame my behavior on hurricane season, because there were no big storms out there waiting to hit South Florida.

I knew I was living in denial. As pleasant as my juggling act had been, I couldn’t continue having a secret life forever. Ariel was no fool, and sooner or later he was going to figure out that I was changing. He still seemed to assume that any preoccupation on my part was the result of my trying to sort out my professional life. Since he hadn’t brought up the subject lately, he must have thought the best strategy was to leave me alone to make the “right” decision without his meddling. Maybe Ariel, like me, was practicing a particular form of denial.

Meanwhile, I had to admit, he was being the perfect husband, even more thoughtful and sweet than usual. It made me feel horrible at times for what I was doing behind his back. Not only was I spending time with my lover, I was going to the office regularly and keeping it from him. For some reason, Ariel hadn’t been very interested lately in how I was spending my days. If I didn’t volunteer information, he generally didn’t ask. It was a strange time, and because of his lack of interest I had to do very little lying.

I was also more sweet and considerate around the house in the evenings, a departure from my normal slightly acerbic personality, and surely compensation for my sneaking around during the day. Sweetness didn’t come naturally to me, and sometimes it felt like an act. If Ariel noticed the change, though, he didn’t say so. He couldn’t attribute any change to my time of the month because the stress of the past weeks had made my period late. It was a relief, really, because I didn’t want to be out of commission for even a few days. Luther’s return to New York was looming, and our every minute together counted.

There was another factor that I couldn’t deny, which was Ariel’s increased amorous attention. We’d always had an active sex life, but lately he’d been more energetic than ever, wanting to make love more often and in more adventuresome ways. He was approaching our sex life with even more than his usual gusto and focus—two attributes he had never lacked in the past. Prior to Luther’s reappearance in my life, I would have welcomed this new ardor, but for the moment it just complicated my life. When I was with my lover, I felt unfaithful to my husband; when I was with my husband, I felt unfaithful to my lover. I had never imagined life could be so complicated.

This last development put me in an awkward position more than once, because if Ariel wanted to make love on a day that I’d spent with Luther, I wasn’t really in the mood. Obviously I couldn’t say so, though. The days when both my lover and my husband were particularly inspired were physically draining. And I couldn’t let on to Ariel that I felt like a sex machine.

I never discussed with Luther the intimate aspects of my life with Ariel; if anything, we pretended that life didn’t exist. Since I never saw Luther on the weekends, I tried to make sure Ariel became sexually inspired on Saturday and Sunday. The days passed, and I kept juggling my secret life. At times I could sense myself calculating, plotting, and I felt an inner coldness developing that scared me.

I began to wonder if this shrewd aspect of my personality had always been there, and had only surfaced when the situation required it. Or was it like a virus, stirred up by circumstance? I was always calculating and cool in my professional life—every attorney had to be. But now my personal life was calling on the same skills.

Time was passing, no matter how much I worried or tamped my fears down with denial. Things were going to change, I knew it.

At least I thought I knew. For an intelligent woman, sometimes I could be very stupid.