In Their Blood (13 page)

“Do you know them?” Jeremy asked after they were beyond earshot.

“The café jers? They were the closest thing your father had to groupies.”

Groupies? They seemed more serious than that. “Did you know Winter’s closed down their club?”

Marina opened the door to her yellow Toyota, took her satchel from Jeremy, and threw it in the back.

“Winter has closed down all the clubs your father had organized. There were perhaps half a dozen.” She held up her small hand and counted her fingers. “Let’s see: G-W-E-N— Global Warming Ends Now, S-A-W— Students Against War, F-M-F-W— Free Markets for a Free World. And a couple more.” She slid into the driver’s seat. “Well, come on. Get in.”

Jeremy hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“Are you afraid I’ll kidnap you, Jeremy?”

He sat back in the seat. It was too low to the ground, as though the springs had lost their bounce, and his legs felt cramped in the tight floor space. He hadn’t noticed this the other night when she’d taken him to the bar.

“I found some papers of your father’s.” She backed the car out of the spot too quickly. Jeremy turned around to be sure no one was
walking behind them. “I didn’t think it safe to keep them at the school. I half-expected Winter to burn your father’s writings and publications like the church did to the heretics in the Middle Ages.”

“Do you think my father was a heretic?”

She pulled out of the campus onto the main road. “I think your father was a genius.”

“Why did Winter hate him?”

She patted Jeremy’s leg as though he was a child and gave a small laugh. “Let me count the ways.”

“I know he wasn’t happy about my father’s politics.”

“Or popularity, or tenure, or the fact that some of the key contributors to the school are representatives of a major sugar growers’ organization.”

“So they wanted my father shut down?”

“Many people wanted your father shut down.”

Marina turned into an old Miami neighborhood. The oak trees were so tall and wide they blocked the sun, and the sparse grass was covered with dead leaves. Several of the houses were two-story and built from coquina, the rock the early settlers had used, Jeremy’s dad once told him. But the neighborhood was shabby, with rusted cars up on concrete blocks and plywood on windows that had probably been put up for the last hurricane season. Though judging from the condition of the wood, Jeremy wondered if some of the protective coverings dated back to Hurricane Andrew in ’92.

Marina stopped on a gravel driveway next to a turquoise and white Chevrolet that resembled a Checker cab, probably a mid-’50’s model. It had a thick blanket of dead leaves on the windshield.

Jeremy was taken aback by the vibrant green lawn. It was a bit jarring beside the two-story gray house that looked like something out of an old black-and-white film. An ancient, hunched woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat and gardening gloves was spraying water from a hose over the front yard.

“My landlady,” Marina said to Jeremy under her breath. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lambert,” Marina called as she strode toward the back of the house with her satchel over her back.

The old woman squinted at Jeremy. Her light eyes were so clouded by cataracts Jeremy wondered how she could see. She turned off the hose and tottered toward Jeremy. And then she smiled. A wide toothless grin.

“Come on, Jeremy,” Marina said. “I live back here.”

But Jeremy was paralyzed by the old woman’s smile. “She’s waiting for you,” she said, her voice quivering as though unaccustomed to speaking.

“Jeremy.”

“Did you remember to bring your charger?” Mrs. Lambert asked.

Marina squeezed his wrist. “Come on.”

Marina’s apartment was in a separate structure behind the house. It consisted of two small rooms and looked as though it had once been a garage.

“What was she talking about?” Jeremy asked. Through a doorway, he could see the bedroom with its unmade bed and a pile of clothes on a side chair. A black bra, pink thong. He turned away. The front room had a futon, a red desk and chair that were chipped and revealing an earlier coat of blue, and a tiny kitchen area with a rust-stained sink filled with unwashed dishes.

“Mrs. Lambert has dementia,” Marina said, picking up the newspapers from the gray futon, which appeared to be stained with coffee and red wine. “She never makes any sense.” She spread out an old faded blanket with an Indian pattern over the low sofa. “There. That’s better, no? You can sit here, Jeremy.”

He perched on the edge of the futon.

Marina turned on the ceiling fan to full blast. The force of the swirling air caused her curls to fly out from her face. “It’s stuffy in
here,” she said. “No AC. And I’m not sure the fan helps. It just seems to circulate the same putrid air.” She lifted her loose hair and rubbed her neck. There were perspiration stains under her arms and just below the curve of her breasts. He forced himself not to stare at her. His own shirt was sticking to his chest. It was hard to breathe. Why didn’t she open the windows? Perhaps they were painted shut. He could just make them out behind the dusty, broken venetian blinds.

“Would you like some wine, Jeremy?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

But she pulled the cork out of a gallon jug and filled two plastic tumblers. Something small and black darted across the dirty terrazzo floor.

She handed him a tumbler. “My wine glasses are all broken. Too fragile for my lifestyle, I suppose.” She kicked off her clunky army boots, lit a cigarette, then sat down beside him. He could feel the heat of her body. He could smell her. Smoky musk and almonds. She touched her tumbler against his. “To your father.”

To my father. He recalled Irv’s earlier toast today to his mother. Marina’s knee pressed against his. He had to stay focused. “You said you have some of my father’s papers?”

With one small finger, she outlined his cheekbones, his forehead, his nose, his chin, his lips. He needed to get back to school. He had class. His car might be towed away.

She dipped his hand into her wine glass. The red wine dripped on her tee shirt as she took his fingers into her mouth, sucking the wine from each. Chills ran down his spine and his groin tightened.

“My father’s papers,” he whispered.

She put the cigarette out against the wall and let it drop to the floor. Then she pressed her small, round mouth against his. She tasted like vinegar and tobacco.

Her tongue was rolling around his own. The ceiling fan spun wildly— creaking, screaming. The heat was getting closer.

Don’t do this
, a voice said.
Stop. Leave
. But the physical need for her was overwhelming.

His hands groped her thin arms, her tight abdomen, her small breasts. He pulled off his shirt, then hers, and his tongue worked its way from her salty neck, down her chest, until he found himself pressed against her stomach, eye to eye with the rubies in the tiny serpent ring.

Then he felt her small warm hand slide deep into his pants.

Chapter 15

Jeremy wondered if it would start. It had been over a month since his dad had driven it. He turned the key in the ignition and listened to the weak sputter, as though the old car were gasping for breath. He tried again. The engine made a valiant effort, like a dying dog staggering the last few inches to its master’s feet. Then it was silent and Jeremy knew the battery was dead.

His father’s car— the red 1966 Corvair he’d owned since he was a teenager and had maintained lovingly ever since.

Jeremy lifted open the trunk. “Rear-engine, air-cooled,” he could hear his father say. The only other cars made like this were the old Porsche and original Volkswagen. And now, even Porsche had sold out. It was liquid cooled and that didn’t count. Jeremy hooked up the battery charger cables to the battery, then plugged it in. If he was lucky, he’d be able to jump-start it.

He was already wearing a dress shirt and his suit pants. Stupid. He should have checked first thing this morning before he showered. Now, he’d not only arrive late for his first day at Castillo Enterprises, but he’d smell like a garage mechanic. But the truth was, when he woke up this morning, the last thing he was thinking about was how he’d get to work or get his car out of the tow yard.

Marina had driven him home last night after they’d discovered his mother’s Lexus had been towed. It was after midnight. She had kissed him lightly on the cheek as though there had been nothing
between them. Good, he had told himself. It had been nothing. And it wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

He had found Elise sitting on the floor of their mother’s office, scribbling in her gibberish writing on a yellow pad. She didn’t seem to be aware of him. He had taken her back to her room and tucked her in under her white comforter.

He didn’t understand what had happened to him last night with Marina. It was as though he’d been in a trance. And it made him angry. He wasn’t some impulsive animal. He had responsibilities— to his sister, to his parents.

He disconnected the charger, remembering a day he’d helped his father work on the engine. How his father had explained each component, every tool. So focused on sharing the experience with Jeremy that he had thrust his pointing finger into the spinning fan, slicing it open. Blood had dripped over the engine compartment, but his father hadn’t seemed to care. He’d wrapped his hand in a rag and said to Jeremy, “Well, are you ready to take her for a spin?”

Now Jeremy slid into his father’s car, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and turned the key in the ignition. This time the engine started right up. He patted the dashboard. “Good girl,” he said, just like his father used to.

The car felt familiar to him. The vague smell of gasoline, the harshness of the engine, the way you felt all the bumps in the road, reminded Jeremy of riding with his father. Jeremy’s hands settled naturally into certain grooves on the steering wheel. And whether it was his imagination or not, Jeremy was almost positive his hands held the wheel exactly where his father’s had.

Castillo Enterprises was housed in a recently built glass office tower overlooking the yacht basin in Coconut Grove. It was perched on the Silver Bluff, the largest geological formation in South Florida, and was visible from all directions, the name Castillo shining in blue like
a futuristic lighthouse. Everything about the building said money: the lobby’s granite floors, the windowed elevators with a view of the bay, and the conference room Jeremy had been directed to with its long, glass table, cushioned chairs, and ceiling-to-floor windows from which he could make out the Miami skyline in the distance.

Jeremy had been told to report to Robbie Ivy, the supervisor on the audit. Robbie had his back to Jeremy. He was hunched over his laptop at the conference table facing the wall of windows. He was a small-boned guy with shiny, straight, black hair, a bit long for a professional, and was wearing a navy suit. Was he working or discreetly admiring the view?

Jeremy let the door close behind him and the auditor spun around. Jeremy did a double-take. Robbie was a female. Jeremy recognized the blue eyes and pale skin of the young woman he’d bumped into coming out of his mother’s office two weeks ago. But instead of surprise, she wore an annoyed expression.

“You were supposed to be here at eight thirty.” She’d be pretty if she wasn’t trying so hard to look pissed.

“I know. I’m sorry. I had car trouble.” “Car trouble.” She pronounced ‘car’ with a flat Boston accent.

“I can tell from the smell. Have you worked on fixed assets before?”

“Actually, I’m only—”

“Never mind. You can follow last year’s schedules and the audit program.”

“Sure. No problem.”

She returned to her own laptop. She was definitely irritated by his presence. Was she embarrassed about the incident at his mother’s office? He decided to steer clear of it.

“So you’re from Boston, aren’t you?”

Her head didn’t move, but her blue eyes shifted in his direction.

“I can tell from the accent. I had some friends at BU and Tufts.

I understand they’ve got some snow up there now.”

She looked back down at her laptop.

He was undeterred. “Since this is my first time involved with Castillo Enterprises— my first audit, in fact— would you mind giving me a little orientation?”

Robbie checked her watch. He was guessing she was only a year or two older than he, but she had the impatient, edgy mannerisms of a grownup. Or maybe it was a remnant of some uptight northeastern prep school. “If you want to come early some morning, say around seven, I can fill you in. But right now we’re on billable time and we’re wasting it.”

So much for fraternizing with the audit staff. Jeremy glanced around the conference room. There were framed photos of properties in amazing settings arranged on one of the walls, evidently the holdings of Castillo Enterprises. He remembered the audit binder he’d found in his mother’s handwriting— Site visits. Maybe he should mention his mother’s office. Clear the air.

“You know,” he said, “we’ve met before. Twice actually. At the Castillos’ house, then in the office. Do you remember?”

She picked her head up slowly. “Look, I realize you’re just here to pass the time or whatever, but I’m on a deadline and I really don’t have time for chitchat.”

“Sure,” he said. “And thanks. I appreciate the friendly reception.”

At noon, after Robbie had closed her laptop and left the room, Jeremy decided to take his own lunch break. His grandfather lived less than a mile from Castillo Enterprises. Jeremy called ahead to let him know he’d be stopping by. If Robbie was going to be a bitch, at least there was some benefit to working here.

His grandfather was waiting just outside the front door. Jeremy held him tightly. They’d talked a few times over the last couple of weeks on the phone, but suddenly that seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by more often, Grandpa.”

“You’re a busy young man. Work. School. I want to hear all about it. But come in. You must be hungry.”

The bridge table on the enclosed porch was set with plates and silverware and a casserole dish. “I made franks and beans. Is that all right? I’m not much of a chef.”