Suspicion of Deceit (27 page)

But when he turned to her, there was no anger in his face. "I'm not going to fight with you, Gail. If we have disagreements, we'll work them out, but not that way." He looked at her awhile, his dark eyes moving back and forth to meet hers. "Okay?"

She nodded. "You're right."

He put a hand on her cheek and leaned over to kiss her softly on the mouth. She smoothed the lapel of his jacket. "You have to talk to me," she said. "You have to trust me, Anthony. We have to be open with each other. About everything. You can't pick and choose what you want me to know about you. Or your past. You know what I'm talking about."

He let out a breath. "It's not that easy, Gail."

"I understand, I know what you've been through. I love you."

His eyes were closed, his face so close to hers it was out of focus. "I hope you do."

"How can I help myself?" She smiled and said,
"Te quiero."

"Te quiero más."
He unfolded her hand, gave it an open-mouthed kiss, and pressed it between his legs.

A rush of heat expanded in her chest and came out in a ragged laugh. "Is that for me?"

"If you're very good."

"Yes. I can be. Very good."

"I can't touch you without wanting to make love to you." He held her face tightly, fingers clenched in her hair. His tongue moved inside her mouth. He moaned when her hand tightened on him. Then he kissed under her jaw and down her neck to the hollow at the base of her throat. Finally he dropped his forehead on her shoulder and drew in a breath. "Wait. Don't move. Gail, stop."

"If you wanted me to ... I would do anything." She held perfectly still. "Right here on a public street." Her voice came out in a whisper, and she felt dizzy from wanting him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The housekeeper, Fermina, gray-haired and plump, lined her arms with a cry of delight at the door. Anthony bent to embrace her. In Spanish, Fermina told them that everyone else was out of the house—except for
los viejos,
the old couple, who were upstairs. Digna was helping
el señor
dress, and they would be down soon.

With a gasp, she remembered that she had left something in the oven. Her voice diminished as she hurried away, and Gail missed the rest of it.

Just past the entrance from the foyer, Anthony rested his hand for a moment on the carved back of an antique Spanish chair, then came further into the living room. Over the coral rock fireplace a clock ticked on a mantel crowded with family mementos. A last bit of sunlight flickered through the wooden blinds at the windows and gleamed on the floor. A potted plant was positioned between two of the windows. Gail thought of the dark-eyed, laughing boy at the house in Vedado. The photograph had shown areca palms in planters on shiny tile floors. The boy stood on a wicker sofa and beside him, nearly out of view, was the arm of a man in a white linen suit. A slight turn of history, and the boy would have grown up to live in that house, would have followed the man's path in Havana. The years in Camaguey would never have happened, nor the rage at being dragged into a foreign country, nor the rebellion that led to Los Pozos.

How well he fits here,
she thought. Anthony Quintana Pedrosa walked through the rooms of this house as if he owned them. He was not impressed by the wealth. Gail had once believed—because he had said so—that he did not want it. She was beginning to see another interpretation: A man need not desire what is already his by birth. Anthony had spent his years thirteen to twenty here, before the break with his grandfather. The ties of blood were strong. In his heart, he had never left.

Gail asked, "What did your grandmother say, Anthony? Why did she want us to come?"

"To visit. To get to know you, I suppose."

She bit her lower lip, thinking about that, then went to check herself in the gilded wall mirror at the other end of the room. She had not worn a somber color to the funeral, knowing she would be coming here afterward. She smoothed the jacket of her royal blue suit over her hips. It fastened up one side with shiny black buttons. She fluffed her hair. "Do I look all right?"

"You're beautiful." He smiled at her in the mirror.

She whispered, "I'll bet he wants me to explain why I'm going to sue the city. He'll yell at me, and I won't know what to say to him."

Laughing, Anthony pulled her closer. "No. He only yells at me."

Fermina came back in, clearing her throat.
La señora de Pedrosa
had rung down to say they would meet Anthony and Gail in the sitting room. She bustled away again to open a bottle of wine.

They walked down the hallway with its arched ceiling and pools of light. "Nena will probably invite us to stay for dinner," he said. "It's her way. We could tell her we have plans."

"Do you want to stay? Karen's at my mother's house. Maybe we should."

"I thought you were nervous."

"I can be brave if you can."

"We'll see how it goes," Anthony said.

She kept her voice low. "How long has it been since you've had dinner here with your grandparents? No fair counting family dinners."

He thought about it. "I don't remember."

"Shame on you. We should stay."

"Only if my grandfather asks."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Don't count on it."

She took his arm. "And don't you be so pessimistic."

The sitting room was on the west side of the house, an intimate room with brocade furniture and small oil paintings decorating the walls. Rugs brightened the terra cotta floor. The sun was a sliver of gold in the trees, which cast deep shadows across the yard. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of a grassy circle around a bronze statue of a laughing cherub. Gail asked about it, and Anthony said, "That was my grandmother's flower garden. She doesn't have the strength for it anymore. You should have seen it. So many colors."

The sunlight through the trees winked out.

Anthony had told her his first clear memory—his grandfather taking him to the bank. Only him, none of the others. Ernesto Pedrosa had worn a white linen suit—it must have been summer—and they rode in the back of a long black Chrysler.

He smells of cologne. Guerlain. His hands are spotless, the nails pink and clean. He wears a hat and two-toned shoes. His pocket handkerchief is heavy silk, the same blue polka dot design as his tie. The driver follows a route that Anthony will later, as an adult, map out. Fifteenth Street to Paseo, then to Twenty-third, then the Malecón, which curves along the sea, then south on Galiano a few blocks. The driver stops the car, opens the rear door.

Anthony reaches up to take his grandfather's hand. He sees the underside of his chin and the straw brim of the hat. They walk across the sidewalk in the fierce sunlight. Shiny gold letters are embedded in the concrete. Carved stone portals, immense wooden doors. A black man in uniform pushes one open. The lobby echoes with voices and footsteps. People are smiling down at the boy. His grandfather puts his hands under his arms and lifts him up, up. The counter is marble, cold on the backs of his legs, which are bare in his short pants. His hair is combed with violet water. Pedrosa announces,
Este es mi nieto.
His grandson sits at eye level with the people who gather around to see him.
Que machito. Que lindo el nené.
Already this boy has a look about him. He knows who he is.

He runs his fingers up and down the turned brass bars of the teller's cage. On the wall there is a huge black-handed clock, and the second hand is sweeping around.

A
shuffling footstep at the door drew Gail's attention, then Anthony turned from the window. Digna Pedrosa was entering slowly to accommodate her husband's slow pace. Her eyes widened and she cooed happily, as if surprised to find visitors here. Ernesto Pedrosa's posture was as erect as eighty-four years would allow, and he pretended to use his cane more for effect than necessity. Both he and his wife were dressed for company, she in an ivory wool crepe dress with a string of pearls, and he in a dark suit and tie.

The old man kissed Gail's cheek and patted her hand, then held his arm out to Anthony and allowed himself to be embraced. With Digna's subtle assistance, Pedrosa steadied himself over the armchair, then sank into it.

Sherry and coffee were brought, and a tray of pastries, chocolates, and cheeses. Inquiries were made about Gail's health, the health of her mother and daughter, and the rest of the family. How was Doris, the aunt who is learning Spanish? And the lovely cousins. They must all come here again, anytime.

This visit was not simply to get to know the prospective granddaughter-in-law, Gail realized. Digna Betan-court de Pedrosa wanted to bind up the wounds in her family. It was she who pushed her husband along in the conversation, who laughed, who brought up the sweetest remembrances of the past. The two men said little at first, but gradually they talked about Anthony's children—a safe topic. They would of course come down for the wedding. Digna asked why the children could not stay here while their father was on his honeymoon. What do you think, Ernesto?

Ernesto Pedrosa agreed. He sipped his sherry and said his grandson had some sense after all, to have chosen such a beautiful and intelligent woman, who was kind to have taken pity on him. Using Gail as a focal point, they talked of the differences between American and Cuban weddings. The old man said they should bring back the guitarists for the reception. He had enjoyed them so much. Gail inquired about the little seascape on the wall, and he braced himself on his cane and got up to show it to her. Anthony said he had never noticed this painting, and Pedrosa said he had not opened his eyes. It had been done by Ernesto Pedrosa's own mother as a girl on vacation in Majorca in 1882—he pointed at the date. Older even than I am, he said with a laugh. He pretended astonishment that Gail had never seen Spain. You must! Go there on your honeymoon. Yes. The Prado is what you want to see in Madrid. Then go south to the coast. See the Alhambra. He asked Digna if she remembered the Alhambra.

Then Pedrosa said he had to sit down. He went back to his chair and let Anthony help him. Still standing, Anthony took the bottle of sherry to his grandmother on the sofa and filled her glass till she waggled a finger to stop.

Pedrosa leaned toward the ottoman where Gail sat and squeezed her hand. The pouches under his eyes were deeply shadowed. He took a breath. "You should see Cuba, too.
La isla mas bella del mundo.
That's what Cristóbal Colon—Columbus—said when he saw it. The most beautiful island in the world."

"I would like to go someday," Gail said.

"You will." His lined face lifted into a smile. "So will I."

"
Si
Dios quiere,"
murmured Digna.

He waved a hand. "If God wishes? No. We wish it. It will happen. You should see our farm in the country. Incredible, incredible place. Look, there by the window, the photograph, you see? The house with the royal palms leading to it, and the poinciana tree on the side."

"Framboyán,"
Gail said.

"Ah! Very good. It was bright red, but the picture doesn't show the color. That's our country house. I'll spend my last days there, and I want to be buried on the hill overlooking the farm." He patted her hand again. "What do you think? Isn't it beautiful?"

"It is, yes." She exchanged a glance with Anthony. He had already told her that the country estate had been turned into a citrus grove, and that the house had been bulldozed for a processing plant, which now had fallen into ruin for lack of parts.

Pedrosa said, "It's still there, isn't it? Or have they torn it down?"

"It's there," Anthony said. "I saw it on my last trip."

"It's there? And they haven't torn it down?"

"No,
abuelo.
It's the same." Anthony looked into his glass of sherry, swirling it slowly. His grandmother tugged on the hem of his jacket, and he sat next to her.

Pedrosa leaned on the arm of his chair. "Gail, you will see it soon. The regime won't last much longer."

"Fidel can't live forever," Gail said, a response that anyone in Miami could safely give.

"They won't wait for Fidel. The people will rise up." The old man's voice dropped to a whisper. "Not from outside. No. We tried that. Washington betrayed us. They never wanted a coup to take place. We were tricked. In 1961 they gave away Cuba to the Russians in exchange for peace. Today Washington won't allow a coup because they're afraid of immigration. The only hope of change is the Cuban people themselves, who hate the dictatorship."

"I see."

"It's the only way. Attack from within. The people will rise up if given the means to do so." Gail thought of the men in the shadows at Ernesto Pedrosa's birthday party, talking with Octavio on the front porch. Members of militant organizations. Which ones? Alpha 66, Omega 7, others without names—

Desperate to get off this topic, Gail said, "Did you keep horses at the farm? You once told me you had stables."

Digna called out, "Ernesto, tell her about our racehorses."

But Pedrosa leaned even closer. "It's already happening. Hotels have been bombed. The Hotel Nacional, the Capri. A year. You will see Cuba free within a year, I guarantee this."

Anthony shook his head. "You said that when the Berlin Wall came down."

Pedrosa looked around at him. "He doesn't agree with me. He wants Cuba to stay the way it is."

Digna clicked her tongue. "Ernesto."

"No, let him answer. Let him tell us what he thinks about the bombings."

Anthony said quietly, "I think the regime will use them as an excuse to tighten its grip. Two generations have lived under that system. They don't want violent change, and even if there is change, the country would never go back to what it was. Nor should it."

"You know nothing. You believe in nothing."

Digna went over to put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Ernesto, please. We have a guest. Gail doesn't want to hear talk like this."

His chest rose and fell with his breathing. "I apologize. My wife is right, of course." He turned his head to smile up at Digna. "You're a tyrant."