one hot summer (13 page)

But it was for guests, not me. I took a deep breath.

I walked to the big wooden door that led to the partners’ offices, then punched in my four-digit access code on the pad next to the door. I heard a soft click, and realized that I was relieved my code still worked.

I was in my office in seconds. I closed the door behind me. I was in my second home—although sometimes in the past it had felt like my first, with all the time I spent there. The thing was, I had liked it. And I had missed it.

There was a big pile of papers and mail on my desk, but I paused in the middle of the room. I had to reacquaint myself with the place. After a couple of weeks away, it was almost as though I had never seen my office before.

It wasn’t an overwhelmingly feminine space, but any astute observer would figure out quickly that it was a woman’s office. Instead of hanging pictures or prints on the walls, I had opted for framed charts of Cuba and the waters around it. On the west wall was a big square map of Havana, my favorite. I had learned the hard way that trees didn’t flourish in my office—either because of sharing breathing space with a lawyer, or because I had drowned them with too much water and fertilizer. So I had wrangled funds from a friend in the accounting department and invested in four tall, artificial royal palm trees to place in each corner of the room. The trees looked pretty real in the soft light—so much that more than one visitor had asked how I managed to keep them looking so healthy indoors. So many palms had died on me in the past that I didn’t even go near them in garden stores. I was convinced that my very presence caused them to wither and die.

Accounting had granted me a budget to furnish the office, and I had bought an antique wooden desk, a credenza, and a dark-green-leather chair. For a while I haunted auction houses on the weekends, and I found two sleek, tall polished-silver lamps with sea-foam-green linen shades for my desk. I also spotted a silver upright lamp, then found a shade that matched the others, so all three seemed like a set. Across from my desk I placed two oversize, too-comfortable armchairs I’d had upholstered in a green-and-white checked pattern. It took a while, but I had gotten the office where I wanted it—comfortable, but formal and professional, the kind of place where I could get work done and feel at home. It might have seemed excessive to spend so much energy and money furnishing an office, but it wasn’t when I considered how much time I spent there. I also had to make sure the room projected the image of a serious player—in the testosterone-drenched environment of the partners’ floor, little signals meant a lot.

My eyes finally landed on the huge pile of documents awaiting me. I had put my purse down on my chair when my cell phone rang. I looked at its screen and saw that it was Luther. What timing. I let it ring twice more before answering.

“Daisy, it’s so good to hear your voice,” Luther said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just needed to know how you’re doing.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” I said. Then, without even thinking, I added, “I wanted to hear your voice, too.”

“Really?” Luther asked, every bit the eager schoolboy. I felt a smile cross my lips and my heart beating fast. I might as well have been back in junior high.

“I’m at the office, I just got here,” I said, starting to unconsciously sort through the mail and files on my desk. “I’ve got a truly frightening pile of work to catch up on.”

“So you’re downtown,” Luther said. “I’m at the office, too. You know, I’m only a couple of blocks away. Want to get together?”

I looked at my watch. Two o’clock. I had planned to spend at least two hours in the office, opening mail, visiting with the staff, checking in with my partners.

That was what I had planned to do.

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my purse.

We agreed to meet for a late lunch at Bice, an Italian restaurant in the Grand Bay Hotel, in a half hour. I knew it was a place that Ariel would never patronize—he seldom went out for lunch, unless one of his clients insisted, and then he only went to the Cuban place across the street from his office. To him, spending an hour or two on lunch was a waste of time, an indulgence eating up billable hours. Unless, of course, he could add the time to the client’s bill.

I walked to the door, thinking that I was just going out for an hour or so, and that I could come back after lunch. I knew, though, that this was probably an unlikely scenario. In Cuban Miami, there was no such thing as a one-hour lunch—Ariel excepted.

I had just started to turn the knob when there was a familiar soft knocking on the door. I sighed, realizing that this wasn’t going to be a quick, clean getaway. The door opened, and I knew I was going to be late to lunch with Luther.

“Maria,” I said with a smile, thinking up some story to tell my secretary about why I had to leave.

Maria and I got along very well and, perhaps most important, we really liked each other—which wasn’t always the case in the pressure-filled atmosphere of a high-powered law firm. We worked well together and respected one another, and under normal circumstances I would have been happy to spend time with her. But this wasn’t an ordinary day, as I knew that Maria would be perplexed by my leaving right after I arrived.

She called me at home every couple of days, asking when I was next planning to come to the office. There were a lot of matters that needed my attention, she said. I knew that Maria was perfectly capable of taking care of some of my business on her own, or by consulting with one of the other attorneys or paralegals. The majority of my case work, though, required my personal attention. Judging from the pile on my desk, she had made sure she was ready for me.

Maria was a wife and a mother herself, so she outwardly understood and supported my leave of absence. We had never really talked about it, but she knew that I took the leave because the number of hours I had been working had stretched me close to the breaking point. She also knew that, as a Latina woman, I had to work longer and harder than my partners. I had the added pressure of being a wife and mother, though, while the male partners all had stay-at-home wives who organized their lives and took care of their children. I didn’t resent this disparity—it was the price of admission for playing in the big leagues—but it took a toll on me. I knew that pioneers always paid a price for their accomplishments, and as a woman and a Latina I had double pressure to be a model minority. The inescapable reality, though, was that in order to preserve my marriage and health—and to see Marti during the daylight hours—I had needed time away.

Maria was a mother hen, always cautioning me to take care of myself and worrying about me. As much as she supported my decision to take a leave, though, I knew she was inwardly worried about her standing in the firm. Because I was a woman, and because I practiced immigration law, I was perceived as lowest in the hierarchy of partners. Now there was a possibility that she could become a lame duck because of my actions. She knew she wouldn’t be fired, but if I left the firm she would probably be sent back down to the second-floor secretarial pool. Maria was in her late fifties, a few years from retirement, and after spending the last twenty years at the firm she wanted to go out on top—as personal secretary to a partner, and not just one of the dozen or so secretaries on the floor below.

We had never talked about it, but it was clear that Maria’s future at Weber, Miranda was in my hands, therefore that she had a big stake in what I decided to do. Although I had no obligation to come into the office, she prodded me to do so. We had worked together long enough for me to know exactly how her mind worked.

Needless to say, Maria was Cuban.

Maria had figured that she should find a way to produce billable hours despite the fact that her boss was on official leave—if she continued to generate income for the firm, then the partners might recognize her value. Whenever I had showed up at the office during my leave, she’d had work all laid out for me, so I could zip through case files in record time. Then, after I left, she cleaned up the mess, billing out cases and writing up invoices until the next time I returned. I had to approve the bills she sent out and, although I would never admit it, I wasn’t really sure that the hours she billed correctly reflected the amount of time I had worked. As long as the quality of work was high, my partners never asked questions. And, since the clients never complained, I wasn’t about to bring up the subject.

“I heard you were here!” Maria said with true zeal, kissing me quickly on the cheek then pushing past me to get to the desk. She had a foot-high stack of files pressed against her chest.

“Thank God you came in today,” she panted. “There’s so much work we need to do!”

Maria knew of my arrival at the firm within moments. Word traveled fast. Ashley was the only person I had encountered on the way in, but I was sure she had risked her acrylics sending out an e-mail alerting everyone to my presence. I groaned inwardly when I saw Maria busily opening several files and efficiently arranging them on my desk.

“You’re looking great, Maria,” I said, trying to soften her up for the coming blow with an innocent fib. Maria looked the same as ever, in a dark blue shirtwaist dress, black pumps, and her chin-length salt-and-pepper hair pulled back off her face in a severe style. Maria always wore two pairs of glasses, both hanging from gold chains that inevitably got tangled—one pair was for reading, the other for distance. I figured that wearing bifocals was a white flag to the aging process that she wasn’t willing to wave.

Her back to me, Maria waved off my compliment. She was busy with the files, which had spread out to cover all the space on my desk.

“Okay, Margarita, I’ve arranged the files in a certain order,” she announced. “This way you can get through them as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

She waved her hand from left to right. “These are urgent, these are important, these are necessary but no rush.” She indicated the last, highest pile. “These you can take home with you. I’ve marked the relevant pages with Post-its, which should make it easier for you.”

Maria had never before prepared files for me to take home, but I decided not to point it out.

I was still standing close to the door, my purse over my shoulder. Maria must have figured that, having just arrived, I hadn’t had time to put it down yet. This made what I had to tell her even more difficult.

“Maria, thanks for doing all this,” I said. “You’ve done a terrific job. It’s really amazing.”

I looked over the neatly stacked documents on my desk with open admiration. Maria’s organizational skills were legendary, but this time she had outdone herself. If she kept it up, I wouldn’t even be needed—an alarming thought.

“Here.” Maria took out a document from the top of the urgent file. She started to explain what it was when I stopped her. Still standing by the door, I spoke as gently as I could.

“I can’t look at that right now,” I said. “I have to go out for a couple of hours.”

A stricken look came over her face. “You’re leaving now?” she said, sputtering. “But there’s so much that needs to be done!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching for the door. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I can.”

Maria pointed at the clock on the wall. “It’s just after two now,” she pointed out. “So you’ll be back by four o’clock?”

God, being around lawyers had certainly rubbed off on her.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’ll be back by then.”

I left an openly angry and disappointed Maria standing in my office, and guiltily walked out to the reception area. Maria knew that I wasn’t leaving for a family crisis—I would have explained that to her. Now she would speculate, and none of her explanations for my rapid disappearance would prove very flattering to me.

Ashley wasn’t at her desk, so I was spared having to say anything to her as I headed for the elevator. No doubt a second e-mail would get out, alerting everyone to the fact that I had gone already. I pressed the button for the elevator and realized that my involvement with Luther was screwing up my professional as well as my personal life. Two weeks ago, nothing short of a calamity could have pulled me away from working on the files that Maria had meticulously laid out on my desk.

I didn’t know what the hell was happening to me.

I sat in my car in the driveway of the Grand Bay Hotel, waiting my turn with the valet, and nervously checked my watch—about ten times in just a few minutes. I felt the muscles in my jaw tightening as I watched the seconds tick by on the watch face. I was already fifteen minutes late for lunch with Luther, and I counted three cars ahead of me. It looked like I was going to be even later.

Usually there were several valets on duty at the Grand Bay, but on this day naturally there was only one young man tending to the entire line of cars. I tapped away on the steering wheel and cursed under my breath about his leisurely pace. Everything he did—handing out tickets, moving the cars—seemed to be taking much longer than it needed to. Finally, after an eternity, it was my turn to hand over the Escalade. I sprang out of the car so fast that the valet’s eyes popped in wonder. He probably thought I was a sprinter in the Senior Olympics.

Inside the lobby I rushed past the arrangement of beautiful flowers in an enormous Chinese vase, past the front desk. I decided not to wait for one of the four elevators, and instead rushed up the stairs two at a time to the mezzanine level where Bice was located.

Luther was waiting at the bar, just outside the restaurant, but instead of fuming over being kept waiting he was comfortable perched on a bar stool. I had been desperately worried about making him angry with me, I realized, but he was calmly talking on his cell phone and writing something down on a pad of paper. It was clear that Luther was completely immersed in his conversation—but even as he nodded and jotted down notes, his body and manner remained relaxed and at ease. Luther was a year older than me, but still at thirty-six he retained an athlete’s natural grace; even though he was wearing a suit he seemed obviously fit, toned, ready for any challenge. He was more physically attractive now than when he was in law school. Back then, he always wore baggy clothes and seemed rangy, lanky almost. Now he seemed to have fully grown into his body.

All his life, Luther had loved playing squash, and he was even captain of his team at Dartmouth. I remembered how, at Duke, his opponents would invariably underestimate his abilities when they challenged him to games. They may have heard how good he was, and they may have even seen him play before, but few believed he was capable of being a fierce competitor. He gave off such a relaxed and laid-back impression that, when he won, it seemed a fluke rather than the consequence of his talent and abilities. Still, many times we had gone out to dinner with the money he won off one of the suckers who thought they could beat him.

I could tell that Luther was about to conclude his conversation when I approached him. I admired the way he was dressed, in his navy-blue suit, white shirt with French cuffs and gold cuff links discreetly peeking out from under the sleeves of his suit, and a wine-red tie. He gave off an aura of power and self-assurance. I timed my arrival perfectly, because he clicked off his call just as I slid onto the bar stool next to him.

“Daisy,” Luther kissed my cheek. “You look wonderful.”

In one graceful move, he stood up to look me over. My slight embarrassment over my casual outfit vanished, and I felt as though I was decked out in Chanel. Luther’s blue eyes ran over my face and my body, giving me such a feeling of intimacy that I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks.

“Thanks,” I said, reduced to monosyllables. “You, too.”

And, God help me, he really did. I was glad I was sitting down, because otherwise my knees might have started knocking. He was making me feel like a moderately popular schoolgirl who couldn’t get over the fact that the quarterback of the football team had invited her to the senior prom.

“Shall we?” And, without waiting for an answer, he took my elbow, guided me off the bar stool, and led me to the dining room. I was very aware of how close he was to me; if I were wearing high heels, I probably would have tottered on them.

Even at this late afternoon hour the restaurant was still quite full, with only a couple of empty tables. Luther and I waited at the maître d’s podium to be seated, and I scanned the place to see if anyone I knew was at a table. Mercifully, I didn’t recognize any of the other patrons, so I might be spared a potentially uncomfortable encounter. We were led to a row of booths in the center of the dining room, and seated at one of the most coveted tables—at the corner, by the terrace. With great ceremony, the maître d’ pulled out the table; I slid onto the light-yellow leather banquette. Luther took the seat directly across from me.

The maître d’ handed us each a menu, then the wine list to Luther. He glanced at it and immediately ordered. The man knew his way around a wine list, I thought, when I saw the self-assured way he told the waiter his selection. It was certainly a development since the Gallo jug-wine days in law school.

We were brought bread while we waited for the wine to arrive. The decor at Bice was sleek and sophisticated, yet managed to somehow be warm and welcoming—kind of an upscale trattoria. I had been there half a dozen times, and enjoyed it more with each visit. It reminded me of Italian ambience with faintly Japanese undertones. My favorite part of the design was the floor—alternating planks of smooth, highly polished two-toned ash and dark woods. The lighting was soft, and the cream-colored tablecloths were soothing. On the center of each table was placed a single, perfectly formed, aromatic rose in a vase.

A bottle of Banfi Chianti Classico was brought to our table and, just like at Nemo’s, Luther waved the waiter away after he had opened it. The waiter’s expression as he listed the specials broadcast the fact that he didn’t like being summarily dismissed before he completed the wine ritual. To make amends I ordered two specials: the appetizer—mussels—and red snapper with roasted fennel as a main course. The waiter’s spirits lifted visibly. Luther chose a goat-cheese salad, followed by the veal chop Milanese.

Just before he hurried off with our orders, the waiter paused.

“I must inform you,” he said with great gravity. “The chocolate soufflé takes more than fifteen minutes to prepare. Please take this into consideration if you wish to order it.”

“Thank you,” Luther and I said, nodding with such solemnity that anyone watching would have thought we were listening to a decision being handed down by the Supreme Court.

Finally we were alone. Other than a few words at the bar, we hadn’t spoken to each other. During our years together, Luther and I had never lacked for conversation. But things were different now.

Luther obviously sensed the awkwardness between us and, like me, he didn’t know how to break the suddenly heavy silence. He busied himself pouring a little more wine into each of our glasses, offering a shy smile. I picked up the basket of bread and offered it to him. Nodding, Luther accepted one of the thickly cut slices. I looked around for something else to do and, without asking, poured a healthy dollop of olive oil onto his butter plate. Then I helped myself to a packet of Grissini and placed it on my bread plate. I made opening it up much more difficult than it really was, carefully taking out the thin bread sticks one by one and aligning them side by side. I was tempted to dip the ends of the sticks into the pad of butter on my plate, but thought better of it. Awkwardness or not, I didn’t want to add more calories to my meal than absolutely necessary.

I looked up. Luther was staring at me.

“Daisy, this is ridiculous,” he said. “We’ve always been able to talk. I’m still me, you’re still you.”

I was so relieved that I began to laugh out loud. Cubans don’t generally do very well with silence.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “Let’s start over.”

We got into a discussion of the case that had brought Luther down to Miami. We never stopped talking, even when the waiter brought us the food. And we ordered the chocolate soufflé, which brought a smile to our waiter’s lips. I was glad not to have dipped my Grissini in butter.

Then, during the espresso, we finally got personal. My blood chilled.

“I meant what I said about wanting you to be with me,” Luther said, folding his napkin. “I love you. I know how hard this is, but I love you. I always have and I always will.”

He reached across and took my hand, pressing it gently. I was surprised by how warm it was. I looked around nervously, half afraid to see Ariel emerge from some hiding place.

“I believe you, Luther. But I have a life now.” Then I uttered the words that I knew would jolt us both back to hard reality. “A husband. A child.”

My words hit their mark; Luther jerked back a few inches, as if he had been slapped by an invisible hand. It took him about ten full seconds to compose himself.

“I know I’m running the risk of completely alienating you forever,” he said. “But I am going to point out a fact of life to you. Obvious as it may be, it might have escaped your notice.”

My heart beat faster. Somehow I knew what he was going to say, and I didn’t want to hear it. I sipped my espresso as if nothing was happening.

“If you were absolutely happy and fulfilled with your life, you never would have met me at Nemo’s.”

I started to talk, but he held up his hand to silence my protestations. He knew my counter-argument in advance.

“You can tell me you met me out of sheer curiosity,” he said. “Because you wanted to see how I was, how I turned out, if I had lost my hair or gotten fat. You wanted to see if I’d gotten married—all the things that normal people wonder about their former lovers.”

I felt trepidation about where this was going, but I allowed myself a small smile.

“I was wondering about all those things,” I said. “And you passed with flying colors.”

“Thanks,” Luther said, but he was obviously not going to be sidetracked by my compliment. “But one time was enough to satisfy your curiosity. Then you met me again. I know you, Daisy. You don’t take anything lightly, you don’t make any move without considering the consequences. In your whole life, you’ve never gone into a situation without knowing what you were doing.”

Until now,
I thought.

“All right,” I said. “But this is more than a legal argument, Luther. I’m confused. I can’t make a decision yet.”

The strange thing was that everything felt right when I was with Luther: I had no overriding guilt, or feelings that I was betraying everything I held dear. It was like stepping into another dimension. My instincts told me to propose we get a room upstairs at the Grand Bay Hotel, but I held back from crossing that line. I could attribute some of my lustful urge to the wine I’d just drunk, but not all of it.

Luther dug into his pocket and produced a small manila envelope. He slid it across the table to me.

“It’s for you,” he said. “There’s a key ring inside with two keys—one is to get into the building, the other is for my apartment door. There’s a slip of paper with the address and the security code. There’s underground parking. All you have to do is come see me. It’s as simple as that.”

Simple.
That’s the last word I would have used to describe the implications of Luther’s little parcel. I looked down at t
he envelope as though it was going to rise up and bite me.

“Luther, I don’t know.”

“No pressure,” Luther said calmly. “I just want you to have these in case you decide you want to be with me.”

I still hadn’t picked up the envelope. “I can’t promise you anything,” I told him.

“I know that, Daisy,” Luther said. “I can’t deny that I want to make love to you, but I know I have to wait for you. I had that in mind when I made these keys for you, but I figured that, if nothing else, they would allow us to meet in less public places.”

I picked up the envelope slowly, feeling my life change, then put it in the zipper compartment of my purse. I couldn’t shake off the sensation that some kind of bargain had just been sealed.

“No pressure, huh?” I said, lamely trying to joke.

I closed my purse. Now we both knew there was no going back. It was just a matter of when.