one hot summer (5 page)

And, let’s face it, the Matos award didn’t hurt. Cubans are nothing if not practical, with a healthy respect for money and success, and the better Ariel did, the more attractive he became.

When I was still at the firm, Mamá told me that I was courting disaster with Ariel, that although he was a fine person he was still a man who wanted his wife available to him at all hours. If I wasn’t there waiting for him when he got home, then he would eventually find another woman who would be.
Guaranteed,
she said.
It’s just a matter of time.

Thanks, Mamá.

Just before I took my leave, Mamá started telling me how tired I looked, how worn out, that I was losing my looks. Pretty soon Ariel was going to lose interest and take up with a younger, fresher, sweeter woman. I was playing with fire, trying to have a life of my own. So no, I wasn’t going to my mother for advice.

Vivian and Anabel, God bless them, told me that my family was full of shit, that they were trying to guilt-trip me into giving up everything I had worked so hard to achieve. Sure you can have it all, they told me. You can be a good wife and mother and still be a successful and fulfilled working woman.

The only party involved who had yet to voice a firm opinion was Ariel himself, but it was crystal clear what he thought. He was proud of me and my accomplishments, but he felt that I had proved what I had set out to prove. Now it was time to devote myself to my family. He just wanted me to arrive at the same conclusion on my own, without feeling pressured. I had to keep in mind that he loved me, and that he trusted me to do what’s right for our family.

Still, in spite of his reassurances, I could not help but suspect that he had ulterior motives. He knew I was more independent when I was working, with responsibilities and interests that excluded him. He claimed he was happy that I did well and was successful on my own, but, as a Cuban man, he felt that having a working wife diminished him in the eyes of his contemporaries. Also, if he was working, and making money, and I was not, I would be financially and emotionally dependent on him, something I felt he wanted and needed. I told myself not to be mean-spirited, that Ariel was a good man who wanted the best for me, but these suspicions crept up from time to time.

And there he was, still sitting there and waiting for me to say something. He shook his head, a wry expression on his face.

“I can see you don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Just so long as you’re giving the matter thought.”

“Gracias,”
I replied. “And thanks for being understanding. Believe me, I’m thinking about it. I really am.”

Ariel stood up, stretched, reached for his jacket and tie.

“I’d better get going or I’ll get stuck in traffic.” In Miami, leaving five minutes too late could make a huge difference in how long it took to reach a destination. He leaned over to kiss me, then bent to kiss Marti on the head. Marti barely noticed; he was still engrossed in his puzzle.

I watched Ariel walk away, then turned my attention back to the water. I watched a dark shadow in the waves, thinking it might be a manatee, when the phone rang. I reached for the e
xtension on the side table, annoyed by the interruption.

“Hello?” I said.

“Daisy?”

It was a man’s voice. A voice I knew. I almost dropped the phone. Only one person has ever called me “Daisy,” the English translation of Margarita.

“Luther?”

A Cuban waiting for an American. Now that was a switch. I sat glancing at my watch at a table in the courtyard of Nemo’s, one of my favorite restaurants on South Beach.

It had been nine years since I last saw Luther Simmonds, but somehow speaking with him on the phone that morning and agreeing to meet for lunch a few hours later seemed perfectly normal. Maybe I should have heard alarm bells ringing, but I didn’t. Mostly I was thinking about how I was going to look to him. I had given birth to a child since I last saw him, after all, and although I worked out religiously at the gym I knew my figure wasn’t the same as before.
Ay, vanity. Thy name is Margarita.

Luther and I had agreed to meet at one, and now it was a quarter past. I remembered that Luther used to exemplify the annoying American proclivity for punctuality. I was starting to wonder if something had gone wrong, and I could have kicked myself for not giving him my cell phone number.

After a quick look around to make sure Luther wasn’t nearby, I opened up my purse and took out my little silver pocket mirror. I studied my reflection, trying to imagine what Luther would see when he finally arrived.

At thirty-five, I considered myself neither old nor young, although I knew I looked a few years younger than my age. Maybe it was in the genes. I always thought Latino women held out better against the ravages of time because of our olive-colored skin. As a teenager I’d railed against my oily complexion, but now I blessed it because I was virtually wrinkle free. I used to swear under my breath when my mother refused to allow me to bake in the hot tropical sun with my friends, but now I was glad she had kept me inside. And, yes, prepared to admit she was right about something.

Luther was going to meet a woman with shoulder-length dark brown hair, wavier now than in Durham because of South Florida humidity. It was a few shades darker than in years past, but that wouldn’t surprise Luther—I’d been experimenting with hair color since before my Duke days, and I used to change shades as often as I could without my hair actually falling out. My eyes were the same, light blue bordering on gray. Now I knew more about makeup, and how to accent my best features, so I concentrated on bringing out that gray tone.

I always dressed fairly conservatively, and still did—although now, of course, I wore better outfits. And the higher quality the clothes the better the fit, so hopefully Luther wouldn’t notice that my hips had widened a bit. Dressing for this lunch, I’d pulled out, inspected, and tried on nearly everything in my closet. At one point it looked as though Hurricane Andrew had hit my bedroom; it took almost an entire hour to hang everything up again. I finally settled on a fine-cotton khaki shirtwaist dress by Yves St. Laurent that fit me perfectly even though it was a couple of years old. I matched it with black open-toed snakeskin sandals and a Chanel bag. I thought I passed inspection, but just to be sure I chose a seat with the sun at my back. I might have looked good for my age, but there was no point pushing the envelope and exposing myself to the cruel midday light.

I replaced my mirror in my purse.
Why so much preparation, why so much worry about what he’s going to think?

And more to the point, why was I meeting my old flame? I hadn’t told Ariel that I was having lunch with Luther. Ariel trusted me—and with good reason, because I’d never given him reason to do otherwise. But I knew he wouldn’t be at all pleased if I had informed him of my lunch plans.

Which meant I was keeping a secret from my husband.

My conversation with Luther had been very brief. After the how-are-yous he told me that he was in Miami working a case and that he’d like to get together, if that were possible. He said he’d called my firm and learned that I was on an extended leave of absence. Since I knew the firm wouldn’t give out my home phone number, and we were unlisted, Luther had called up Duke Law School to find out how to reach me. Knowing all the trouble he went to secretly pleased me.

I didn’t know much of anything about Luther’s life, whether he was married, or ever had been. After we broke up we pretty much ceased to communicate, although I heard a few snippets about him now and then from mutual friends. Gradually even those friends dropped off. I exchange an occasional e-mail with an old classmate, but I don’t really keep up on their lives. I was the only person in my class from Miami, so I didn’t socialize with anyone who could keep me posted on the latest gossip.

For the first time I wondered what Luther would look like. The years must have had some impact on his good looks. Luther could have had his picture in the dictionary under WASP. He always gave off an air of confidence that only sometimes verged on cockiness, and generally acted as though he belonged wherever he was, not surprisingly, since his ancestors had arrived in this country on the
Mayflower
. He moved with a natural athlete’s grace, smooth and fluid as though gliding to some internal rhythm. Luther was a couple inches over six feet, thin but muscular and strong, with light-brown almost-blond hair that was always in need of a trim. He had blue eyes and freckles, and usually sported a two-day-old beard years before it was fashionable. He wore tortoiseshell glasses that made him look intellectual, but in a sensual sort of smoldering-romantic way.

At Duke, Luther had always dressed casually, in jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. Whenever he needed to upgrade his look, he pulled out a navy-blue blazer that had seen its prime in the early years of the Reagan administration. But somehow no matter what Luther wore, he gave the impression of being dressed appropriately while everyone else was either over- or underdressed. Now that he was working for a big New York firm he would have to wear a suit every day. Luther dreaded wearing suits. I wondered how he was taking the change.

I looked at my watch again. One thirty. I had been sitting at the table for a full half hour. The waiter had stopped refilling my water glass. At least I didn’t have to feel guilty about occupying one of the choice outdoor tables because the restaurant was almost empty. No surprise there: The locals knew to sit inside, in air-conditioned comfort. Tourists loved to sit outside, but there were few to be found in July. Maybe it had something to do with the heat, humidity, and hurricane season.

I made up my mind to order. The hell with it. If I was going to be stood up, I was at least going to eat before leaving. Then I felt a shiver run down my back. A man materialized out of nowhere and stood across the table from me. It took me a good ten seconds to realize that it was Luther.

“Daisy! Great to see you.” Luther came around and kissed me on the cheek. I could see his eyes on me, checking me out. He had once known every corner and curve of my body. By the way he was looking at me, I could see he was going over old notes in his mind.

“You, too, Luther.”

“So sorry I’m late,” he said. “I missed the exit on I-95 and had to double back. I hope you didn’t get too angry waiting for me.”

With the self-confidence that I remembered well, he pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. He knew I had never been able to get upset with him, and saw no reason for that to change.

“It’s all right,” I managed to say. I simply couldn’t get over the way Luther looked. This wasn’t what I had expected. Not at all.

Luther had definitely learned something from his colleagues at that big-shot, overpriced New York law firm. I guess if lawyers are going to charge clients five hundred dollars an hour or more, then they have to dress the part. And to look at Luther, he might have broken the thousand-an-hour mark.

In spite of the heat and humidity, not to mention an hour spent in Miami traffic, Luther looked fresh and clean. Well, he’d always been that way. At Duke he’d been able to emerge from the library after a marathon study session looking as though he’d just stepped out of the shower. This was in contrast to me; after a couple hours cracking the books I looked so beaten up that my friends asked me if I needed a ride to the hospital.

Gone were the glasses. Contacts, I guessed. The hair had finally gotten a trim, and the scruffy beard was gone. The blue jeans and sneakers had been replaced by a beautifully cut tan poplin suit with a blue shirt that brought out the tone of his eyes. This was also the first time I could recall seeing Luther in a tie. He looked…really good.

Seeing that I hadn’t been lying about expecting a guest, the waiter came over. Taking in Luther’s air of definite prosperity, the waiter became positively solicitous and handed Luther a menu plus the extensive wine list. I looked at Luther’s hand as he took them. No wedding ring.

“Red still good with you, Daisy?” Luther asked, then ordered a bottle of the best Barolo on the wine list. I knew the wine prices at Nemo’s, and I was impressed with Luther’s choice. No iced tea for us.

Business was taken care of, and now we had no choice but to inspect each other. I tried not to wilt under his gaze, hoping that Luther would think I’d held up as well over the past decade as he obviously had.

“You look more beautiful than ever, Daisy,” Luther said fondly. “Life has been kind to you, hasn’t it?”

I felt my face and neck turn warm. Oh, no, I was blushing. Just then—thank God—the waiter showed up with the Barolo and two glasses. Luther waved away the silly ritual about inspecting the cork and tasting the wine and, with a dismissive gesture, let the waiter know that he would take charge of the situation. I could tell the waiter smelled a fat tip if he handled our table properly; he told us he would wait for our order, then withdrew.

“You look good, too, Luther,” I said.

We tipped our glasses and sipped the wine. Almost instantly I felt warmth coursing through my body. For a fleeting moment I saw myself sitting in a restaurant with an ex-lover, my old soul mate, drinking wine in the middle of the day. I would have to pace myself; drinking on an empty stomach during the hottest part of the day in the dead of summer was a sure way to get drunk.

“That’s nice of you to say, Daisy.” Luther seemed genuinely pleased by my compliment. “If you don’t mind my asking, why have you taken a leave of absence from your firm?”

I didn’t want to explain about Ariel and Marti and my reasons for taking a leave. I just didn’t. I didn’t want my real life to intrude upon sitting there next to Luther sipping wine. My first glass was almost gone. I knew I needed to stand up and get out of there. But I couldn’t. It simply felt natural to be there with him.

“I’ve just been working too hard,” I replied. “I needed to take some time off, get some breathing room.”

It was time to direct the conversation away from me. “And you,” I said, “what are you doing in Miami?”

“My firm’s working a huge commercial litigation case,” Luther said. “There are about a dozen corporations involved and one of them has a Miami connection. So here I am.”

“Here you are,” I said. I couldn’t read what he was thinking. I had always been able to before. Luther had gotten tougher somehow, his skin had thickened. It was an added aspect to his old self-assurance, more attractive than intimidating.

Luther looked me right in the eyes. No glasses like in
the old days, just his eyes and mine a couple of feet apart.

“Actually, any one of the other three attorneys on the case could have come down here,” he said. “But I insisted it be me.”

Now I knew for sure that I should be getting out of there. Something deeper than the red wine was hitting me.

Instead I picked up the menu. “Shall we order?” I asked sweetly.