Suspicion of Malice (49 page)

Gail tugged at his arm. "Come on. They're expecting us."

As if they had never left. Kisses on the cheek from
Aunt Fermina for him and for Gail. She apologized that Uncle Jose was still in bed. There were some visiting cousins asleep in the guest house. His sister
came downstairs as Fermina was going on and on,
and there was another round of kisses and embraces. Alicia offered them breakfast, but Anthony said he would go straight up and see Ernesto, if the old man
hadn't fallen asleep again.

They spoke in Spanish, but Gail knew enough, he
thought, to follow the meaning.

Anthony asked Alicia, "Does he know I'm here?"

"I told him."

"And that Gail is with me?"

"Yes, he knows."

Gail's fingers were tight around his. They went up
the wide stairs, then turned at the top toward the
front of the house. Sconces illuminated the long car
peted hall, and their footsteps made no sound.

Alicia tapped on the door and led them into Ernesto's room. To the left, beyond the four-poster bed,
the French doors were open, and Nena saw them
come in. Ernesto was in his wheelchair. He turned a
page in the newspaper.

The old man was not deaf, he was making it
difficult.

Nena crossed the room, holding out her arms to
Gail, and Anthony could see that his grandmother
had already put aside every negative thought she'd
had for this
americana.
Gail smiled, kissed Nena's
cheek, and tightened her grip on Anthony's hand.

"Who is there?" The voice from the terrace was
strong. Ernesto customarily wore his pajamas and robe to read the paper, but today he had put on a
guayabera, crisp and fresh. Mockingbirds sang rau
cously in the trees. A small table held the remains
of breakfast.

"It's Anthony. Gail is with me. Good morning."

"Good morning."

They looked at each other across the room.

"Come here, let me see you." His glasses tilted, catching the light. "You are looking well." He smiled
at Gail. "And you are as pretty as ever."

She stumbled a little over the words. "Thank you.
It is a pleasure to see you."

The old man smiled at her, then said in English, "I'm happy to see you too. Alicia, tell Fermina to
bring them something to eat. Digna, my love, where
are two extra chairs?"

The conversation on the terrace was less strained
than Anthony had feared. He told his grandparents
about Angela's winning a part in
The Nutcracker
and
promised good seats for opening night. He did not
mention the child. Gail had asked him not to. Not
yet.

The sun came through the trees in shifting splashes of light that fell on the silverware, the crystal glasses of juice, the red filling inside the flaky guava pastry. Crumbs dotted the front of Ernesto's shirt, and Nena
brushed them away. The old man was breathing
slowly. A pause, then a breath.

When Gail set down her cup, empty, Ernesto
reached over to take her hand. "My dear. May I beg you a little favor? I need to speak alone to my grand
son. A few minutes. Then you come see me again."

With a nod, Gail stood up. "Of course." Ernesto
pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. "Digna?
Show Gail the new orchid that bloomed yesterday in
the back garden.
Gracias, mi vida."

When the women had left the room, Ernesto Pe
drosa gestured toward the chair, and Anthony sat
down again.

In elegant, formal Spanish, he said, "I am dying. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon enough. Much begins to fade away as one approaches death. Anger. Pride. I wish to tell you that I make no apologies for taking you out of Cuba, away from your father. I
despise his politics, but even more, I despise his igno
rance and his coarse manners. He was far below your
mother, and I didn't want my flesh and blood to be
like that, so I brought you here. I don't always agree with you, Anthony, but overall, you have turned out
well. The second thing. I was wrong to tell Hector
to get rid of that man who was threatening you. That was a mistake. He was a very bad man, but—" Er
nesto shrugged, the corners of his mouth going
down. "I told Hector to take care of the problem, and he did. At least you are safe, thanks to God."

"Where is Hector now?"

"Still in New York. Or perhaps Puerto Rico. I am
not sure. He gave me a number to call if we need
him. He knows that after I am gone, his loyalty is to you. I will leave the information in an envelope with
my attorney."

"I don't want Hector around me."

"You say that now. When you need him, you will
think again. Don't interrupt. My breath is short, and
I am tired. Alicia told you that I would like to take
a little trip."

"To Cuba. Were you serious?"

Ernesto looked at him sharply from under tangled white eyebrows. "I am not afraid, my son. I am not afraid of what might happen to me there, nor am I afraid of what people would say of me here. To hell
with them. However, if they knew, I would be used for political reasons, and that would be wrong. Do
you understand?"

After a moment, Anthony nodded.

"You remember your promise? You promised you would take my ashes to Cuba. Sentimental shit. You
can throw my ashes out with the garbage, I don't
care. I want to kneel down and pick up the earth, to
smell it."

"And what if you died there?"

"You would bury me." He lifted an arm toward
the door. "That flag over my desk downstairs. We'll
take it with us. If I die, put me in that and roll me
into the ground. Bring a little piece back for Digna.
That and some of the dirt."

Anthony stared at him.

"Why are you looking at me that way? You don't
have the guts to do it? Are you afraid of getting
caught?"

Unable to sit still any longer, Anthony walked to
the edge of the terrace. Bracing his hands on the
wrought-iron railing, he looked down into the yard.
A brick path wandered between the oak trees. "It
isn't that. Don't tell anyone else. Gail is expecting
a child."

"Is she?" The old man laughed. "Imagine that.
Congratulations. She isn't far along, though, is she?
We'll be back before the child is born."

"I promised I wouldn't go anywhere until afterward. That includes Cuba."

His grandfather said, "Ah. We'll wait, then. I hope
I can live that long. I am going to go, whether you
or someone else takes me. I want you to do it. I want
you with me. You, Anthony."

The voice was suddenly thin and weak, and Anthony knew if he turned around he would see his
grandfather crying.
Lie to him,
Alicia had said.
He needs hope.
Yes, a lie was sometimes the right thing to do.

Anthony said, "Arrangements would have to be made. Where and how to enter. It wouldn't be easy. You could go in on false papers, but I suppose they
have your photograph."

"In every
Guardia
office."

"Naturally. You made quite a nuisance of yourself.
Is it true that they sent agents to kill you?"

When Anthony finally looked around, the old man
was smiling. "Oh, yes. Fidel sent his agents three
times, but each time I was warned, or I saw some
thing that alerted me, and they failed."

"And it would be a satisfaction to you, wouldn't it? Getting in and out of Cuba under their noses."

His grandfather laughed. "I would send the Beard
a picture of myself on the Malecon. Well? Are we
going or not? I want an answer."

Anthony said, "Yes. I'll take you."

"Good. Good." Ernesto Pedrosa pulled in a long,
slow breath and leaned back in his wheelchair, touch
ing his side.

"Are you all right? Do you want the nurse?"

"No, I want to lie down for a few minutes." He
wheeled his chair around, and Anthony pushed it
into the room. "Do you remember the orchids in
Soroa? I would like to see that again. And the water
fall? Do you remember?"

"I remember." His grandfather slowly stood up,
and taking him by an elbow, Anthony guided him
to the edge of the bed, then knelt and took off his
shoes. The socks were thin, outlining his big, knobby feet. Men in Cuba wore socks like this years ago. He
set the shoes by the bed.

When he bent to kiss his grandfather's cheek, the
old man was already snoring. Anthony pulled a blan
ket over him.
"Duermete bien, viejo."

Chapter 25

It was nearly sundown, and the office had been de
serted for hours. Everyone liked to leave early on Friday. Passing by the workroom, Elizabeth Cresswell happened to glance inside. Fluorescent lights
buzzed in the ceiling. Her son was at a computer
desk tapping on a keyboard.

"Sean? Are you still here, honey?"

He kept his eyes on the screen. "I'm just finishing
some stuff for the website."

"It's Friday night. Aren't you going out?"

"No. I'm kind of tired. I might watch some
videos."

Liz nodded, hardly knowing what to say to this. It pleased her that Sean was working so hard, but
his mood worried her. He had been home every
night this week. He didn't listen to music or play
his video games; he read. She wondered if he was depressed. Young men who became depressed could do terrible things to themselves. He had come home
late Monday night with scrapes on his face, which
he'd refused to explain. This worried her, but she
was aware that most things worried her these days.

She smiled at her son. "Okay, you choose the mov
ies. Your dad wants to order a
pizza.
Would you
like that?"

"Fine."

"Good. I'll see you at home later." She patted the door frame, then continued walking around the cor
ner to Dub's office. The door was open, and she
could see papers scattered on his desk. He'd been
staying late ever since Porter had ordered him to
turn over the sales figures to the accountants by
Monday. Dub didn't have the backbone to refuse,
even if the request was as crazy as the man who'd
made it. Porter had been complaining about Roger
all week. Betrayal and sabotage. Selling boats right
out the back door, pocketing the cash.

Dub reached to pick up his bourbon and saw her in the doorway. "It's my lovely helpmate. Hello,
lovely helpmate." He lifted his drink in her direction.

Liz nodded at the papers. "What's that, Porter's
project?"

"Yeah, what a fucking waste of time."

She came in, closing the door. "You and Porter
had some kind of meeting this morning. Nobody told
me about it."

Dub widened his eyes and put a fingertip to his
mouth. "A secret shareholders' meeting. As you
aren't a shareholder, I shouldn't talk."

"Don't play with me, dammit, I've had a horrible
week."

Dub's belly stretched the front of his green knit
shirt. He leaned back, sipping his drink, making her wait. "Broward Marine made an offer. Porter had the
papers on his desk already. We went over them."

"That can't be true."

"Oh, come on, Lizzie. They've wanted to buy us
for a long time. They make bigger boats, and they're
talking about keeping the Cresswell name. I think that gives Porter a hard-on for the deal."

"Tell me he didn't sign the contract."

"Not yet. We want our tax lawyer to look at it,
and we have the red tape with the corporate resolu
tions and so on. What do you want to do, buy Porter
out? We don't have the money, Liz. We can't get a
loan fast enough. Broward is hot to go. Yeah, okay, they'll probably close down the yard, but they'll take some of the guys up to Fort Lauderdale, those that
want to make the move."

Liz screamed, "How can you be so damned
indif
ferent?
You can't let him do it."