Suspicion of Betrayal (20 page)

When he kissed her, she let him do it, too shocked at first to move, then because it would have been cruel to shove him away, when his tears were on her lips. She let it continue because it was a chaste kiss, tentative and gentle, reminding her of the first time they had kissed, when she had been eighteen years old. It was familiar and comforting. His taste was familiar, and the way he held her, and she thought of the time when this had been natural between them, before their troubles had pushed them apart.

ELEVEN

Irene made some peach-flavored iced tea, and she and Gail and Karen took the insulated glasses and pitcher outside to the gazebo. The old structure needed paint, and ferns grew from rotting floorboards, but lattice and vines created cooling shade, and a breeze from the bay softened the mid-afternoon heat. The two women sat side by side on the swing while Karen climbed onto the railing that circled the gazebo and steadied herself on a roof support. "Don't fall, sweetie."

Gail had not gone back to her office. She had come home with Karen, changed into shorts and her swimsuit top, and called her mother. Bring over that new alamanda bush, she had said. The plant would replace the one that the roofing truck had mashed flat. Irene brought her wedding plans too, pleased about having a few unexpected hours to discuss them. But they talked about Dave. While Irene made the iced tea, Gail told her about the scene at Dr. Fischman's office—and what happened afterward. Irene had started to offer an opinion, but Gail told her she didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Before we bought this place," Gail said, "I told Anthony we'd put a poinciana tree right over there, about halfway between the house and the seawall. They're in bloom now. The streets look so pretty, all those canopies of red flowers. When's a good time to plant them?"

"Fall is best. You'll have such a lovely home." The wind ruffled Irene's bright hair.

Gail pressed the half-empty glass of tea to her cheek. The temperature was only around ninety, but the humidity was vicious. She thought that if she tightened her fist around a handful of air, drops of water would fall to the ground. Swimming pools were as warm as bathtubs, and by dusk the mosquitoes would take over.

"My air conditioner is starting to wheeze," Gail said. "If it goes out entirely, we might camp at your house."

"Oh, this is not so bad," Irene said. "People get spoiled. My family didn't have air conditioning until I was Karen's age. We lived with fans, and on really steamy nights we'd sleep on the screened porch." She swung her feet. Her white sandals showed off her toenails, painted bright orange to match her shorts. Her oversized white T-shirt was knotted at the hip, and little green parrots swung from her earlobes.

Karen was circling the gazebo on the railing, skittering from one roof support to the next. Gail told her to get down. "You're going to slip and break your neck."

"Mom, I won't fall."

"Get down!"

Irene laughed. "Don't squelch the child's natural impulses, Gail. She's going to lead an expedition to Mt. Everest someday, won't you, precious?"

Karen flew off the railing and rolled to the grass, then sped up the slight incline to the old metal swing set, where she hung by her knees from a crossbar, looking at the world upside-down.

"What a little monkey," Irene said.

"A few days ago she was wearing lipstick." Gail closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath.

"Are you all right, honey?"

"Tired. I feel so dragged out."

The wooden porch swing in the gazebo went back and forth, rattling the loose end of the chain on each pass. Irene said, "What are you going to tell Anthony?"

"What would
you
tell him?"

"Hmm." Irene's delicate auburn brows came together. "Well . . . not
everything.
Tell a man everything and you'll only start an argument. They hear what they want, and their feelings are hurt far too easily."

Gail curled her hand around the chain and leaned her head on it. "I don't even want to think about it right now."

"Well, then." Irene reached for the loose-leaf notebook she had laid next to the pitcher of tea on the small wooden table. The notebook was organized with multicolored index tabs. Irene turned to one marked FLOWERS. "I had a meeting with the florist yesterday, and he gave me some pictures of table arrangements with birds of paradise. Look how bright and pretty. You don't want the same old washed-out white orchids as everybody else, do you?"

"God no."

Irene looked at her for a moment, then said, "Well, do you like it or not?"

"They're wonderful. Gorgeous."

"All right. I'll tell him yes, then. Let's see. We have the photographer for the portraits, but for the video ... Here's a list of videographers. Gail, we really should look at some examples of their work."

"I don't have time to look at videos. You decide, okay?" Gail pushed against the floor, and the swing creaked. The repetitive motion made her eyes drift shut.

"We ought to have valet parking at the reception, don't you think? Some of the guests will stay at the hotel, but that could be expensive, so I recommend reserving a block of rooms at the Holiday Inn as well. The Biltmore can do a lovely rehearsal dinner, which would be convenient because the church is right across the street." Irene's voice became mixed with the rustling leaves and the chirp of birds. "Gail, are you listening?"

"I'm sorry, Mother. What?"

Irene laid the book on the seat. "You know, I always find that when I'm feeling low, the best remedy is yard work. Why don't we go plant the alamanda?"

"In a while." Gail looked toward Karen, who was dragging a twig through the grass for her kitten to chase. "I wish Karen hadn't seen him kiss me."

"What did she say about it?"

"Nothing. I don't know what she thinks. Karen and I used to talk about anything. Now she hides her feelings. I don't know if she approves of me or what."

"She loves you! But girls have a secret life when they get to be Karen's age. You, for instance—a sphinx! You drove me batty." Irene laughed. "Payback time."

The phone in Gail's shorts pocket rang. She groaned, then stood up to reach it.

"Don't you ever turn that thing off?"

"I told Miriam to call with anything important." Gail's new portable had caller-ID, and she had recognized her office number. She sat on the railing, one foot on the floor. "Hi, what's up?"

Miriam told her that the bad-knee case had signed the release, and now the client wanted Gail to tell her when she could expect her money.

"I'm not going to call her now. It can wait till tomorrow morning." Gail leaned against one of the roof supports. "Anything else?"

Wendell Sweet's lawyer had called. He hadn't said what he wanted, only that it was urgent that Gail get in touch with him. Gail borrowed her mother's pen to scribble his number on a blank page in the notebook. "Thanks, Miriam. See you in the morning." She got a dial tone, then punched in numbers. "Drat, drat, drat."

"What is it?" Irene asked.

"A divorce I'm doing. I think I told you. The Sweet case. Bet you a dollar he wants an extension." She was correct. When Marvin Acker finally came on the line, he told her that Wendell wanted another week to turn over the documents that Gail had requested.

"No. Absolutely not. Marvin, your client is under a judicial order to produce the documents by Friday— that is tomorrow, not next week."

Marvin Acker said that Wendell was doing the best he could, that many documents had to come from Venezuela, and as a courtesy—

"Courtesy? Ask Wendell how courteous he was, beating up his wife the last time he was at the house. He should have been arrested. You tell him to get whatever documents he has to my office tomorrow, and the rest Monday morning by nine, I don't care if he has to fly down to Venezuela and pick them up, or I will be in front of the judge on Monday at ten o'clock asking that Wendell Sweet go directly to jail for contempt of court."

Acker said there was no reason for her to take that attitude.

"Don't blame me. Your client is creating the problems. Tell him what I said. Monday morning or his head is on the block." Gail disconnected and with an oath jammed the telephone back into her pocket.

Irene was staring at her. "Well."

"Well what?"

"I don't see this side of you very often. Thank goodness."

"Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde? Mild-mannered mommy by night, fire-breathing bitch by day." Gail walked over to pick up her tea from the table. "You can't be nice to people like Wendell Sweet. Eight years of clawing and shoving at Hartwell Black taught me that if you don't go for blood, they'll walk all over you."

Irene made a little grimace. "I couldn't do it."

"Oh, yes, you could, if you had a client to protect. Wendell uses his fists if he can't have his way, and he'd be happy to see Jamie and their three kids living in a trailer and shopping at secondhand stores. He's got over a million dollars hidden somewhere, and I'm going to find it. If I give him more time, he'll use it to wear Jamie down, to force her into a lousy settlement. Bastard. He's lying to save his own skin. You'd do the same thing I just did."

Irene said quietly, "I hope this doesn't carry over here at home."

"What do you mean?"

"Well . . . being so hard and uncompromising. Men are funny about that. You might ask yourself if this is one reason Dave left. Seems to me that Anthony would be even less willing to take it, given his culture and so forth."

"Anthony and I are not adversaries."

"Well, that's new in the history of the world."

"Mother!"

"All right." Irene lifted her hands. "A word to the wise, darling. You know I love you."

Gail continued to look at her. "You think I'm making a mistake to marry him."

"I never said such a thing."

"But you think it, don't you?"

"I do not. Anthony is attractive, intelligent, charming. I would never question your choice of whom you should marry."

"Yes, you would. What was the first thing out of your mouth when I told you what happened with Dave? You said it was a shame he and I got divorced."

"But you did, didn't you? Time has moved on, and a person just can't dwell on what-ifs." Irene took a sip of tea. "Never mind what I said. I guess I feel sorry for Dave Metzger."

"Why?"

"Because he always seemed to
need
you so much."

"Now, there's a good reason to stay married."

Irene stood up. "I think it's time to do some yard work."

"Oh, Mom, I didn't mean to snap at you."

"Well, you have a lot on your mind."

"That's no excuse." Gail meekly collected the glasses and pitcher and followed Irene down the steps to the yard. At the same moment she wondered where Karen had gone, she saw Irene walk toward the edge of the property, looking upward into the ficus tree. No grass grew in its heavy shade, and dark, tangled strands of air roots hung to the ground. The multiple trunks at the center made hiding places for lizards, cats, and children.

Irene called out, "Come down, jungle girl. Help your mother and me plant the alamanda."

A voice came back. "I'm busy."

"Of course you are." Irene smiled upward. "Busy being ten years old."

"Eleven.
Almost."

"You want some company?" That brought a giggle. Irene put her little fists on her hips. "I bet I could climb that old tree."

"Okay. You can come up."

"Well, let me do some work first, then you can show me the secret passage." When Irene came back, Gail hugged her tightly. "My goodness, what's that for?"

Gail's eyes stung. "Because I love you. Because you're so good."

"Oh, hush."

The alamanda bush sat in its black plastic container in the driveway, where Irene had unloaded it from the trunk of the enormous burgundy red Chrysler she'd owned for ten years. She had to sit on a pillow to drive it. Opening the trunk, Irene took out her shovel, a spade, and a small plastic bag of fertilizer. Gail carried the plant to the bare spot in the yard where the roofers had ruined its predecessor. She wondered how in hell her mother had managed to heft the thing into her car.

The shovel was a short, slender one made to fit a woman's hands. Gail stepped hard on it, driving the point into the grass, then levered the dirt out and threw it to one side. She had worn her old sneakers. Already she could feel the sun burning her back, bare except for the thin strap of her swimsuit.

Irene reached into the front seat for her sun hat. "Do you need this, Gail?"

"No, I need a tan. I look like a mushroom."

Irene set the hat on her own head, then pulled on a pair of green gardening gloves. "What should I wear on Saturday?"

"Saturday?"

"To that Cuban dress shop."

"It isn't strictly Cuban, Mother. It's just—" Gail pounded the rocky ground with the shovel. "Just hor-rendously expensive. What should you wear? How about what you have on? The gloves go nicely with the parrot earrings."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No, I just don't want you to feel intimidated by the Pedrosas."

"Me?"

Gail looked at her mother. "You're right. I'm the one they're after. They think I don't know how to dress. They want the bride to look as good as the groom, which is going to be a stretch."

"Gail, you're lovely."

"Compared to Elena, Xiomara, and the rest of his cousins, I have no butt, no boobs, and legs like sticks." She threw another shovelful of dirt to one side.

"Anthony thinks you're beautiful. He told me so."

"He makes me feel that way." Gail smiled.

A shiny black Land Rover approached, scattering leaves, and Gail lifted a hand. The woman inside didn't notice—or pretended not to. The vehicle turned between the coral rock columns on the property across the street.

"Who's she?"

"Peggy Cunningham, the queen of Clematis Street. Not the friendliest person in the world."

"Cunningham." The big daisy on Irene's hat still pointed toward the other side of the road. "Is her husband Bennett Cunningham? I believe I know his sister, Margie. She's in the Opera Guild."