That much was true. And there really was nothing to add to it, except that I didn't want it to end as it had ended the first time. But I couldn't share that. Not with my father. "Dad, enough about Steven and me." I smiled. "At least for now. I want to talk about Heather."

"Boo . . ."

"I'll come tomorrow," I jumped in before he could finish. "I'll talk to Heather and then I'll go up to Atlanta to see Ami's performance. Then I'll come back here and . . . and we'll pick up where we left off."

Dad was quiet again before he answered. "First, I think you should talk to Andre before you go making any plans. Second, if you want to go see Ami's performance, Anise and I are going. You can ride up with us." He chuckled then. "And third, why don't you just stay and let Andre deal with his wife and you see if you can't find the happiness you deserve in Cedar Key, okay?"

"But, Dad, Heather needs-"

"No. Andre's right. Goodness knows between him and your stepmother . . . it's all I hear. Heather may go kicking and screaming-as I said-but Andre believes that once she gets there . . ."

"Maybe, Dad . . . maybe you should go and talk with her. Talk to her about Mom like you just talked to me. Be brutally honest. Maybe it will make a difference."

"Maybe so."

"Will you think about it? For me, Dad?"

He didn't answer right away but then said, "I will. I'll think about it."

I heard a knock at the door. I bolted upright and said, "Oh, Dad. There's someone at the door. Probably Luis and his sister . . ."

"Make sure they dust under the beds," he said.

"Oh, Dad." I laughed as I swung my feet to the floor. "What do you know about dust under the beds?"

"Nothing. But that's what your mother always said to Eliana so I figure it must be important."

I hung up, walked to the door in my bare feet, and opened it, expecting to see the handsome new business owner and his sister. Instead, Rosa stood on the other side of the threshold, finely dressed in a white linen Capri set, spiky high heels, her back arched and her shoulders straight.

28.

April 1969 The day she met Joan Claybourne, Eliana Rivera wore white Grable shorts, a b.u.t.terfly-sleeved whispery blouse, a pair of wide-strapped, clunky-heeled platform sandals, and sported a hand-shaped bruise around the richly tanned flesh of her left arm. They were standing at the same table during the annual Cedar Key Arts Festival, and they simultaneously reached for the same piece of jewelry.

Twenty-three-year-old Eliana quickly drew her hand away from the elaborate trinket crafted by one of the local artists. "I'm sorry," she said. She peered into the almond-shaped eyes of the woman who could have been no more than a few years older than she and yet looked so much more sophisticated. She wore her hair in a Gibson-girl puff; wayward ringlets framed her square face. She wore a long silk and chiffon empire-waist dress that grazed the tips of her pink-painted toenails and the leather of expensive white, flat sandals. Eliana thought she must be some sort of fashion model or movie star.

"No, no," the woman said. Her voice was as soft as a melody, so different from her own, which was husky and still held traces of the island where she'd spent the first ten years of life. "I was only looking."

"Me too," Eliana said. She smiled. "I'm Eliana Rivera."

The woman extended her hand and smiled back. "Joan Claybourne." She shifted her weight and c.o.c.ked her head. "Do you, by any chance, live here in Cedar Key?"

"Sort of. My husband-Hector-and I live in Gainesville during the week, but we come to Cedar Key on the weekends. My husband, he is a singer at one of the restaurants."

"A singer? Oh, how exciting for you to be a part of something so . . . artsy." She reached for the trinket again. This time Eliana noticed her hands; they were narrow, the fingers long and delicate, the nails polished a shimmery baby pink matching her toes. She looked up, her eyes searching for the artist. Spotting her at the other end of the linen-draped table, she said, "How much?"

"Five-fifty."

Eliana blinked as Joan Claybourne reached into a small, white patent shoulder purse hanging by a long gold chain she'd not noticed before. She pulled out a ten and handed it to the artist, who said, "Give me a second and I'll have your change for you."

"Will you wrap it in tissue paper, please?"

Eliana couldn't help but notice the way the woman spoke. As though all the cla.s.s in all of society had found its place in her voice box. She smiled sweetly as the request left her lips, then turned back to Eliana. "I'm absolutely parched. Why don't I treat you to lemonade at the hotel? Maybe you can help me a little. My husband and I are looking at getting a little place here. You know, for weekends, holidays, the summer?" She smiled again.

Eliana couldn't imagine having a place just for the weekends. She and Hector rented a room from one of the locals every Friday and Sat.u.r.day night . . . those make-believe two and a half days that became her reprieve from her husband's brutality. When others were around, like Mr. and Mrs. Travers, the couple they rented from, Hector Rivera was a gentleman. A Latin lover. But when they were alone . . .

"That would be nice," Eliana said, feeling hopeful. Perhaps, she thought, she and Joan Claybourne would become friends. Perhaps she would have someone other than her sister-one of the artists displaying her paintings at the festival-to talk with. Perhaps she would not be so lonely here in Cedar Key anymore.

When the wrapped trinket was placed in Joan's hand, she turned to Eliana and extended it. "For you," she said.

"Me?"

"You liked it, didn't you?"

"Yes, but . . . you don't even know me."

Joan shrugged. "So? I like giving gifts." She fanned herself with her hand. "It's getting wicked hot. So, how about that lemonade?"

Eliana soon discovered that Joan Claybourne and her husband Ross were in need of more than just a house. They'd actually already found it, Joan told her. They'd pretty much made up their minds to put a hefty down payment on a new piece of waterfront real estate. She'd even purchased furniture for it and had torn out pictures in magazines that were perfect for what she hoped to do.

Joan Claybourne was a nice enough lady, but as they spoke over two large pink lemonades, Eliana decided that perhaps she and the pretty lady would not be such friends after all. They had little in common. Joan was a rich doctor's wife; she was a poor lounge singer's punching bag. Ross Claybourne had reached success even at a young age. He was able to buy his wife two houses already. It would take Hector two lifetimes to afford such a place as the waterfront property out on 24, much less to buy it as a vacation home.

"You have to come see the house sometime," Joan said. "When we get it all set up, I mean. Maybe give me some ideas for it."

Eliana fingered the trinket-gift she'd received earlier. "I'd like that," she said. "My sister, she is an artist. If you'd like to see some of her work, she's here at the festival. She can make your home here look very much like a beach house."

Joan smiled a half-smile. "I think that would be lovely," she said. "I'm a photographer myself and I was thinking . . . perhaps I could take some pictures around the island. Have them matted and framed. If I like your sister's work-what is her name, by the way?"

"Ariela."

"What an amazingly beautiful name." Joan Claybourne lifted her chin. Her eyes scanned the room's pale blue ceiling; her left hand fluttered around her face. "Like a whisper in the wind or a . . ." She looked back at Eliana. "A fairy."

Eliana swallowed hard as she eyed the jewelry gracing Joan's wedding finger. "Your rings are very beautiful."

"Hmm?" Joan Claybourne seemed truly taken aback by her expression. Then, as though her wedding set were an afterthought to her life, she flattened her left hand into the palm of her right and took notice of the cl.u.s.ter of diamonds resting there. "My Ross is quite adept at buying the perfect . . ." She looked up. "Everything." Then she laughed. To Eliana, it sounded like the tinkling of little bells.

Eliana thought to say something-anything to ease the oddity of the moment-but just then heard a cool baritone say, "So there you are."

Joan Claybourne's face lit up. Eliana peered over her shoulder to see a man-a handsome man with sandy brown hair swept toward his face, the sideburns fashionably long, and his eyes the color of a robin's eggs. His skin was bronzed by the sun, his smile white against it. "Ross! I want you to meet my new friend."

Eliana didn't know whether to stand or remain seated. She settled on the latter. "Eliana," she said, extending her hand. "Eliana Rivera."

Ross Claybourne took it. His hand was cool and smooth. "Ross Claybourne."

"Sit. Sit, darling," Joan coaxed. "I want you to join us. Eliana's husband is a singer here on the island, and her sister Ariela-have you ever heard such a lovely name?-is an artist. Her work is on display. Here, at the festival. I say we look at it, possibly for the house. What do you say?"

Ross Claybourne chuckled. "Slow down, silly girl," he said to the woman he clearly adored. Eliana felt a pang of jealousy pa.s.s through her. Ross and Joan Claybourne had such tenderness between them. There had never been much gentleness between her and Hector. Even their lovemaking was tinged with more aggression than pa.s.sion. Ross Claybourne looked at his wife as though she were the most costly of a.s.sets. Precious and valuable. Hector only viewed Eliana as a possession he'd been stuck with since they were eighteen and sixteen years of age.

"I would be happy to show you where she has her paintings," Eliana said, more to stop her mind from rambling than anything else.

Ross Claybourne smiled at her. "That would be very nice of you, Eliana. And, may I say, that your name is just as lovely as your sister's."

Eliana couldn't believe the compliment. "Thank you. Gracias."

"De nada."

A waitress came to their table, pad in hand and pencil poised. "Can I get you anything?" she asked the late arrival.

Eliana watched how Ross moved with ease. He picked up his wife's gla.s.s, took a sip, and said, "Pink lemonade?"

It seemed to Eliana that Joan Claybourne turned as rosy as the drink. "Of course."

Ross looked up to the waitress. "I'll have some sweet iced tea if you have it." The waitress nodded and walked away. "Eliana," he continued, "where are you from? Originally, I mean."

"Puerto Rico. I moved here with my family when I was ten."

"Do you miss it? Puerto Rico?"

"Sometimes. Very much so."

The waitress returned with a tall gla.s.s of iced tea and asked if the "ladies need a refill." Joan nodded and Eliana did the same. "Be right back," she said as she swept the two near-empty gla.s.ses from the linen draped table.

"And your husband is a singer?" Ross continued.

"Yes. But only here on the weekends. He has another job during the week on the mainland."

"Children?"

Eliana shook her head. "Not yet." And, she thought, if Hector had his way about it, not ever. "You?"

Ross and Joan smiled at each other. Joan placed her hand against her flat stomach and said, "In about eight months. Right after the first of the year."

Eliana watched as Ross leaned over, took his wife's hand in his, and kissed her gently on her lips. "Congratulations," she said.

Joan Claybourne kept her eyes on her husband and smiled broadly. "Thank you, Eliana." She kissed her husband once again, then turned back in time to greet the returning waitress with a word of grat.i.tude. She picked up her gla.s.s and took a sip. "As soon as we finish, let's go see your sister's paintings, shall we?"

Eliana nodded. Then again, she thought, maybe they could become friends.

Eliana would never forget the night, just over a year later, when she told Hector she had decided to go to work for the Claybournes. That she would take care of their house after they'd left to return to Orlando and would ready it before they arrived. Her reason, she told him, was to help with their finances. Hector had gambled nearly every penny they had; they were barely getting by. Not that she mentioned that part to him. He would have slapped her to the moon and back, in spite of their being at the Traverses' at the time she broke the news.

He had taken her by the hand and dragged her out of the house by her wrist. It was two in the morning, so he'd been quiet in doing so. He towered over her small frame, told her through gritted teeth that if she put up a fuss she'd live to regret it. If she lived. She whimpered as he pulled her in her nightgown and bare feet across the rough gravel on the road, toward the Gulf, lying flat in the moonlight. With each sob he jerked her hand harder and squeezed her wrist tighter.

At first, she thought his plan was to drown her. For a moment, she didn't know whether to fight back or to simply let it happen. But it was soon clear that this was not his plan at all. He intended to discipline her, as he called it, outside of the earshot of the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Travers.

He pushed her to the wet sand along the water. Her palms pushed hard against the broken sh.e.l.ls, and she felt the skin tear. Droplets of blood-rich and red-dotted the white of her cotton gown as she raised her hands to see the damage. She looked up. Hector blocked her view of the moon; his face was dark, he was nothing but a shadow of anger and fear. "Why would you embarra.s.s me like this, Eliana?" he spat. "Why do you make me feel less of a man, making it look as if I cannot provide for you?"

"You provide just fine," she said. She had already planned her speech, and so she spoke it quickly. "But I thought this might help . . . you have been looking at the little house on 4th Street, no? Wouldn't you rather get there sooner than later? I am your wife, Hector. We're a team, aren't we? And no one in Chiefland has to know."

Even in the dark, Eliana could see her husband relax. He reached for her wrist and pulled her up. His eyes-which were now visible to her-shimmered. "You'd do that for me, Eliana?"

She had to appease him, to soothe the pride she'd wounded. "I love you, Hector," she said, wrapping her arms around his broad waist. "Of course I'd do that for you."

The truth was, of course, that she wasn't doing it for her husband. She was doing it for her friends, Ross and Joan Claybourne. Ross needed her. That sweet baby needed her too. And Joan . . . poor Joan. No wonder, she thought, Ross had wondered what drink had been in her gla.s.s all those months ago.

What she didn't know-wouldn't know for a little while longer-was that she would save Joan Claybourne's life. "Joan," she whispered that day to her friend, who lay curled like a child on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, six days into a drunk that seemed would never end. "You have to go get help, now." Joan shook her head against the satin pillowcase. Her long blonde hair lay matted, the color had turned dull. "Don't shake your head at me, Joan Claybourne," she said. "These days, I know you better than you know yourself." She swallowed. "You're the strongest woman I know. And you have to be strong for your little girl, chica. Do you hear me?"

Joan's bloodshot eyes fluttered open. "I'm not brave. You are."

Eliana drew closer. The stench of stale alcohol a.s.saulted her. "Not like you. I stay in my misery. But you . . . you are strong enough to go to the hospital and get well." This time Joan nodded at Eliana's words. "I'm going to get a bubble bath ready for you now, chica. I'll get you cleaned up and then Ross will drive us to the hospital. We'll have you all fixed up in no time."

Joan clutched her shoulder. "You'll take care of my baby while I'm gone?" Her voice cracked in a whisper.

"Of course."

"And Ross?" Joan quivered. "Ross can't do anything without me . . ."

"Yes, Joan."

"Do you promise? Promise you will stay? You won't go home to Hector? You'll stay and take care of things?"

"I promise."

Eliana started to pull away but Joan held tight. "He loves me very much, you know. He needs me. And I need him." She blinked, then repeated, "He loves me very much, you know."

Eliana smiled weakly. "Yes, chica," she said. "I know. He loves you very much."

That night, while Joan began her detox in the hospital, Eliana rocked little Kimberly-Boo to sleep. She sang a lullaby her own mother had sung to her years ago in Puerto Rico. "Contigo, si. Contigo, no. Contigo, mi vida, me casare yo . . ." She hummed a little of the tune before returning to the lyrics, this time in English. "With you, yes. With you, no. With you, my love, I will marry." After she laid the sleeping child in her crib, she turned to see Ross standing at the door, watching her. She smiled at him, and in turn, he smiled back. But even in the dark, she could see the anguish and grief etched on his face, the tearstains along his cheeks. His shoulders slumped, weighed down with his life's burden. He released a long sigh and nodded once. "Good night, Ana," he said, then turned and walked away, his footsteps cushioned by the thick wool carpets running the length of the hall.

"Good night," Eliana returned, her voice inaudible to him now. As she stepped toward her bedroom, she returned quietly to the little tune she'd sung to the baby. "Contigo, si. Contigo, no. Contigo, mi vida, me casare . . . yo . . ."

29.

"Rosa." I looked past her left shoulder to see if there were any others with her. There were not. "I was expecting-"

"Luis, yes, I know. I asked him to give me some time with you first." She peered into the house. "May I?"

I took a step back. "Of course."