"At least let me fill your water bottle. This heat sneaks up on you."

I used my break not only to catch a drink but also to check on the paperwork for today's volunteers. I'd forgotten to get Mari to sign in, and by the time I got back up to the roof with her freshly filled water bottle and the clipboard, Bo was working behind her on row two. She'd probably called out to him to bring her a cold drink or come see about her poor little blister.

They barely acknowledged me, and I went back to work on the eaves, but within earshot so I could hear what sort of sob story she was peddling.

"You're pretty good at this," Bo told her.

"Believe it or not, I've actually had a little experience. I remember helping my uncle fix our neighbor's roof after Hurricane Andrew. All I did was hand him shingles but it was fun."

"I remember that time well. We all worked together for months to clean up-everybody all over the city. Where were you when it hit?"

"With mi abuela...at my grandmother's house in the Gables. Eight of us crammed into the pantry because it didn't have windows. I'll never forget how scared we all were...pa.s.sing around the rosary and praying we'd see the morning."

"Tell me about it. I was living down at Homestead."

"You guys got hammered."

Right on cue, Bo sent six nails into a shingle with only twelve swings. "Fortunately I was renting. We lost half the roof, but the worst part was when somebody's pickup truck blew right into the living room."

"So many horrible stories, but we were lucky. And you're right about how we all came together afterward. It gave us a sense of community."

Yeah, and what did Mari do with that community? She dumped her trash on it. Felony littering! I looked it up-five hundred pounds of trash. She must have junked an old car in the Everglades or something. Those things take like a billion years to biodegrade.

Another forty minutes went by and I was ready to scream, not just at the cramping in my neck and arms, but at the Mister Rogers reminiscing going on between Bo and Mari. You'd think they were the only ones who'd ever faced adversity. I'd like to see either one of them dig out of one of those eight-foot snowdrifts like we had in New Hampshire!

Mari's magical spell finally broke and Bo remembered his twelve bankers working inside the house.

"I better get down and see about the drywall. Say, Daph...your neck's got to be killing you by now. Last time you did that, you went on about it for a month. Why don't you jump on up here and give Mari a hand with the roof?"

Nice going, Bo. Now Mari thinks I'm a whiner.

"I'll finish this side." Even if it killed me. My neck felt like I was wearing a tractor tire for a necklace.

As I stepped up on the roof to let Bo use the ladder, Mari's cell phone rang with one of those maddening salsa jingles. If I ever make it to h.e.l.l, I'm sure they'll be blasting that out of every speaker.

She looked at the number then at me. "Is it okay if I get this?"

"Sure." I wasn't her jailer.

Her hushed tones weren't necessary since every word was in Spanish. For all I knew, she was plotting with someone to have me beaten up. Except I could tell she was pretty upset about something. Not angry...more like worried.

But then she hung up and went right back to work without a word.

I'd settled back on my perch at the top of the ladder, not three feet from where she was nailing shingles. The decent thing to do was ask if everything was okay, but it wasn't as if Mari and I were friends. By all accounts, she didn't even like me.

Not that I could blame her. As far as she knew, I was a slave-driving b.i.t.c.h who held a ridiculous grudge against her for getting to the site a few minutes late. It wasn't her fault the rest of us didn't have our watches set to Hispanic Time.

Okay, the real problem-Edith knew it and deep down so did I-is My Att.i.tude, not hers. Miami isn't going to bend to suit me. The only people who survive here are the ones who realize that and go with the flow.

Okay, but the real problem-I know, I just said that-is going with the flow means going against my nature. That's what makes living here so difficult. I'm not the kind of person who runs around traffic to jump in front. Or the kind who keeps people waiting because I think my time is more important than theirs. Or blasts my own music on the beach because I don't give a Jenko what anyone else wants to hear.

I fight those things inside me because civil society means living by rules for the common good.

Edith felt the same way but said she understood how it got to be that way. A lot of Miami's Hispanics come from places where the roads have no stripes at all, and goods aren't plentiful. Pushing to the front of the line is what they did to survive. Those who waited meekly in the back didn't get any.

My conflict is internal. Doing things the Miami way throws me off-kilter.

I don't like having to shout over people at the deli counter, but that's what it takes if I want the clerk to notice me. But then every time I do it, I look around and see some other poor schmuck who's being ignored because she's politely waiting her turn. That kind of stuff makes me feel like a jerk.

Or when I run up on somebody's b.u.mper to keep another car from turning in front of me, like it would kill me to be nice and let him in. By the time I get to work I'm all worked up, not from fighting with the traffic, but from wondering if anyone ever let that poor guy squeeze in.

I guess the bottom line here is if I want Miami to be a nicer place, I can start with myself.

"Say, Mari. We're going to break for lunch in about ten minutes. How about we look around for another job for this afternoon?"

"I don't mind this one," she answered, not even looking at me. "I like being up here and seeing it take shape."

Right, and we'll have to haul her off in an ambulance after she has heatstroke. I'd probably catch h.e.l.l for that. "It's getting pretty hot up here."

"I'm used to the heat. I've lived here all my life."

Apparently, she also lived to be obstinate. And those pointed jabs about how we "outsiders" couldn't adapt wasn't going to win her any points with me. She could boil up here for all I cared. "Suit yourself."

"Wait." When she stood up to her full height, it was like looking up from the bottom of a totem pole. "I was just trying to say this was okay with me, but I'll do whatever job you want me to do. You're the boss."

Humility. I like that. And maybe a tiny bit of contrition.

"If you're okay with it, that's fine. Just don't pa.s.s out and fall off the roof. It leaves a stain on the driveway."

She almost smiled. Not quite though, because her dimple didn't show up. I didn't stare because I knew I'd smile back, and then she'd think I was kidding about the stain.

The lunch truck that canva.s.sed construction sites pulled up out front and sounded its horn, which happened to be the first few bars of "La Cucaracha." It never made sense to me why a song about c.o.c.kroaches made people want to eat.

I clutched my paintbrush and bucket in one hand and started down the ladder. "Wait till I get to the bottom and I'll hold the ladder for you," I told Mari.

Except my foot slipped off the next to last step and when I reached the ground, I did so with my a.s.s. No big deal on the a.s.s part, but now there was white paint all over my chest and legs, to say nothing of a stain on the driveway.

Mari whirled onto the ladder like it was a fireman's pole and was standing over me in three seconds flat. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay." Jenko, I had paint in my mouth. Then I went to wipe it and realized it was all over my hand too. Which meant it was now all over my face.

The whole crew must have heard the commotion because they all came running. Even the c.o.c.kroach driver had stopped his truck and joined them.

I almost wished I'd broken something, and I even considered faking it just to keep them from laughing. But no, I was fine, other than feeling more humiliated than I ever had in my life. And that's without a mirror.

Mari still looked worried. "You want me to get a hose or something?"

I looked over at Bo hopefully, but his grim jaw gave away the bad news.

"That's too much paint," he said. "We can't wash it into the groundwater. I'll go get some rags and a drop cloth."

The only way to properly dispose of half a gallon of spilled latex paint is to scoop it up, let it dry and throw it out with the garbage. Then we'd have to scrub the driveway with soap and water.

Since I didn't have a change of clothes in the car, Bo would have to wrap me in something that would keep the paint from getting all over everything. In other words, I'd be driving home in a toga. Mother Jenko.

The paint coated me from the knees up, so when Bo got back, we tried to mop up the biggest globs with paper towels. Next came the drop cloth, which was covered with so much dried paint, dust and cobwebs that it was totally, totally Gross. I stood mostly still while he and Mari wrapped it around me, including a loop through my crotch that made me feel like I was wearing a giant diaper.

In a show of either mercy or boredom, the bankers had followed c.o.c.kroach back to his truck for lunch. Only Mari stuck around to gawk at the spectacle.

"You sure you aren't hurt? That was quite a fall."

"I'll probably have a bruise on my rear end, but it could have been a lot worse."

"You should have called somebody to hold the ladder."

It was all I could do not to parrot that back in a snippy voice. She was right, of course, but her observation was about as useful as a two-legged barstool.

Bo jumped in to save my sorry a.s.s. "Sometimes we're the worst offenders. We get caught up watching everybody else and forget to pay attention to our own selves. I guarantee you Daphne would a whole lot rather see this happen to her than one of our volunteers."

Good thing he hadn't said community service workers.

"Or community service workers," he added. "You got everything you need?"

I wiped my hands one last time on the clean corner of a rag and dug my car keys out of my paint-covered pocket. "Make sure all the paperwork gets back to the office, will you?"

Just in case the whole sideshow wasn't enough, I discovered I could only walk in baby steps because the cloth was wrapped all the way down past my knees. I felt like a geisha.

In a ridiculous coup de grace, Mari picked up my train and followed along like my freaking maid of honor.

"Daphne, if this was my fault, I'm really sorry."

"Your fault? Why would you think that?"

"I should have just come down when you told me to."

She had a point. If I hadn't been so distracted by thoughts of her dropping dead on the roof, I probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place. My conscientious concerns for her safety had caused this. I liked that.

But then it occurred to me that she might like it too. A little sweet revenge.

"It wasn't you at all. Got a little fleck of dust in my eye and I took my hand off the ladder at the wrong time. Just one of those things."

"Okay, well...I guess I'll see you next week."

I wasn't buying her phony concern. I knew she'd be laughing her b.u.t.t off the second I drove away, and so would everybody else.

I would have if this had happened to her.

Chapter Four.

Another Miami parking adventure, this one courtesy of the Four Seasons Hotel. There would have been plenty of room for everyone in the parking garage had the Jenko heads not taken up two s.p.a.ces each for their Mercedes S80s or their Cadillac SUVs. One of them left just enough s.p.a.ce for me to squeeze in and I made sure he'd have a h.e.l.l of a time getting back into his car on the driver's side. That's what living in Miami does to you.

Fancy c.o.c.ktail parties like this one were a rare treat. It was invitation only, a chance for us nonprofits to put our causes in front of the top bra.s.s from some of the biggest corporations in the county. Tonight's event, the Community-Business Partnership for a Better Miami, was sponsored by the Miami Dolphins, and Gisela scored our tickets through her husband, who happens to be their orthopedic consultant. Yes, I hate how things are done in this town, but I don't mind it so much when we're the ones taking advantage of the connections.

This is the best part of my job at the foundation, getting the chance to rub shoulders with other business professionals. It's a given I'm on the lookout for other job opportunities-even Gisela knows that and accepts it for what it is-but my first priority is always to win support for our foundation. All the companies represented tonight want the image of being good corporate citizens, so they're ripe for our pleas. Gisela and I had put together a double-barreled pitch, where I gauge their interest in volunteering and she hits them up for money. More times than not this approach helps us come away with something beneficial for the foundation.

I slithered out between my car and the next, careful not to wipe either of the fenders with my slacks. I'd worn a dark green silk pantsuit, dressing it up with a scarf in hopes of appealing to the conservative values we found in most of our corporate sponsors. I'm not exactly a fashion plate. My goal is to look nice enough so they don't talk about me after I leave the room.

I got into the elevator with an older couple who were speaking Spanish, or maybe Italian or Portuguese. They reminded me of Ronaldo and Tandra, the couple whose condo was below mine, or rather what I thought they would look like in about twenty-five years. He was dapper with his silver hair and perfectly tailored pinstripe suit, and she, though easily in her fifties, had the lithe body and style of a teenager. Unlike my Latin neighbors, who always seem to be simmering with pa.s.sion for one another, these two were clearly in the midst of an argument, and I held my breath waiting for the door to open so I could get the h.e.l.l out of there before one of them hit the other.

Why are so many Hispanics such hotheads? And worse, why is it a license to act like a jacka.s.s?

"Oh, he's Venezuelan. That's just how they are." Or Argentinean, or Cuban. Fill in the blank with whatever. It all works.

I'd been to events at this hotel before so I knew my way to the seventh-floor lobby. Tonight's c.o.c.ktail party was poolside, and I have to admit a rooftop pool on a balmy night in May does not suck. Too bad I don't get to see this side of Miami very often. But then I don't have five hundred dollars a night to stay in a place like this.

Gisela emerged from the crowd gathered around the open bar and took my hand. "There you are, Daphne. I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen into another paint bucket."

"You guys are all so funny," I answered drolly. They'd gotten a lot of mileage out of my weekend debacle. "The Brickell Bridge was stuck in the up position. Traffic was backed up all the way to Bayside."

"Did you bring the brochures?"

I had everything-brochures, business cards and nametags. "How do you want to do this?"

"You're not going to like it," she said, leaning back and wincing like she was afraid I'd hit her.

I hate it when she says that because she's always right. "I hate it when you say that because you're always right."

"The HR director from Mariner Cruise Lines is here. I was hoping you'd go make nice with her."

Just fabulous...the woman who'd pa.s.sed me over for the international studies kid.

"We could really use their support, Daphne. And they're probably looking for a PR boost right now."

"Yeah, nothing spoils your corporate image like running aground on one of the world's most beautiful and endangered reefs." Especially on the heels of a fire that had forced two thousand pa.s.sengers into lifeboats off Cozumel. I had a feeling they'd be making pledges all over the room tonight. "What about you?"

"Marco Padilla is here, and I happen to know he's a football fan. I plan to pull all the strings I can to land him on our Board of Directors."

One of the first exiles to leave Cuba, he was the head of a financial investment firm, and among the most powerful men in Miami. Getting his support could keep us solvent for years to come.

"Okay, I'll work my way over to Mariner Cruises, but first I see someone I need to talk to from American Airlines. We've been playing phone tag all week."