Two days later, Frankie took Nick to the airport; or rather, accompanied Enrico as he drove Nick in the Cadillac. Havana was home to thousands of Buicks, De Sotos, Oldsmobiles, and Packards with huge fins and lots of chrome. Their sheer size made traffic sluggish, although it wasn’t as bad as rush hour in Chicago, Nick said. Still, the preponderance of American cars, casinos, entertainers, and businesses that migrated from the mainland helped fuel the notion that Havana was simply another American outpost.
Back at La Perla, Frankie went down to the storage area in the hotel’s basement to get her suitcases. Her mother, a notorious pack rat, had kept all her childhood possessions: her roller skates, the hula hoop that she had to have after seeing it on Candid Camera, her books, her records. The furniture from the house in Miramar was here, too: a large floral couch and matching chair, not as elegant as the furnishings in the penthouse, and her old four-poster bed, the one with a pink and orange canopy that made her feel like a princess.
And there was the cabinet that held her collection of painted snails. Unique to Cuba, the snails weren’t really painted, but their shells were so colorful and intricately designed that legend said they’d been painted by the sun. Over the years, they’d become highly sought after and quite valuable, so her parents, and then Frankie herself, made it a point to buy every snail they found. Her father had paid to have a glass-fronted display case made. It had hung on her bedroom wall.
She knelt beside a box packed with the snails and unwrapped one. It was bright yellow with a perfect white swirl around its middle, and another deep blue swirl near the top. She clasped it to her chest, unprepared for the wave of sadness that swept over her. Her entire life in Cuba was spread out on this floor. And she was going to leave it, probably forever. She lightly caressed everything in reach. Mama had to ship everything back to the States. Otherwise, what record would there be of her existence?
After a moment, she reluctantly rewrapped the snails and returned them to the box. She stood and pulled out two big suitcases. She was looking forward to going back. Rock and roll had become a huge phenomenon in the States. Nick kept telling her about Elvis Presley, who’d been inducted into the army a few months earlier, and there was Buddy Holly, Ricky Nelson, and Johnny Mathis. She couldn’t wait to see them. Of course, they’d get front row tickets for any show or sporting event they wanted. It wouldn’t be all bad.
She started to drag the suitcases out, but they were heavier than she expected so she decided to ask one of the hotel workers to bring them up to the penthouse. She took the stairs back up to the lobby and cut across to the pool, hoping to run into Ramon, Enrico, or one of the other men who worked at La Perla.
She blinked as she went outside. There was no breeze, and the heat was so ruthless that waves of hot air rose from the concrete. The kidney-shaped pool was enormous. A bar was built in at one end so that guests could sip a daiquiri or mojito while in the water. A kiddie pool was beside the big one, and dozens of lounge chairs sprawled on the patio. Everything—tiles, umbrellas, and chairs—was an artificial blue or yellow or white. The pool was filled mostly with women, and the hum of conversation was punctuated by children’s laughs. Husbands and fathers were undoubtedly at the tables.
The waiters serving drinks and sandwiches poolside wore white jackets with long sleeves, bow ties, and pants. They had to be sweltering, Frankie thought as she scanned the scene. She didn’t see any familiar faces, so she went back inside. When she pushed through the door, the contrast between the outside glare and the dim interior temporarily blinded her, but she could hear a conversation a few feet away. Men. Talking in Spanish. Almost whispering. As her eyes adjusted, she saw two men in a corner on chairs they’d pushed so close together their knees touched. Although Frankie had attended the American school, she was fluent in Spanish, and she picked up that one of the men needed something the other could supply. She looked over.
One of the men was Ramon, the waiter at the nightclub whose mother needed medicine. He must be working the day shift. Frankie had never seen the other man. She slowed to take a closer look, but as she did, he turned toward her, and their eyes met.
He wasn’t that handsome. He had thick, dark, unruly hair that refused to lie straight and stuck out at all angles, and his Roman nose was too big for his face. His lips were full, his chin unimpressive. His skin was olive, and in the dim light, appeared sallow. But it was his eyes—dark and smoky—and the expression in them that made it impossible for her to look away. Insolent. Challenging. As if she had crossed a line by staring at him, and he would show her. She couldn’t remember anyone looking at her that way. Then his expression softened. It was subtle, but she could tell he liked what he saw. Her pulse sped up.
A glint of amusement seemed to fly out from him and connected with her. She found herself firing it back. Communication received and returned. It couldn’t have lasted longer than a second, but Frankie felt as if they’d shared an intense conversation. Then she had been released. But from what? Who was this man?
She turned toward Ramon, who had been watching their exchange. His tone changed, and he lowered his voice. He was telling his friend that she was the boss’s daughter and not to mess with her. She expected the friend to show surprise, perhaps embarrassment, but he did something that flustered her. Instead of looking away or down at the floor, his amusement deepened. As if he’d seen straight into her soul.
Finally he broke eye contact and whispered to Ramon. Frankie couldn’t hear what, but Ramon’s reaction was to violently shake his head. His friend repeated whatever he’d said. Again Ramon shook his head, this time lifting his palms as if to ward off danger. Frankie knew she should leave. She stayed.
The man rose from his chair. He was about three inches taller than her, and his body didn’t carry an ounce of fat. He walked—no—sauntered over.
“Señorita Pacelli,” he said. His voice was deep but melodious.
Frankie cocked her head. “Si?”
He took her hand, making sure he kept his eyes on her.
“I am Luis,” he said in Spanish. “Luis Perez.”
She replied in Spanish. “And what brings you to La Perla, Señor Perez?”
“I am visiting my friend, Ramon.”
“I see.” The words seemed inadequate. Insubstantial. She turned to Ramon. “How is your mother?”
“Better, Señorita. Gracias.” Was there a touch of disdain in his voice?
“Bueno.” She realized Luis was still holding her hand. She eyed it.
He let it go. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
She raised her hand to her cheek. “I must go.” She turned away, wondering why she’d come downstairs, and started toward the elevator. She remembered at the last minute and spun around. “Ramon, there are two suitcases in the storage area. They’re too heavy for me. Could you please bring them upstairs?”
“Of course, Señorita.”
“You are going on a trip?” Luis asked.
Flummoxed, Frankie ran a hand through her hair. She didn’t know this man. It was none of his business. “I’m moving back to the States.”
“Ahh…” Luis fell silent.
For some reason she felt compelled to explain. “It’s my father. He insists.” Now, why had she said that?
“I see.” Another pause.
Frankie’s stomach churned. She wanted to tell him more. But more of what? She stole another look at him. He was still watching her.
He took her cue. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said and stepped back to let her pass. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
Frankie wasn’t hungry that night. Restless, she paced from the patio door to the other end of the apartment. Her father was at the casino, her mother visiting a friend. She turned on the television but snapped it off after a minute. She wasn’t in the mood for “I Love Lucy” tonight. Ricky Ricardo wasn’t your average Cuban. Hollywood had stripped away his Cuban pasión, except for the silly accent.
She took the phone into her room and closed the door. Nick was back in Chicago; he wouldn’t be going back to Penn for a few more weeks. She dialed his number, made pleasantries with his mother, waited anxiously until he came on the line.
“Frankie? Is everything okay?” He sounded breathless, like she might have interrupted a game of basketball.
“Do you remember what we did the other night?” she said by way of introduction.
Nick’s voice grew husky. “Oh yes.”
“Can we do that again?”
“Oh yes.”
“I want you to imagine we’re together. Right now.”
“Frankie…” His voice rose. “Our parents.”
“Mine aren’t here.”
“Mine are.”
“Then get on the upstairs extension and take the phone into your room. I want you, Nicky.”
“Oh, Francesca. If only I could. Darling.” His breathing grew heavy.
She smiled when she heard that and imagined what she would do to him if they were together. Then, suddenly, she caught herself. What kind of wanton creature was she becoming? “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Are you kidding? I love this.” Nick replied. “By the way, I left the pin in an envelope by your bed. Did you find it?”
She hadn’t, but now she scrounged around the bedside table. There, in a corner held down by the lamp. “Yes. I found it.” She reached for it and tore open the envelope.
“Put it on. And then tell your parents what it means.”
“Oh Nicky, I miss you so much.”
“I love you, Frankie.”
“Me too, you.”
She hung up and felt inside the envelope, withdrew a small lapel pin. Diamond-shaped, with three Greek letters embossed in gold on a black background. She turned it over. A tiny clasp on the back could be attached to the collar of her blouse. In addition, a delicate chain extended about two inches to a second, smaller clasp. She turned it over again and gazed at it. This pin was her future. She would go back to America, and in time, Nick Antonetti, a kind, handsome, intelligent man who was crazy about her, would be her husband. They would make love every night and have lots of children. She couldn’t do better than that, could she?