Part 7 (1/2)
”Oh, my G.o.d! That's one of the greatest symphonies ever. It sold out in like fifteen minutes.”
”Think you can make it by six forty-five?”
I was eight blocks from home, only three minutes if I cut over to a side street at the next light. If I had to, I'd park the car and run.
We set our meeting place and I turned left in front of an oncoming BMW with what prosecutors would have called ”callous disregard for human life.” I was already home when I remembered my dinner plans.
”Edith, you guys go ahead without me. I'm not going to be able to make it.”
I juggled the phone from one ear to the next, noting that getting undressed with one hand requires skills I haven't used in years. In my dream world, the practice I was getting right now would come in handy later tonight. But if I wasn't out the door in twelve minutes, nothing would ever happen at all.
There was a long silence before Edith answered. ”I came outside because it's so loud in the restaurant. Is everything all right?”
”It's fine. Everything's fine. Edith, I have a date.”
”With a woman?”
No, with a c.o.c.katoo. ”Yes, the woman I was talking to the other night at the Wallcast.” She and Mordy had urged me to ask her out, but I played it down, saying she was only someone I knew from work.
”I thought you said you weren't interested in her that way.”
”I lied. She's taking me to Mahler.”
”What should I tell Emily?”
I couldn't imagine sending a clearer message than the one she'd get from being stood up. ”Just...to have a safe trip back to Sarasota.”
A night out at the Arsht Center called for the most elegant thing in my closet. Now if only I knew what that was. Somewhere I had a pair of black silk pants that tapered at the ankle. They'd look nice with my highest heels, even if they were only an inch and a half tall. Now all I needed was something sparkly or fluffy or tiger-striped. Except I didn't own anything like that. The best I could do was a tight-fitting dark purple top, V-neck with three-quarter sleeves.
Wait! I had a sparkly belt somewhere, black with gaudy rhinestones. That left earrings. The dangly black ones...or the silver hoops...dangly black ones...silver hoops. I got it all put together with about three minutes to spare.
The concert hall sits only two blocks on the other side of the Omni so I spent that extra three minutes walking slower than usual. The last thing I wanted was to get there dripping sweat from racing through the sticky night.
I spotted Mari from behind as she stood talking on the phone just inside the door of the grand lobby. She wore another c.o.c.ktail dress, this one a wraparound teal green number that looked like it was made for her. I entertained myself for a few seconds with the idea that she was telling someone about the exciting date she'd lined up for tonight, but then she turned and I saw that same look she'd worn when describing the investment instrument to Carlos Moya.
She dropped her phone in her purse and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I nearly swooned. I'm many things, but hard to please isn't among them.
”I'm really sorry about the late notice. I had to go all the way to the Gables to pick up the tickets and I didn't want to call until I had them in my hand. Then I started freaking out because US 1 was backed up to the Grove and I remembered how you hated it when people were late.”
It was almost unfair that someone so hot had a voice that s.e.xy too.
”I would have forgiven you for something this great.”
She held out both hands to my ears and smiled. ”This is an interesting look.”
Son of a St. Bernard. Dangly black on one ear, silver hoop on the other. ”Couldn't decide, but I drew the line at carrying two purses.”
”I think it works.” She presented the tickets. ”Pepe did us right. You're not going to believe where these seats are.”
Front row, box seats on the second mezzanine, stage left. Deep Joyful Sigh. According to the program, Mahler would come after the intermission. The prelude was described as a medley of Hungarian composers I'd never heard of, but it could have been salsa music for all I cared. Front row, box seats with Mari Tirado in a teal dress.
I was in such a state of bliss that I didn't even go berserk when dozens of people, including four others in our box, were seated by the ushers well into the first piece. Only in Miami did performance venues actually cater to the late-arriving crowd. Anywhere else they barred the door when the curtain went up.
Mari's low voice rumbled in my ear, sending s.h.i.+vers up my back. ”Are you comfortable? Can you see everything?”
”I'm perfect. Everything is perfect.” The music, the setting and especially the company.
As the violins softly swept into the second selection, my stomach loudly announced it was empty. The subject of eating had never even crossed my mind.
”Sounds like someone else skipped dinner to get here,” Mari whispered.
”It was food or Mahler. Not even a contest.” Anything that brought her lips that close to my ear was bearable. Except the gurgling continued, and as my luck would have it, seemed to be worse during the quieter pa.s.sages.
When the lights went up for intermission, the man behind me tapped Mari on the shoulder and immediately launched into a conversation in Spanish, the only word of which I caught was Pepe. Apparently these seats were Pepe's season tickets, which meant most of the people sitting in the box were regular patrons, perhaps even friends of his. I tried to catch a word of the conversation, if only to rea.s.sure myself he wasn't complaining about my noisy stomach.
I was still in awe of the whole evening, so much that I didn't even bristle at hearing practically everyone around me speaking Spanish. Thanks to Mari, I have a newfound admiration for those who can transition between two languages so easily. She wasn't bilingual because she hadn't a.s.similated. She was born here, and as much a product of Miami culture as anyone could be. I'm the one who hasn't a.s.similated to Miami.
She wrapped up her conversation by kissing both the man and his wife on the cheek, another Cuban habit I was coming to appreciate. She then took my elbow and guided me to the exit. ”Just making sure you don't fall out of the box. That would be hard to explain.”
”Not really. If you ever have the urge to kill me, you can just push me over the railing. With my history, a jury would never convict.”
”I'm taking a break from felonious behavior just now.” There went that dimple again.
I couldn't believe this was the same woman who had once irritated me so much I had sentenced her to hard labor. Everything about her was fascinating, and I was rapidly rethinking every disparaging opinion I've ever had of Cubans in general, and her in particular.
”Let's find something to eat so we don't get thrown out by the usher.”
Quite frankly, I didn't care about food at all, but the rumbling had to stop before Mahler. The best we could do was a small bag of something ironically labeled ”gourmet” chips, and a couple of gla.s.ses of white wine.
”Mari, this is by far the most exciting event I've been to in years. I'm so glad you invited me.”
”It's great you were able to make it at the last minute. When Pepe first called me, I turned him down because I didn't have any friends who were into this kind of thing. Then I remembered you liked it. A cla.s.sical music geek, if I recall.”
I was ridiculously pleased she had stored that detail about me, enough that I parked her use of the word friend on the back burner of my brain. ”And you said this type of music really wasn't your thing, so I appreciate even more knowing you're suffering through this just for me.”
”Now, now. I never said I was suffering. I'm not saying I'd want to sit through a concert like this every night, but it's good to do something civilized every now and then.”
”A little cultcha never hurt anybody.”
”I suppose not,” she said with a chuckle. ”I've always tried to cultivate a variety of friends so I won't get stuck doing the same things over and over.”
Okay, that was the second time in the last thirty seconds she had used the F-word. Was she saying this wasn't a date?
”I get so tired of the club scene,” she went on, oblivious to the spear she'd just thrown through my heart. ”It's loud and pretentious, and you spend half the night fighting off guys whose greatest goal in life is to make it with a couple of lesbians. You know the kind I'm talking about.”
”Oh, yeah.” No, actually.