Suspicion of Rage Read Free Page A

God's name do you want to go to Cuba?
    Because Anthony's sister invited us. Because it would be educational for Karen. Because I don't like the U.S. government telling me what I can and can't do.
    None of these was the real reason. Gail wanted to see Cuba through Anthony's eyes. She wanted to know what he did there. Would he be different somehow in the place of his birth? And who were the people he called los Quintana, his other family, those who had not gone into exile? In addition to Anthony's sister, there was his father, who lived in a home for disabled veterans. Luis Quintana had been awarded a medal for heroism by Fidel Castro himself. Marta spoke four languages. She had a job in protocol at the Ministry of the Exterior. But their names were never mentioned here in this house. To Ernesto Pedrosa, who thought Castro a step below Satan, los Quintana didn't exist.
    But they did exist, and they wanted to meet the new wife. At first, when Anthony had mentioned this to Gail, she couldn't imagine actually going there. Cuba wasn't a real place, it was myth; it was farther than China. Anthony would bring his two children. They were teenagers and had never met their Havana cousins. And of course Karen couldn't be left out. When Gail had told her mother, Irene had jumped up and down like a girl. Oh, how exciting for you! And then the long, guilt-inducing sigh. What was she going to do here in Miami all alone for New Year's? Couldn't she be of some help to Gail, keeping an eye on Karen?
    So there would be six of them breaking the law. Six on the flight from Miami to Cancún, then Cancún to Havana. No begging the State Department for permission to take one of those miserable charter flights. Anthony had bought their tickets online through a travel agent in Canada. Gail found the subterfuge thrilling. It was theoretically possible they could be prosecuted. Gail wasn't worried. Anthony knew how to get in and out. They weren't going to set off alarms by smuggling boxes of cigars and a few too many bottles of Havana Club. They would say, if questioned, that they'd been lying on a beach in Mexico for ten days.
    Gail turned to open the door just as a group of people came through it on a wave of bubbling conversation. A clerk from Anthony's law firm, a client, their wives. There were kisses on the cheek, more congratulations. Sorry we have to leave so soon, a great party, buenas noches.
    One of the men leaned closer and whispered, "When you get to Havana? Here's some advice. Watch out for those potholes in the sidewalks. And take along some toilet paper, you'll need it." He winked. "Tell Tony we want a postcard."
    She waved as they crossed the yard. "Thank you for coming."
    Inside, she closed the heavy wooden door and leaned against it. No one was supposed to know about this trip. Anthony had said not to tell anyone until they got back. U.S. travel restrictions didn't bother him, but his grandfather did. If Ernesto found out, he'd have a seizure. If sufficiently pissed off, he might phone one of his friends in Washington and demand to have them stopped at the airport.
    The foyer was softly illuminated by a chandelier. A young couple sat on the stairs embracing, oblivious to people walking through. Still no sight of Anthony. Gail could see into the formal dining room. The invitations had said no gifts, but the long mahogany table was stacked high with expensively wrapped boxes. She expected to take home a lot of crystal and porcelain, very upscale Cuban, not exactly her style.
    She spotted some curly auburn hair among the crowd in the living room and went closer to make sure it was her mother. "Mom! "
    Irene Connor detached herself from the man she'd been talking to. Her eyes were bright, and she held a mojito with mint leaves swirling among the ice cubes. "Well, there you are, darling." She was a petite woman, shorter by several inches than Gail, and sequins twinkled on her peacock-blue cocktail dress when she swung her hips. "Vamos a