(1998) Twenty years ago, Anthony went to Central America with three friends, and one of them didn’t make it back. Gail wonders why Anthony won’t tell her the truth about it.

        Seen from the Atlantic, the lights of Miami are a chain of jewels balanced on a narrow rim of land between swamp and sea. Overhead, on clear cool winter nights, the stars are brilliant, pulsing. Gail Connor waited until her fiancé's Cadillac bumped onto the Fisher Island ferry, then asked him to open the sun roof so they could see the sky. She took off her high heels and climbed onto the seat." And where are you going, bonboncita?"
         "It's beautiful out here!" A gust of wind ruffled her hair. She pulled her lacy cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders. The ferry turned in the ship channel and headed southeast past the Coast Guard station. Water splashed steadily on the hull. A few leftover Christmas trees blinked in windows of the condominiums on South Beach, and farther out the Atlantic vanished into darkness.
         Tonight the Miami Opera was holding a fundraising party on Fisher Island. Gail had recently been hired as general counsel. Her mother was a board member-that had helped-but Gail had the qualifications: eight years in a top law firm on Flagler Street before opening her own office. As a final inducement, she had offered to donate fifty hours of legal services

a year. The opera was loaded with potential contacts. She had been given two tickets for the event tonight-one for herself, one for a guest. The guest was, of course, Anthony Quintana, who had learned by now not to be surprised when the thirty-four-year-old woman he was engaged to kicked off her shoes and stood up to sightsee through his sun roof.
         The small terminal was located on the causeway that ran from the city to the southern tip of Miami Beach. Passengers were required to remain inside their vehicles, but there were so few on board-a dozen or so-that from her vantage point Gail could watch the approach to Fisher Island. She liked to see the familiar view from a different angle.
         A hand went around her knee. "Having a good time?" Anthony was leaning over to look through the opening in the roof. She could see the white vee of his shirt and his black silk bow tie.
         "The best. It's Friday. Karen won't be back till Sunday. I have no cases to spoil my weekend." She stroked his thigh with her toes. "Are you busy later?"
         He smiled wickedly. "Que chévere. People are staring at you."
        "Do you care?"
        "No. I think they're jealous."
        Maneuvering back inside, Gail lost her balance and fell halfway across his lap, tangled in her shawl, laughing, her dress riding up her legs. He held her where she was and turned her face toward his. The air outside had chilled her, and his mouth felt steamy. Finally he pulled back, giving her a little shake. "You're a crazy woman, you know that?"
       "You love it. Without me you'd sit alone in the dark and brood."
       "Oh, you think so? I'd be out having fun. Dancing, parties-"
       "Don't I take you to parties? Tonight you get to hear Thomas Nolan."
       "Who is he?"
       "Who? The singer. Tonight's entertainment?"
       "Ah. Yes, I remember."
       "Liar." Gail smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo. "Don't worry. We'll sneak in, mingle for a bit, then leave."
       "Why go at all?"
       "Because, sweetheart, how would it look if their new lawyer didn't show up? The president of the board called to make sure I was coming. Rebecca Dixon. You met her in the lobby before Hvorostovsky's recital, remember? The brunette with all the diamonds?"
       "Yes, I remember. What does she want?"
       "I don't know. We don't socialize, so it must be related to opera business." Gail slid over to the passenger seat and flipped down the visor mirror. Her dark blond hair fell around her face, a style that was easily repaired.
       "Rebecca Dixon." Anthony tapped a rhythm on the gearshift. "She used to be Rebecca Sanders. I met her when I was at the University of Miami. She was dating a friend of mine."
       Gail put on her lipstick. "You know Rebecca Dixon? Why didn't you say so when I introduced you?"
       "No, no. Sometimes people don't like to be reminded. Maybe she doesn't remember me."
       "I can't imagine." Gail snapped her purse shut. "Well, your former acquaintance and her husband have made a donation to the opera of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
       "¡Alaba'o! Who is he? Or is the money hers?"
       "No, it's his. Lloyd Dixon. He owns a cargo airline, I think. A quarter of a million. It certainly puts my paltry five hundred bucks into perspective." Raising herself off the seat, she pulled her narrow skirt farther down her thighs. "I promise we don't stay long, but I really need to be here tonight, maybe cultivate some paying clients. Lucky you, to be so well established."
       "Ah, but my clients-I usually find them at the jail, not at opera parties."
       When the ferry bumped against the dock, Anthony slid down his window and told the guard where they were going. On the south side of the island was a clubhouse that used to be a winter home for one of the Vanderbilts. Flowering vines and a marble fountain marked the entrance. Anthony gave the keys to the valet, and they went inside. From the paneled lobby they could hear a piano, a torrent of notes, and a deep voice singing in Italian. They followed the sound.
       At the door to the ballroom Gail whispered, "Let's wait till this one is over."
       Anthony discreetly squeezed her backside. "We're not staying late. I have plans for you."
       She smiled, told him to hush, then eased open the door when applause began. The attendees were mostly middle-aged and up, attired in tuxes, gowns, and fancy cocktail dresses. Most people sat a tables with drinks and small plates of hors d'oeuvres. The lights were low, except for those illuminating the singer and his accompanist.
       Gail and Anthony edged against the wall and found chairs in the back.
       There were some opening chords for the next aria, then Thomas Nolan's vibrant bass-baritone filled the room. Nolan was in his mid-thirties, dressed in a black silk jacket and white turtleneck. His thick blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making the angular structure of his face seem even more so. He had a tall, lean physique. Onstage, in makeup and costume, he would be gorgeous. Most of the women-and a few of the men-seemed on the point of swooning.
       "O mio sospir soave, per sempre io ti perdei!"

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