Beyond Suspicion

29

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Her work didn’t require a visit to the studio that morning, but Cindy went anyway. Jessie’s death had rendered her own house unlivable, and her mother’s house was feeling none-too-cozy after the raid at sunrise by federal marshals. She was running out of places to hide from the rest of the world. Not even her dreams offered any solace. The studio seemed like her only sanctuary.

Her portrait work was strictly by appointment, but she had nothing scheduled today. She’d driven into the South Miami looking forward to a solid eight hours alone, a day to herself. There was always work to do, but she wasn’t in the mood for anything challenging. She opted for organizing her office, the perfect mindless task for a woman who wasn’t sure if she was married to a cheater.

She started with the mound of mail in her in-box, which was no small assignment. She actually had four in-boxes, each created at a different stage of procrastination. There was “Current,” then “Aging,” followed by “I’ll Get to It on a Rainy Day,” and finally, “I’ll Build the Ark Before I Sort Through This Crap.” She was only a third of way through the “Aging” stack when a knock at the door interrupted her.

She double-checked, and sure enough, the sign in the window said closed. She stayed put, hoping that whoever it was would just go away. But the first knock was followed by a second, then another. She finally got up and was about to say There’s no one here, but then she recognized the face on the other side of the glass. It was Jack’s abuela. She unlocked the door and let her inside. The little bell on the door startled the old woman as she entered.

“Ooh. Angel got his wings.”

Cindy smiled as she recalled that it was two years ago, Christmas, when Abuela had come over from Cuba, and her first lesson in English was the movie It’s a Wonderful Life-over and over again.

“How are you?” said Cindy as they embraced warmly.

“Bueno. Y tú?” she answered in Spanish, though Cindy’s ear for the language was even worse than Jack’s.

“Fine. Come in, please.”

Abuela followed her zigzag path through canvas backdrops and lighting equipment, stopping at a small and cramped office area. Cindy cleared the stacks of old photo-proofs from a chair and offered her a seat. She would have offered coffee, but Abuela had tasted hers before, and it had just about sent her back to Havana.

“I hope you not too busy,” said Abuela.

“No, not at all. What brings you here?”

“Well, sorry, but I not here to get picture taken.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

She smiled, then turned serious. “You know why I here.”

Cindy lowered her eyes. “Abuela, I love you, but this is between your grandson and me.”

“Claro. But this just take a minute.” She opened her purse and removed a stack of opened envelopes.

“What are those?” asked Cindy.

“Letters. From Jack. He wrote these when I live in Cuba.”

“To you?”

“Sí. This is before I come to Miami.”

“Jack wrote all those?”

“Sí, sí. Is how Jack and I got to know each other. Is also how I got to know you.”

“Me?”

Abuela paused as if to catch her breath, then continued in a voice that quaked. “These letters. They are all about you.”

Cindy again checked the size of the stack. Her heart swelled, then ached. “Abuela, I can’t-”

“Por favor. I want you to see. My Jack-our Jack-maybe is no so good at saying things in words. If his mother lived, things would be different. She was loving person. Give love, receive love. But Jack, as un niño, no have her love. In his home, love was inside. Comprendes?”

“Yes. I think I understand.”

“If you are Swyteck, sometimes only when heart is broken can love get out.”

“That I do understand.”

Abuela sifted through the stack of letters in her lap, her hands shaking with emotion. “This is mi favorito. Is when he asked you to marry. And this one, too, is very good. About your wedding, with pictures.”

“Abuela, please. These letters were written for you, not me.”

She laid the stack aside, clutching one to her bosom. “I wouldn’t ask you to read them. I just want you to know they exist.”

“Thank you.”

“But there is one you must see. Es especial.” She fumbled for her reading glasses and dug the letter from the last envelope. “Is the oldest. Very different from others. See the top? Jack wrote the time. Two-thirty A.M. What make a man write a letter at this crazy hour?”

Cindy felt that this should stop, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She just listened.

Abuela read slowly, trying hard to make her English perfect, though her accent was still thick. “’Dear Abuela. It’s late, and I’m tired, so I will keep this short and sweet. Do you remember the letter you wrote me last June? It would have been your fiftieth wedding anniversary, and you told me the story of how you and Abuelo met. It was a picnic, and a friend introduced you to her older brother. He ended up walking you home. You said you didn’t know how you knew it, but by the time you got home you knew he was the one.

“’I went back and re-read that letter tonight. I don’t know why. I just did. That’s not true. I do know why. I had a date tonight. Cindy is her name. Cindy Paige. I don’t really know her that well, but I have that same feeling you described in your letter. It’s weird, Abuela. But I think she’s the one.’”

Abuela looked up, and their eyes met.

Cindy blinked back a tear. “He never told me that story.”

“I no can explain that. But I know my grandson pretty good. The young man who sit at his kitchen table and write this letter at two o’clock in the morning… he not really writing to his grandmother. He just being honest with his feelings. This letter is like talking to himself. Or to God.”

“Or to his mother,” said Cindy, her voice fading.

Abuela reached forward and took her hand. “I don’t know what he did this time. I don’t know if your heart can forgive him. But I do know this. He loves you.”

“I know,” Cindy whispered.

She handed Cindy a tissue. “Sorry I do this to you.”

“It’s okay. Maybe it’s what I needed.”

“Smart girl,” she said with a little smile, then rose. “You excuse me now, please. I go home, put on my kicking boots, and give my grandson what he needs.”

“I might actually pay money to see that.”

“Ah, but we both love him, no?”

“Yes,” she said, squeezing Abuela’s hand. “We do.”

Cindy watched as Abuela gathered up her letters and put them back in her purse. Then she put her arm around the old woman, thanked her, and walked her to the door.