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Attention snagging on Natalia’s full lips, painted fashionably black as if to show off the steadiness of her hand, Sam chuckled before forcing her gaze back to her eyes — rich brown and enchanting.
“The university professor’s life is one fraught with ideas. Intellectual and esoteric musings and more questions than could be answered in the blink we get for mortal lives. I dare say I think quite a bit.”
“And here I thought you valued… linguistic economy,” she shot back with a daring flick of her brow.
Sam’s skin tingled, her chest lightened. The sensation spread until she was so weightless, she nearly floated when she laughed. “It appears that both of us have made assumptions in need of correcting.” They advanced toward the table set up with refreshments. “Maybe it would have been better to start with a question. What brings you here on a crisp January evening?”
Natalia didn’t drop her door-slamming-shut vibe, but Sam couldn’t miss the flicker behind it. Her late-night Google search told her that Natalia Flores was a force of nature. A Nile crocodile in Italian stilettos. Sam might have been wary of her, but she was too good at reading coded misogyny. The way she’d been described as ruthless and cunning had more to do with the fact that she didn’t smile than her business practices.
They reached the makeshift bar before Natalia answered the question. Making Sam wait. Drawing out her curiosity. Gaining the upper-hand. Sam let her have it because playing conversational chess with Natalia was her new favorite thing in the world.
Taking a bottle of water, Sam moved off to the side and waited for Natalia to meet her with a glass of wine in hand.
“I would have expected that Costco Chardonnay would taste like battery acid to a refined palate,” Sam said when Natalia sauntered toward her, shapely hips signaling illicit promises.
Natalia took a sip from the plastic cup without leaving her lipstick on the rim. “I thought we were going to stop making assumptions, Professor.”
Sam laughed. Natalia’s change in tactic was obvious, but Sam was interested to see what Flirty Natalia had over Demanding Natalia. Even though no version of her was getting the book.
“You never answered my question,” Sam reminded, exactly like Natalia probably intended. “Are you a friend of the museum? I’m certain I would have noticed you at last month’s barbecue.”
Natalia moistened her lips in a way that made Sam envious of her tongue. “I am a member of the Cuban-American community, Professor. Even those of us who were born here are interested in remaining connected to our culture.”
Judging by Natalia’s timeline of accomplishments, Sam guessed she couldn’t be too far off from Sam’s fifty years of age, even though she looked closer to thirty than fifty.
“When did your family emigrate?”
“Immediately,” Natalia replied. “They were on a plane to the Dominican Republic on New Year’s Day 1959.”
Sam leaned back, making an impossible connection to the date and location. “Same day as Batista?” she asked, referencing the overthrown Cuban president.
Natalia tipped her head to the side. “Same plane.”
“Your family was part of his regime?” Sam ignored the man trying to get her attention.
“My grandfather was,” she replied, shifting her weight and giving away some discomfort at the topic.
“When did they come to Miami? Have you ever been to Cuba?” Sam had more questions than time.
“They were only in the DR long enough to develop an obsession with yaniqueque.” She took another sip of wine, eyes locked on Sam. “And I’ve never been back.” She hesitated. “Strange to say back when I’ve never been at all.”
Sam nodded. “We live in the impossible in-between. We live in the Cuba of our family’s memories. A place that doesn’t exist.”
Natalia’s expression registered that she related to the quandary but wanted to change the topic. “Just as well, since I’ll never go. Apparently, we’re on a list,” she said with a sprinkling of uncertainty.
“That’s probably true,” Sam replied, stepping closer when the surrounding crowd thickened. “As far removed as you are, they’d probably still flag you at the airport. Are your parents?—“
“Have you returned?” Natalia stepped in closer, the noise from the conversation next to them making her raise her voice.
“Once,” she said, despite the intrusive memories. “When the government was allowing educational excursions. It was traumatic if I’m blunt?—”
“I like blunt,” Natalia decided, attention focused like she’d been expecting some flowery response and was pleased to have gotten the truth.
“Nothing looked right,” Sam continued. “Strangers were in the house I’d grown up in. Where we’d left all of our belongings. Where I’d last seen my grandmother sitting on our front porch sewing something by hand and never saw her again.” An old pain that hadn’t lessened in decades wrapped around her chest and clutched her windpipe.
“I’m sorry,” Natalia said so softly Sam almost believed her.
“Dr. Reyes,” Scowling Clipboard said when she reached her, obviously annoyed that Sam had broken protocol by not reporting to her when she arrived. “We’re ready to begin.”
