Free Suspicion of Rage by Barbara Parker

maybe he had shown some irritation, but what had she expected him to say—that he liked having his family's shortcomings pointed out to him?
    Anthony sat on a long teak bench by the front windows, the only piece of furniture remaining in this half of the room. He had wanted her to accept Havana on its own terms, the beauty and the misery, without judgment. But Gail Connor was the kind of woman who noticed things.
    Gradually he recognized the noise that had worked itself into his mind over the past minute or so. An angry voice—his sister yelling at someone. Anthony had an idea who. He walked to the open archway in the long stone wall behind the stairs. Ramiro kept an office at home. Anthony stopped a few paces from the open door.
    Marta was outraged. The food would be an embarrassment; the musicians were second-rate. This was not just any birthday party. Many important people had been invited. "I asked you for the best. Why are you giving me this shit? Is this what you think a man of my husband's rank deserves?"
    Another voice said, "Maybe we should talk to Ramiro. He hired me, you know."
    Olga Saavedra.
    Marta retorted, "I don't care, you deal with me. And don't call him Ramiro. You will refer to him as General Vega. Such disrespect! Let me see that menu again."
    With a sigh Anthony retraced his steps and headed for the kitchen. He opened a bottle of Cristal beer and carried it back to the living room. The voices were quieter. He was about to go back upstairs to see if he could coax Gail out of her mood when he noticed his mother-in-law in the front yard with her camera. Her red hair curled from under her wide straw hat. She flitted from plant to plant, zooming in on a flower, pulling back to capture a tree. She couldn't be still for a minute. Something like her daughter.
    When he walked onto the terrace Irene saw him and waved. "Hi. I hope it's all right if I take some pictures of the house."
    "Yes, it's fine." He sat in one of the metal rockers. "What do you think of Havana?"
    "Well, I haven't really seen it yet, but you know, it's so much like Miami, the weather and the plants and all."
    "That's why we Cubans settled in Miami. It's not so different." He began slowly to rock. The motion soothed him. He drank his beer and felt the warm sun on his face.
    Irene came up the steps. "Tell me, do we dress for dinner tonight?"
    "We never dress for dinner," he said. "Wear what you have on, or shorts if you prefer. No, Cubans are very casual at home. If we go out to dinner, that's another matter."
    "I'll just freshen up, then." She thought of something else and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Anthony, you lovely man, I'm so very grateful that you invited me along."
    "My pleasure." He took her hand and kissed it.
    She laughed. "Well. Guess I'd better check in with the gang. See you later. Hasta luego." With a flutter of her yellow skirt, she vanished through the door.
    Anthony closed his eyes and rocked. He heard the voice of the old flower-seller, singing his refrain: "Flores, florero ... flores, florero." It was illegal, selling without a government license, but nobody cared. There were flowers on every table.
    He thought about Gail. It had been unfair of him to expect her to adjust to the rhythms of Havana so quickly. He gave the chair another push. The metal rockers clicked on the tile floor like the slow tick of a clock. At the condo in Coconut Grove there were no front porches with rocking chairs, nor at his previous house, nor at the house where Gail had lived with Karen's father. In suburban America one could drive down the street and see one closed garage door after another.
    The sound of an engine made him look toward the street. The kids had come home. Janelle got out and opened the gate so her brother could drive through. Angela waved from the backseat. Anthony lifted a hand. The car went under the portico at the side of the house. Nobody went back to close the gate. It didn't matter.
    He settled back in the