From the sun deck she could see the park and tropical gardens, a peninsula of jungle extending out of the coral shoreline a half mile to the south, where she would meet him tomorrow. The sky, streaked red above the jungle and fading, darkened as her gaze moved east into the ocean, to the faraway Cape Florida light at the tip of Key Biscayne. Looking at the ocean made her feel safer, above suspicion to anyone in the house watching her. Resting after a two-hour flight and the usual airport hassle. Innocent. Though not eager to talk to a husband she hadn’t seen in five days. If not innocent at least honest. What was there to talk about? Andres made statements, issued commands, grunted… breathed through his nose when he made love, finished and left her bedroom. He might come to her tonight.

On the lawn that extended to the seawall a figure moved out of shadows, a stand of young acacia, crossed open ground to the dock where the de Boya cruiser was moored, then continued on in the direction of the swimming pool, secluded among tropical palms. Day and night armed guards moved about the property: either Corky or one of several serious young Dominicans Andres employed. More security guards than household help: millionaire self-sufficiency and thoroughly modern, from the weapons the Dominicans carried to the video scanner mounted above the front door.

Altagracia, their maid, served dinner: chicken breasts glazed with fruit flamed in brandy by candlelight, the shadow of Altagracia moving across polished wood, soundless. Mary said to her, “The next time I go down give me your mother’s number and I’ll call her. If you’d like me to.”

Altagracia said, “Yes, señora. But she don’t have a phone.”

Mary said, “Oh.” Altagracia finished serving them and left. “We haven’t made plans to go back, but I thought if we ever did…” Mary let her voice trail. She raised her eyes to the candlelight, watched for a moment as Andres ate with his shoulders hunched over the table, lowering his head to the fork barely lifted from the plate-the can cutter who had become a general. “We had a wonderful time.”

She could hear his lips smack. When they were first married she had enjoyed watching him eat, even to the way he sipped his wine with a mouthful of food, sipped and chewed; there was something romantically hardy and robust about it, for a time.

“The weather was perfect. A few afternoon showers, but they didn’t last.” Mary tried hard to remember more about the Dominican weather.

Andres said, “That friend of yours, the fat one with hair like a man. I saw her.”

It was coming now. Mary sat very still, then made herself reach for the salt. He was watching her now.

“You mean Marilyn? She was with us.” Bold now, getting it out in the open. “When did you see her?”

“Yesterday. I was going in the club.”

“Then she told you I was staying an extra day.”

“She told me nothing about that.”

Mary could see his eyes in the candle-glow, age lines making him appear tired, less rigid, the look of vulnerability she had mentioned to Moran. But it was the lighting, she realized now, that softened him, not something from within.

“She told me about polo. But she doesn’t sound like she ever saw it. She doesn’t know who was in the tournament.”

“Well, I guess what we like,” Mary said, “is the atmosphere more than anything else. Watching the people. Everybody all slicked up in their polo outfits.”

“You see anybody you know?”

It startled her. He had never asked a question like that before; he had never seemed interested enough.

“Philly got us invited to a party at the Santo Domingo Country Club. Mostly embassy people. A few I’d met before.”

“Did you see anybody from here?”

“Outside of our group? No. I told you, didn’t I, I was going with Marilyn, Philly, Liz?…”

“You didn’t see-what is his name, he used to belong to the club. The one from your city.” He seemed to stare now, as though daring her to say the name.

“Who, George Moran?” Once she said it she had to keep going. “What would he be doing in Santo Domingo?”

“You said you were at Casa de Campo.”

“I thought you meant at the embassy party.” Then, trying to sound only mildly interested: “How do you know he was there?”

Andres said, “How do I know things. People tell me. Or I want to know something I find it out. He was there the same time you were, but you say you didn’t see him.”

Mary took a breath, let it out slowly as she picked up her wine. She wanted to begin now, say something that would lead to a confrontation, without involving Moran. She said, “Andres…” but felt Moran’s presence already here and lost her nerve.

He said, “Yes?”

She hesitated. “Do you know why I stayed an extra day?”

“Tell me.”

“I toured Santo Domingo. Saw all the old places.”

“Yes, did you like it?”

“My driver told me about the war…”

“Oh? What war is that?”

“A few years after you left, the revolution.”

He seemed in no hurry now as he ate, his eyes heavy lidded in the candle-glow, watching her.

She said, “I remember vaguely reading about it, seeing pictures in Life magazine. You were here then, but you must have followed it closely.”

“I know all those people.”

“So you must’ve leaned toward one side or the other.”

“Did I lean?” Andres said. He held his fork upright, his arms on the table. “Do you know the difference between a loyalist and a radical insurrectionist?”

“Well, the driver explained some of that, but his English wasn’t too good.”

“Or your Spanish wasn’t good enough.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t blame the driver.”

“You want to know about it, ask your friend George Moran,” Andres said, watching her in the candle-glow. “He was there with the United States Marines. Didn’t he tell you that?”

She managed to say, “I can’t recall he ever mentioned it. Are you sure?”

Andres seemed to smile. “Why would I say it if I’m not sure? The first time I met him, we were playing golf, he told me that. Very proud of himself. I bought a drink for him, because at that time he was on the side of the loyalists. Maybe he didn’t know it, but he was. Now I think loyalty doesn’t suit him. He believes only in himself.”

Mary waited, not moving. She watched Andres raise his glass, a gesture, a mock salute.

“Good luck to him. May he become loyal again.”

In darkness she pictured the drive from Cutler Road into Matheson Hammock Park, through the dim tunnel of mangrove to the booth where you paid the attendant a dollar and went on, suddenly entering the cleared expanse of crushed coral that reached to the ocean. She saw their cars standing alone at the edge of that open space, as far as they could go, cut off; one way in, one way out.

It was close to two in the morning when she called Moran, heard him answer sleepily and said to him, “He knows.”

There was a silence and when he spoke again he was fully awake though his tone was subdued. “What did he say?”

“He knows you were down there.”

There was another silence before he said, “The day Andres was here, I was packing to leave.”

She said, “We can’t meet at the park. It’s too out in the open.”

He said, “But I can’t wait to see you. I can’t sleep.”

She smiled at that. “Yeah, I could tell.” She was within the sound of his voice and for the moment felt secure, as though they could go on talking and say whatever came to mind. “I’ll think of a good place and call you tomorrow, before noon.”

“Why don’t you come here?”

“I’m afraid to. Not yet.” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I’ve never done this before, George. I don’t know the ropes.”

“How’s it going otherwise?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”