Playing for Keeps (5 page)

4

MUCH LATER, AFTER OUR MORNING OF SNORKELING, I climbed up the gangplank into the tour boat, turned in my snorkel gear, and accepted an oversized towel and a box lunch an attendant handed me. I spread my towel on a bench on the lower deck, which was open to the air but shaded by the deck above. The drops of water on my skin dried quickly, the salt drying and tickling, and an occasional rivulet from my wet hair felt good as it rolled down my back.

Neil suddenly stood in front of me. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

I looked up, shading my eyes with my hand. He’d put on a long-sleeved shirt and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Sure,” I said. “If you want to.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“No, but don’t think that you
have
to.”

Neil plopped down next to me on his towel and opened his lunch. “This conversation could go on forever, and I’m hungry.”

I tore open a small bag of potato chips as the boat’s engines started up. “Look, I know my grandmother pushed us together, and I’m embarrassed about it. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to come anywhere near me.”

Neil looked surprised. He chewed and gulped until he’d finished his mouthful of sandwich. “You’ve got the wrong idea. I was glad when we met on the plane and I knew you’d be on the tour. I’m just not very good at making small talk. I didn’t know what to say to you.”

“You talked to Julieta,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “Ohhh, forget I said that,” I mumbled.

Neil shrugged. “Julieta talked to me. And she talked and she talked.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. I tuned her out. You know, it’s like when a radio station is playing in the background and you hear the music but you don’t pay any attention to the words.”

I laughed. Maybe I’d been wrong about Neil. “I like your hat and the way the brim curls down to cover your face and neck,” I said. “I wish I had one like it.”

“It came from a Caribbean cruise Grandma and Grandpa took years ago,” Neil said. “There are probably some hats just like it for sale in the market at Bonita Beach.” He grinned as he added, “Each of my Hawaiian shirts is one of a kind, though. No matter how much you wish you had one, you won’t be able to get it. They probably haven’t been made since the fifties.”

Surprised, I said, “You don’t like them? Then why do you wear them?”

“It makes Grandma happy. I really don’t mind.”

“You don’t care what other people think?”

“No. Why should I?”

That’s courage,
I thought. I smiled at Neil and pointed toward the spit of land where the tender was docked. “Look. We’re almost at the beach, and the tender’s there. We can catch it without waiting half an hour.”

But as the boat docked and we walked onto the pier, I saw someone waving at us.

Julieta, in a white bikini that set off her perfect tan, ran to meet us. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said. “You didn’t tell me you’d signed up for the snorkel tour.”

“It was last-minute,” I said.

Julieta grabbed Neil’s right hand. “Well, come on, then. We’ll make up for lost time. The water’s perfect.”

“I’m sorry. No more swimming for me,” Neil said. He strode down the dock to where the tender was moored. “I’ve had enough sun for today. We’re going back to the ship.”

For an instant Julieta’s lower lip curled out in a pout. “The ship won’t sail for over three hours. Are you really going to let this beautiful beach go to waste?”

Neil shrugged and turned to look at me. “Rosie, do you want to stay and swim with Julieta?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Julieta,” I said. “We’ve been swimming all morning. I’m ready to go back too.”

Julieta didn’t let go of Neil’s hand. “Getting out of the sun is probably a good idea. Besides, there’s lots to do on the ship.”

As we boarded the tender with a few other passengers, Neil paused. “I’ll join you in a minute,” he said. “I want to ask the pilot something about water depth and pressure.”

Julieta waited with Neil, but I went ahead. I slid onto one of the long benches, resting my elbow on the rail, and gazed out over the water, now a deep blue glazed with gold.

Mom would have liked this trip,
I thought.
I
wish Glory had invited Mom, too
.

I sighed. No matter how angry I’d been at Mom, I couldn’t help missing her. Maybe if I hadn’t become so angry that I said what I shouldn’t have, I could have finally explained to Mom that—

Someone slid in next to me, sitting so close that the wide brim of his hat grazed my head and I could feel the trembling in his thighs. He rested his right arm along the back of the bench behind me, as if we were together.

Startled, I turned, saying, “Neil, I—”

It wasn’t Neil sitting beside me.

I looked into the face of a boy who seemed not much older than I. With his light golden skin, deep brown eyes, and dark hair, he was one of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen. Topping his swimming shorts was a navy blue T-shirt with the ship’s crest in gleaming white, and he wore a broad-brimmed straw hat exactly like Neil’s. He didn’t smile.

“We have not met,” he said, a Hispanic accent softening his words, “but please, may I sit with you?”

I nodded. He’d already made that decision.

“We have not been introduced. I do not know your name.”

As if I’d been hypnotized, I answered, “I’m Rose Ann Marstead.”

I expected him to tell me his name, but instead, he smiled and murmured, “Rose. A beautiful name.”

I wished he’d say my name again. It was like a soft sigh, like a breeze rustling leaves. But instead, his next words jolted me like an electric shock.

“Rose, my name is Ricky Diago,” he said.

I gave a start. This was definitely not the Ricky Diago I had met before the ship sailed. How likely would it be that there were
two
Ricky Diagos on the same ship? Cautiously, I said, “We met a Mr. José Diago on the ship. Is he your uncle?”

Ricky hesitated only a moment. “
Sí
. . . yes,” he answered.

Now I was really confused. Ricky’s gaze was steady, as if he were telling the truth, but I knew better. I’d had a close look at the Ricky Diago who had boarded with his uncle. He had grabbed me to keep me from falling when we’d collided on the gangway, and I had looked into his eyes. I had no trouble remembering him. This boy who called himself Ricky Diago was not the same person.

As Neil plopped down on the bench with Julieta behind him, Ricky twisted in his seat, and I felt something jostle my ankle. I looked down to see a green sports bag. It was the same color as the one Mr. Diago had been carrying. It even bore the same logo. Was it the same bag?

I wondered if Neil would remember the other Ricky. “Julieta . . . Neil,” I said, “this is Ricky Diago. We’ve met his uncle—José Diago.”

Julieta dimpled and said something to Ricky about hanging out together on the ship. Neil smiled and looked at Ricky with interest.

He doesn’t realize it’s not the same Ricky,
I thought. I glanced at Julieta, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Ricky. Now was not the time to try to tell Neil what I knew.

“Your uncle looks a lot like Martín Urbino, who used to play with the Cincinnati Reds,” Neil said.

“Martín Urbino? I never heard of him,” Ricky said quietly, but I could feel the muscles in his thigh jump, then tighten, and I saw that he was squeezing his fists so tightly that his knuckles were white.

The tender’s motors started up with a low roar, and the boat moved away from the pier. Under cover of the noise, I leaned close to Ricky. Using all the courage I had, I whispered, “I met Ricky Diago when we boarded. I remember his face. You are
not
Ricky Diago. Who are you
really
?”

Ricky didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead, as if he hadn’t heard, but a vein in his temple throbbed.

As the tender reached the ship, Ricky turned to me.
“Por favor,”
he whispered. Desperately he gripped my arm and began again. “Please give me a chance. It means my life. Accept me as Ricky Diago. When it is possible I will explain to you.”

The tender nudged the mooring station, and the few people who were aboard got to their feet, making their way to the stairway at the front of the boat.

I took a deep breath. The Ricky Diago I had first met had disappeared. I was sure now that he had never returned to the ship after giving the excuse of looking for his jacket. And here was a substitute, claiming both the name and the uncle. Maybe I was the only one who would recognize that this Ricky was not the one who had checked in. What should I do?

Ricky’s brown eyes pleaded with me as he whispered, “Please, Rose? Will you help me?”

“Rosie? Aren’t you coming?” Neil called.

I nodded to Ricky. “I won’t tell anyone . . . yet,” I said. “But you’re going to have to tell me the truth.” I pulled my I.D. card from my shirt pocket, ready to show it to the uniformed attendant at the entrance to deck one. Surprised, I saw that Ricky was holding an I.D. card too.

With so little time left to spend on the beach, not many people were waiting to take the tender to shore. Among those were a few who were not dressed for the beach and who seemed to be simply looking over the passengers as they returned to the ship.

At the back was Anthony Bailey, the casino owner I remembered meeting the day before. His dark glasses concealed his eyes, and he showed no recognition of me as I walked toward him. That didn’t surprise me. He’d been standing behind my chair as he talked to Mrs. Duncastle.

Beside him a ship’s officer stood close to a man dressed in a khaki military uniform, complete with thick brass buttons on the jacket and a squared-off cap with a bill—the same kind of uniform I’d seen on Fidel Castro in pictures. The man’s large gold ring, with a raised initial C, flashed in the bright light as he handed the officer a sheet of paper. The officer scanned it before studying the passengers.

Behind them stood Mr. Diago, almost hidden by the others. He seemed to be more intent on the conversation between the ship’s officer and the man in the uniform than on the arriving passengers.

I nudged Ricky and said, “There’s your uncle.”

But Ricky ducked his head, his wide hat brim covering his face. “Say nothing,” he whispered. He suddenly took my hand and stepped from the gangplank onto the deck of the ship.

As we held out our I.D. cards so the attendant could see them, Mr. Diago burst into a loud coughing fit. Off balance, he lurched against the man in the uniform, and for a few moments, as Ricky and I passed them, the man and the officer seemed concerned only with keeping Mr. Diago from falling.

As Ricky tugged me around a bend and onto an open elevator, I asked, “What’s the matter with you, Ricky? Your uncle needed help. Why didn’t you stop and help him?”

“He didn’t need help,” Ricky told her. “
I
did. I do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please keep your voice down,” Ricky begged. “I will tell you when I can. I promise to explain.”

“Hey! Hold the door open!” Julieta shouted. She and Neil squeezed through the closing doors and into the elevator.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. I caught Neil’s puzzled glance at my right hand, which Ricky was still gripping, and pulled it away. “We were talking and thought you were right behind us.”

Neil looked pointedly at Ricky. “We stopped to make sure your uncle was all right.”

“I knew he was,” Ricky said. “He—he often has coughing fits. That is, they look worse than they are.”

His excuse sounded lame to me, and probably to the others, because neither Neil nor Julieta answered. I was glad when we reached deck six and the doors opened. “My deck,” Julieta said. “Anybody else getting out?”

When no one answered, she looked hopeful and asked, “Let’s meet on eleven in an hour. Okay?”

“Okay,” Neil said, but he looked at me.

I shrugged. “Fine with me,” I answered.

As we reached deck seven, Ricky stepped out of the elevator. I said quietly to Neil, “I’ll see you in just a little while. I’ve got something weird to tell you.”

Neil gave a quick glance in Ricky’s direction. “Call me,” he said. “You know our suite number.”

The passageway was nearly empty as Ricky and I walked the short distance to our staterooms. I opened the door to 7278 and turned to Ricky. “Well?” I asked him. “Do you want to tell me the truth now?”

Down the passageway the elevator doors opened. I heard the sound but ignored it.

Ricky didn’t. His eyes widened, and for an instant he stiffened.

Then, to my amazement, instead of using his key to enter his uncle’s stateroom, he pushed me into my stateroom and quickly shut the door. Before I realized what was happening, he grabbed me from behind and clapped a hand over my mouth.

“I think I am being followed,” he whispered into my ear. “Do not call for help. Do not make a sound, I beg of you.”

Held tightly against Ricky, I could feel the rapid pounding of his heart. Or was it my own heart that was so out of control? I had never been so frightened.