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was a nurse, Gail remembered, who worked at the old-age home where Anthony's father lived. José was a journalist, a political activist who had been in prison. Together they ran a library out of their house. Gail had only a few details because this was another topic that Anthony avoided.
    She sat on her heels, laughing softly at herself. "You knew what you were getting into, so shut up." Anthony didn't consciously intend to keep her in the dark. Privacy was a habit ingrained into criminal defense lawyers. Or was it more personal? A carryover from years of not discussing Cuba with his grandfather. Easier that way, keeping the two parts of his life separate. Miami here, Cuba there. Anthony dancing on the narrow wall between them, managing somehow not to fall off. Any woman who didn't get it shouldn't have married him.
    Gail tried to wedge her shoes into the duffel bag but there wasn't room. She noticed Anthony's carry-on and knelt on the floor to unzip it. She saw a paperback novel, bottled water, airline tickets, passports, his Palm Pilot. There was a brown envelope full of letters to be delivered in Cuba. Anthony had shown her. They contained photographs; most contained cash as well. Someone's brother or cousin or friend writing to those left behind.
    To get her shoes to the bottom of the bag she had to move the envelopes aside. She noticed that one of them had a name on it in Anthony's tilted handwriting. Mario.
    Mario who?
    It wasn't sealed. She lifted the flap and saw a stack of twenty-dollar bills. She counted ten of them. And a folded sheet of cream-colored paper, the kind Anthony used in his office. She could just make out the raised imprint of a ballpoint pen. Black ink.
    The living room was empty and quiet. Gail took out the letter, then noticed her own reflection in the dark glass of the windows, a woman on her knees going through her husband's things, about to read his correspondence.
    She put the letter back into the envelope, folded down the flap, and zipped the bag shut.
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    Over the western Caribbean a sheen of sunlight flickered on the water. Shadows of clouds made patches of indigo on deep turquoise blue. A delicate V of foam marked the passage of a ship. Gail leaned over her mother, who had put away her Spanish phrase book to look out. Irene said she could have sworn she'd seen a line of green out there. Gail didn't think so; they were still too far away to see Cuba. Haze obscured the horizon.
    For a few moments longer she gazed at the empty ocean, then settled back into her seat. She felt that the jet was flying past the edge of the known world. Her stomach had that floating sensation one gets from losing altitude too fast, though the flight had been smooth.
    At the airport in Cancun, through her sunglasses, Gail had looked around to see who might be taking notes on the passengers lining up at the Cubana de Aviación counter. She saw no one. The agent handed over then-airline tickets and visas as though it were completely normal, a group of six Americans flying from Miami to Havana. The visas would be stamped at José Marti airport. The visas, but not their American passports. The Cubans knew how things worked.
    Gail had dressed plainly—khaki pants and a long-sleeved white pullover—not wanting to draw any attention. Her mother didn't care what anyone thought. She wore gold hoop earrings, a yellow dress printed with red flowers, and brown leather sandals on her size-five feet. Her toenail polish matched the flowers. She had bought a new digital camera to document every moment of their trip. Her straw hat rested in the overhead bin. She would be as inconspicuous as a beach umbrella.
    They weren't the only Americans sneaking in. Gail had chatted with her fellow passengers in the waiting area. Four guys from Ohio had bought a Canadian package tour to go deep-sea fishing. A couple from Atlanta would spend their honeymoon on Varadero Beach. There were Cubans as