What would it be? Another beach? A waterfall? Thousands of birds flying in formation? Jet trails in the sky? A trapeze slung from the moon? Might it be a girl? Why not?

The clouds had passed across the sky, darker blue now because the hot, weary day was surrendering to the dusk. He could hear Doc calling, telling him it was quitting time for hired help but not for bosses, and that whatever hadn’t been done could wait until the morning. Only he should be sure to lock the cellar doors, then come in for a cold drink.

“It’s going to be hotter tonight,” Doc said from the doorway where he fanned himself with an old issue of a pharmaceutical magazine. “And hotter tomorrow.”

“I guess so,” Tony agreed.

“I’m going to an air-conditioned movie after I close up early, about nine,” Doc said. “If you’d like to have a sandwich with me, a bottle of beer, you could be my guest. Or if there’s a girl you’d like to take along, I could give you the pass and buy a ticket…”

“I’d like to, Doc,” Tony said. “But I gotta date.”

“Riff and you and two girls?”

“Not exactly,” Tony said. “I’m meeting him at the center. There’s a dance.”

“So, I can’t blame you for turning me down,” Doc said after a shrug. “But how can you dance on a hot night? So you won’t be alone, that answers my question. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“In the morning.” Tony knelt to snap the lock on the cellar door. “Take it easy, Doc. I’ll pass by about nine and help you close the shutters over the windows.”

“Thanks,” Doc said. “Some world, when you gotta have iron shutters over store windows.”

“It’s the PR’s,” Tony said.

“And not your friend Riff—and the other raff?” Doc was ironic. “All right, Tony, I’ll see you tomorrow and don’t worry about the shutters. I’ll manage. But take care of yourself tonight.”

CHAPTER THREE

The bridal shop was just large enough to accommodate three sewing machines, three dress dummies, a small table for cutting fabric, and a little dressing booth. A sign had been lettered on the window announcing to passers-by that English was spoken within. Señora Mantanios, the middle-aged widow who owned the shop, had thought that the sign might attract trade that was not Puerto Rican. But during the one week the sign had been there, neatly lettered in gold and large enough for anyone to read, she had not been called upon to use one word of English.

Disgusted that people could be so intolerant, the Señora had left early to bathe and change her clothes. Two friends—amateur matchmakers—were bringing a man to call, a gentleman who had been widowed a respectable number of years. The night offered no promise of relief from the heat and she wanted to have pitchers of tea, coffee, and lemonade in her refrigerator; also some wine and beer.

For several anguished moments she had hesitated to leave the shop in the hands of Anita Palacio. Anita was a good enough seamstress and well trained in Puerto Rico, but she was running wild in New York. Anita had explained that she wanted to remain behind only to help Maria Nunez alter a dress she was going to wear to a dance that night. The dance was in the center that had once been a church, and it all sounded respectable enough.