Excerpt: Cigar Queen

Stepping out of the plane on that February afternoon, it took just a brief instant for Lucrecia's skin to recall how it was to be home, sunny and warm home, caressing breezy home, smiling blue sky home.
"Americana? Need card of tourist. Ten dolares, plees."
Switching to Spanish, the woman at the immigration counter, immediately became cheerful, like an aunt that finally recognizes you and is curious about how long have you been away, how long are you staying and what brought you back.
"Business." Was Lucrecia courteous answer.
"Business? What kind of business?"
"Cigars"
"Interesante. I have not seen a woman coming over to do that kind of business." Smiling, the lady stamped the passport and said: "Bienvenida a la República Dominicana!"
There were no long corridors here, nor glass doors or big signs directing to baggage claims or exit gates. Customs was just a few steps from immigration, and the agents were not much interested on her carry-on luggage. What they were really anxious about was of getting to the passengers like Julian, with enormous suitcases, some of which would rather discreetly pay a small bribe instead of the duty for the excesses they were carrying.
Lucrecia went out into the curb to get a taxi, through the noice and the heat she saw a silver Mercedes Benz and a man impeccably dressed holding a sign with her name: Lucrecia Herrera.
"I have not ordered any transportation."
"Mister Randolph sent me, doña, as a courtesy of the company."
Good. A chauffeured Mercedes was good and no mister Randolph on sight was even better. The flight had been a drag. The less she needed was an old cigar maker talking business to her. She needed time to regain the control of her senses, to stop feeling like a silly expatriate returning home and start wearing her business face, her don't even think you can fool me New York City face.
The Mercedes left behind the airport driving through affluent neighborhoods. Passing by elegant houses with fancy facades and empty gardens and lonely porches. At four o'clock it should be at least a few children playing outside. Back in the days when she was a kid, her uncle took her and her siblings for a ride around a neighborhood like this one, in Santo Domingo, on a borrowed old red Windsor Chrysler Deluxe. It was a strange feeling now. Coming to make business in a place where she never thought she would ever have a chance.
"This is La Zona Rosa. As you can see, this is a place to find good restaurants and other fine stores." The chauffeur was pointing out at landmarks like his uncle did so long ago. It was almost a dejá vú, except that Lucrecia was a serious woman now, in her way to start her own cigar brand and determined to play only serious games. Not like the one she played with Marcus Hoffman for three years of her life. Or was it the other way around? That the one been played with was her and she never knew it till the end?
Marcus memory slipped into her mind without bitterness or longing.
At the beginning he was such a liberal like an American movie hero. Lucrecia never thought status was not going to be an issue. He gave her the impression of succeeding thanks to hard work, like herself. "No rich boys for me, thank you." She said when she found out he was the heir of one of the city’s powerful real estate firms. But Marcus seductive ways had the promise of a future together. Sometimes after love making they would burst into laughter and Marcus would joke: "you are not the type of girl that a man takes home to his mother." And he never did.
The car climbed to the top of the city, going through suburbs splattered profusely with fushias, red bugambilias flowers; and finally, after a couple of turns, the old Hotel Matún.
“I thought my reservation was at Hotel El Almirante, sir.”
“Mister Randolph thought that you can see the whole Santiago from here."The telephone rang an hour later. It was Herminio to let her know that on Wednesdays nights the tabaqueros use to get together at El Almirante Hotel for cigar tasting and socializing. Yes, it was open to the public, but very selective, of course. No need to rush; things started warming up around eight.
"Is this, by chance, one of mister Randolph attentions?"
"No, no, doña Lucrecia. I took that liberty myself as a courtesy of the house."
Good. She didn't care if Cigar Aficionado magazine ranked Randolph de la Vega as one of the best cigar makers in the world; he was not going to start telling her what to do just because her business depended on her reputed skills.
None of that was really important right now because she came back as one of the Good. some sort of smoke out, maybe. She has been in quite a few of those, some of them sponsored by her own Cigar Boutique in New York. At the moment she was more in the mood for a bubble bath and room service. Give herself some time.
"Nah! Lets check out the scene." She said aloud and went to work on choosing her attire.

The dust pink cocktail dress was a winner. Its well crafted lines revealed the ripeness of her body, the firmness and fleshiness of her curbs. Randolph de la Vega eyes were following the subdued voluptuosity of her buttocks since she made her entrance, without missing a beat of the conversation with friends and some cigar connoisseurs.
"A nice piece of cake. A Dominican York cake." He said to himself and laughed at a joke about cigars and unfaithful wifes.
Before Lucrecia could finish her diner, Randolph de la Vega had already tipped everybody to be tipped so he could ask any questions regarding the Dominican York piece of cake ordering a crisp Italian white wine, and coconut shrimp on a bed of white rice for dinner.
"Is not that easy, mister Randolph. She is friendly but won't answer to personal questions." Since he was also the Smoke Out host, the Maitre D' was almost about to offer himself to introduce them formally, but the waiter was already clearing Lucrecia's table as the disc jockey started to play a slow Merengue Palm Beach style and Randolph's Bruno Magli encased feet started in her direction as if there was any possibility of another suitor beating him to her table.
"Shall we dance?"
So used to be the master, Randolph voice ringed almost demanding, only to be forgiven for the pleading gesture of his outstretched hand. Lucrecia followed that hand all the way up through a burgundy silk sleeve, to a strong neck, a firm jaw with a dimple on the chin, to the most appetizing fleshy lips repeating "shall we dance?" not expecting "no" for an answer. Looking into his dark green eyes Lucrecia heard her own voice saying: "we shall."