When We Left Cuba(17)

“And that’s scary?”

“Utterly terrifying.”

We both know, how can we not? This is a hello and a good-bye all wrapped into one.

My sisters and my parents have moved on, but I’ll probably get an earful about this encounter later.

“What are we doing?” I ask him.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Hell if I know.”

“We should probably stop.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“I have sisters, and they have reputations that need protecting. And at the moment, everyone is craning their necks to hear what we’re saying.”

Regret flashes in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“What was it you said earlier about savoring your last moments of freedom?” he asks. “Want to dance?”

I laugh despite the melancholy filling me. “It seems like all we ever do is dance.”

“It’s probably the safest activity of all the ones we could do. But perhaps not the most fun,” he amends, a dimple winking back at me.

I hesitate. “One dance. And then no more.”

“One dance,” he agrees.

And suddenly, his hand is there, outstretched between us, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to place my palm against his, for his fingers to curl over mine.

Nick leads me out onto the dance floor as a new song begins.

Eduardo is on the dance floor with a pretty redhead, a smile on his face, his gaze trained on Nick and me. Eduardo inclines his head toward me in a mock salute.

I will tell Eduardo this part of his plan is off the table; I won’t use the attraction I feel for Nick to advance our interests in Cuba.

Nick follows my gaze until his settles on Eduardo as well. “We both lead complicated lives, don’t we?”

“What isn’t complicated in this climate?”

“True. Not everyone understands, though.” He looks out over the ballroom, his attention shifting away from Eduardo. “Some people are content to attend parties like these and pretend everyone is fortunate enough to live like this.”

“We made that mistake in Cuba. For a time, at least. We learned our lesson in the worst possible way.”

“What would you do if things were different? If Castro was gone?”

“I would go home,” I answer without hesitation. “I don’t belong here. I belong in Havana, with my old friends, the family still there. Our nanny, Magda. This—Palm Beach—is a temporary life, a purgatory of sorts.”

“I’ve never been to Cuba. I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

“It is beautiful. The beaches, the countryside, the mountains, the city, all those old Spanish buildings—” In my memory, I see the island exactly as it was, the sun rising over the Malecón. “It’s the closest thing to paradise. On the surface, at least,” I amend. “We have much work to do.”

“And you want to be part of that work?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you? It’s my home.”

“You feel a responsibility, then?”

“And a desire. I’ve received the benefit of an education, even if it wasn’t quite the one I envisioned, even if my academic ambitions were thwarted due to my mother’s beliefs in feminine endeavors. I should do something with that education, shouldn’t I?”

“You absolutely should.”

The sincerity in his voice surprises me. It hasn’t escaped my notice that many women in the United States are, in many ways, nearly as restricted as far too many women in Cuba.

“Perhaps I’ll visit you in Cuba someday. You can show me around the island.”

I try to match his smile, imagining a date we will never keep between us. “Perhaps.”

The final strands of the song stretch through the ballroom, and then it’s over, and he releases me.

He hesitates, as though he, too, is reluctant to walk away. “Thanks for the dance.”

His smile’s erased now. Mine, too.

“It was my pleasure,” I reply.

“Good luck with everything. I hope you’re able to go home like you want.”

Nick takes my hand once more, his lips ghosting across my knuckles, and then he’s gone.

I walk back to my sisters; the stares cast my way are inescapable, the whispers far louder than is polite. They will eventually disappear; this indiscretion will be forgotten.

I will forget him.





chapter six


A thud wakes me from my slumber. The sound jolts me, and for a moment, I forget where I am, the darkness of my room adding to my confusion.

Three more thuds follow the first one. Then a whisper carried on the wind that sounds a lot like my name.

“Beatriz.”

There it is again.

The sound is a familiar one, and my disorientation returns again, catapulting me to my old bedroom in the house in Miramar, to the days after Alejandro was disowned by our parents, when I used to sneak out to see him, slipping him food and money, exploring the city and engaging in revolutionary activities with him and Eduardo by my side.

I throw back the covers, grabbing my robe from the foot of the bed and slipping it on, fumbling with the tie at my waist.