When We Left Cuba(45)

I am still most curious about the Cuban brothers and their role in all of this. Like me, they engage in the conversations, however, with much less fervor than the Americans. Their family appears to own some sort of business in Hialeah, but they are surprisingly reticent when asked about anything even remotely personal, and I’ve largely given up my attempts to do so for fear of arousing their suspicions.

Claudia has yet to make an appearance; her name has not been uttered again since my initial introduction to the group.

The group members speak of the Cubans who have left in recent months as traitors, “worms,” and rage fills me. More of our friends have fled Cuba in the wake of Fidel’s increasing limitations on their freedom; some have traveled to South Florida, others farther afield and overseas. What does Fidel think of the exodus? Does he gloat each time another prominent Cuban family departs Havana?

I find an empty stretch of beach and sink down on the sand, looking out at the sea, listening to the waves crash against the shore. It’s early enough that it’s breezy and cool, the sun nowhere near its full strength. A couple passes by me, deep in conversation, the obvious familiarity of years together marking their body language, their heads bent.

I pull my knees to my chest, their retreating backs now a speck in the distance.

A man walks a few hundred feet behind the couple, dressed in a pair of light linen pants and a white collared shirt, his shoes dangling from his hand. My gaze skims over him, returning back to the sea, the urge to dip my toes in the water overwhelming. I begin to rise, intending to do just that when—

The man has stopped walking, and is staring at me, and at once, it all comes together, like puzzle pieces falling into place: the cut of his shirt, the broad shoulders, the tanned skin, the solemn blue eyes, the body I know intimately.

I blink.

Still there.

He closes the distance between us in several long strides, and I rise on shaky legs, dusting the sand from my clothes.

“Hello,” he says.

I wondered when he would come to Palm Beach, worried whether he would return this season at all, and now he’s here.

“Hello,” I echo.

The wind whips between us, and then Nick steps forward.

His lips brush my cheek for a moment before he pulls back.

My heart thunders in my chest.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I called at the house. It was foolish, I know. Your sister Isabel told me you like to walk on the beach.”

“Did you see my mother?”

Please, tell me he didn’t meet my mother.

Nick shakes his head.

That’s a blessing, at least. I can only imagine the fuss she would make over a wealthy senator calling on me.

“I didn’t want to wait to see you for the first time at some party where everyone would stare at us, and whisper, and wonder. And I wasn’t sure of your plans, if you were even in town for the season, if you’d gone back to Cuba, or moved on somewhere else, or if you’d—”

“It’s good to see you again,” I blurt out.

“It’s good to see you again, too. Would you like to walk?” he asks.

It’s still early out, the season not officially started. Surely, little harm will come from an innocent walk?

I nod.

We head east down the stretch of beach, Nick measuring his strides against mine.

I sneak a sidelong look his way.

“Congratulations on the election.”

“Thank you.”

“It must have been a relief.”

Is there anything more awkward than making polite conversation when there are other things you wish to say?

Nick smiles as though he can read my thoughts.

“It was.”

“And you must be pleased with the results of the presidential election.”

His smile deepens. “I am.” He’s silent for a beat. “Are we to speak of polite topics like politics and the weather now?”

“Is politics a polite topic? I thought it ranked up there with discussing religion.”

“True. The weather, then. It is a particular fine day we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Oh, fine. No, I don’t want to talk about the stupid weather.”

“Then what do you wish to talk about?”

The way we left things, what he’s been up to since we last saw each other, whether he’s in love with his fiancée, if they set a wedding date, if another woman has been in his bed since we parted.

“It’s not fair, you know,” I say instead. “You came looking for me today, and I wasn’t expecting to see you, certainly not now, not like this. Give me a moment to catch up.”

He bursts into laughter.

“You just described the way I’ve felt since I saw you in that ballroom. Sorry, but you won’t find any sympathy here. I’ve been trying to catch up for nearly a year now.”

Relief floods me.

“You missed me, then?”

“You have no idea how much.”

“You didn’t try to reach me.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to. You didn’t call.”

“It seemed imprudent. And I didn’t know what to say.”

“I thought you didn’t worry about things like that.”

“Maybe I’m trying to be more considerate.”