When We Left Cuba(48)
My New Year’s Eve is spent at home; after the last New Year’s Eve party I attended, the one where we learned President Batista had fled the country leaving us in Fidel’s hands, I have little use for ringing in the New Year with fanfare and champagne, the occasion one I mark with solemnity more than glee.
The next morning I read in the paper that Nick spent his evening at the Coconuts’ bash, Palm Beach’s oldest and most prestigious private affair. Reportedly, a secret committee rules the party, and members each invite a handful of guests. My mother lamented our lack of invitation for days; I can only imagine the blow it would be if she learned I was essentially sharing a mansion on the beach with one of the Coconuts and had failed to use it for my social gain at all.
Shortly after the New Year, Nick returns to Washington during the week, journeying down to Palm Beach on the weekends. I continue with my morning walks, spending hours by myself. We set up times for Nick to call the house daily now, and the distance that existed between us before is obliterated by the freedom the house provides us. I once decried the existence of a “love nest” between us, but I now appreciate the convenience it provides, practicality eclipsing pride. And still, the walls of the mansion are unable to keep the rest of the world and its problems at bay.
Nick calls on a Tuesday evening, distracted, his voice full of worry.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“We’ve abandoned our embassy in Havana. The staff boarded a ferry and left. President Eisenhower made the decision to sever diplomatic and consular relations with Cuba.” He’s quiet as though he’s weighing the benefits of trusting me, the line between lover and politician whisper thin. “There are rumors that there are pilots training in Miami, landing at night with their lights off, the operation being conducted in secrecy.”
My heartbeat picks up. “They’re planning for an invasion?”
Is this what has kept Eduardo occupied and away from Palm Beach?
I’ve been to two more meetings with the communists in Miami, and this is the first I’ve heard of any American plan to invade Cuba. Is it a matter of them not trusting me, or are they simply not well-connected enough to have spies placed among the exiles?
“I don’t know,” Nick answers.
“You could find out.”
He is silent.
“Do you think there will be war?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Everything is more complicated now that Fidel has cozied up to the Soviets. He is both more of a danger to us and someone we cannot afford to treat too harshly.”
“Would war be such a bad thing?”
“Don’t wish for war, Beatriz. War is a terrible, horrible thing, and you might not like what you’re left with when it’s over.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury. It will take an act of violence to separate Fidel from power now.”
Nick’s voice is grim. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
chapter seventeen
On a clear and cold Friday in January, snow on the ground, John Fitzgerald Kennedy is inaugurated as the thirty-fifth president of the United States while the nation rejoices. Nick spends more time in Washington after Kennedy’s inauguration, trading sand for snow. What little time Nick and I can cobble together between his work and social obligations, we do. I can’t help but wonder:
How long can I keep up this secret life?
Nick’s absence leaves me to my own devices, and I wander the Palm Beach house alone in my private time, escaping the wedding festivities overtaking my parents’ home. Isabel’s businessman proposed a week ago, and already she and our mother are planning the wedding with the efficiency and determination of generals commanding men into battle. I watch as my mother pores over the guest list, biting my tongue as she adds illustrious name after illustrious name that will likely sniff when they see the names on the ivory card stock and ignore the invitation altogether.
We don’t speak of it, but for all of his wealth, Isabel’s husband-to-be made his fortune owning a string of ice cream parlors, a profession that once would have been beneath my mother’s notice even as the marriage is now viewed as a coup, the gaudy diamond on Isabel’s hand something my mother can gloat about to her small circle of friends.
It is to be just Maria and me in the house soon, and my mother’s not-so-subtle hints of fixing me up with Isabel’s fiancé’s cousin grow with each day that passes. She has started asking about my whereabouts more than usual, taking an interest in my daily activities she never expressed before.
My mother walks into my room without knocking as I am finishing dressing for a meeting with Mr. Dwyer.
I glance at my watch. I have to leave in fifteen minutes if I’m going to make it in time. I have a feeling Mr. Dwyer is not one for being kept waiting.
“Where are you headed?” my mother asks, her gaze running over me, taking in the knee-length skirt, the ivory blouse, the sensible heels.
Not my usual fare.
“Lunch with friends,” I reply.
“Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so.”
I dab perfume behind my ears and at my wrists.
“Thomas is coming over,” she says, referring to Isabel’s fiancé. “They’re going to go over the wedding plans. I would like you to be here.”