When We Left Cuba(54)

“They’re training pilots. To invade Cuba.”

“Yes.”

“Are you one of the pilots?”

He laughs. “God, no. Far too much responsibility.”

“But you’re involved.”

“Yes. As is your Mr. Dwyer.”

“And President Kennedy? I assume you’ve secured his support?”

The president’s approval rating is high, his popularity soaring. People like the image he presents: the young, handsome idealist with the beautiful, accomplished wife and the two adorable children. I mostly like the president. Idealists make me wary as a matter of principle, but there is a thread of pragmatism in Kennedy’s policies that gives me hope. Besides, at the end of the day, he is merely one man. The coffers of the American political machine are lined with men like Mr. Dwyer who scoff at ideals and have no compunction about rolling up their sleeves and getting to work. If the president lacks the stomach to do what needs to be done in order to defeat Fidel, no doubt one of his advisors will do the trick.

“Allegedly, Kennedy supports it,” Eduardo answers. “I imagine your senator would know more about the president’s intentions, though.”

“He’s not my senator.”

“That’s not the story I’ve heard.”

“Well, he’s not.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Eduardo’s gaze returns to my wrist. “That’s an expensive bracelet.”

“For what? A mistress?”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“It’s what everyone else is saying, isn’t it?”

“Well, what did you expect, Beatriz? He’s here with his fiancée.”

“Don’t tell me your latent morality is outraged by an affair. Half the party is sleeping with someone they aren’t married to, and everyone knows it. You’ve certainly had no compunction over doing the same thing.”

“It’s not about my morality. It’s about your pride.”

I laugh, as though my aforementioned pride isn’t currently lying on the floor in disgrace. “Do you think I’m settling?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Why does everyone assume I want marriage? That if I’m not someone’s wife, I’m not worth anything.”

“It’s not about marriage. You shouldn’t be anyone’s second choice. Don’t you want to be someone’s first choice?”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s choice. I want them to be mine.”

“And you choose him?” Disbelief threads through his voice.

“I choose myself. And right now I choose Cuba.” I take a step back. “I should return to the party before people talk even more.”

This is what Isabel attempted to warn me about in the car earlier. Have the whispers reached my parents’ ears?

“Before he gets too angry, you mean. I saw the way he looked at us standing together. He’s jealous.” The smug note in Eduardo’s voice throws me off. “He won’t claim you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have you, either.”

I laugh angrily. “And if that is true, how does that make him any different from the rest of you?”

I am hurt, and the image of Eduardo standing before me in his elegant tuxedo, an arrogant expression on his face, makes me want to hurt him.

“Is that what this is?” I taunt, understanding dawning. “You want me because you think he has me?”

Eduardo takes a step toward me, his hand coming to rest on my bare arm. “You have no idea what I want.”

Why does that sound like a challenge?

He releases me just as abruptly as he touched me.

“You won’t see me for a while. I’m leaving Palm Beach.”

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t say.”

“Where are you going?” I repeat.

Our gazes meet.

“I choose Cuba. Every time. Where are you going?”

“Guatemala,” he murmurs after a beat.

“And then?”

“I can’t talk about this, Beatriz.”

So it’s Cuba, then. The stories in the paper are true, the whispers I’ve heard of a coming coup. A fierce stab of worry catches me off guard, replacing what should be excitement.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

What does he know about fighting? The things they did in Cuba against Batista are not the same as going to war, and I can’t look at Eduardo in his elegant tuxedo and see a soldier. And the rest of them, the men going to battle to reclaim our island: Has the CIA trained them? Or are they simply being given guns and told to hope for the best?

“You’re worried.”

“You’re not a soldier.”

A faint note of amusement threads through his voice. “Have a care with my ego, Beatriz.”

“You know what I mean.”

Trust Eduardo not to take this seriously.

He cups my face, tilting my chin so our eyes are nearly level.

“The days of letting others fight our battles are over. If I don’t fight, if I don’t join my fellow Cubans, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“And if you die? What do regrets matter then?”