When We Left Cuba(70)
I take a deep breath.
Fate, and timing, and all that.
“The Ritz,” I tell Nick.
* * *
? ? ?
The door to the hotel room slams closed. Nick’s tuxedo jacket hits the floor. My dress follows.
There truly is something indescribably right about coming home.
Would I have gone to his hotel if I hadn’t looked up and seen him standing there? If there had been a cab, would I have returned to my flat and fallen into bed by myself?
Who knows?
If I’ve learned anything at this point, it’s that life comes down to timing. Things happen the way they are supposed to, the seemingly insignificant moments stringing together to lead you down a path you never imagined traversing, with a man you can’t let go of and you can’t keep.
My back hits the mattress, Nick’s body covering mine quickly. We left the hotel room lights off, and I’m glad for it, as our hands and mouths relearn each other, the sheets rustling beneath our weight, the rest of the world and all of its problems firmly locked out on the opposite side of the door.
I don’t want reality now, don’t want to worry about the microfilm tucked in my purse, discarded somewhere on the floor, or what we will say to each other tomorrow, or what will happen when the time comes for Nick to return to the United States.
I want this evening. We’ll worry about tomorrow later.
* * *
? ? ?
I wake to sunlight creeping in through a slit in the drapes of Nick’s hotel room, a bright sliver of sun bisecting the coverlet. Beside me, Nick sleeps on his back; his body is sprawled as it always is when he is in a deep slumber, after I have done my part to exhaust him. I shift in the bed, turning over onto my side to watch him, indulging in the moment. Mornings like this have always been a luxury for us, nights spent together typically reserved for husbands and wives, and the impulse to savor this one is inescapable.
He’s as handsome as he ever was, but now I have the opportunity to view him up close and in private, and I study the subtle changes in his face. The lines that have cropped up in my absence.
In the time apart, I didn’t truly let myself appreciate how much I missed him.
I rise with a sense of regret, careful to keep my footfalls quiet, not to wake Nick. I’m certainly not eager to explain why I’m sneaking out of his hotel room at this early morning hour or where I’m headed.
I bend down, gathering my clothing, the bag discarded on the floor, opening it to reassure myself the microfilm is still there. I glance at the elegant clock on a desk in the corner.
I dress quickly now, wishing I had more time to go back to my flat and change into something more suitable for the meeting than a red evening dress. The coat covers most of it, but there are other things I can’t salvage: my hair in a messy bun on my head, my makeup smudged and faded from the night before.
I slip from the room, walking out of the hotel and onto Piccadilly. Thankfully, the Ritz is close to the park, even if the heels I donned last night make the walk mildly less pleasant.
Hyde Park is busy this morning, Londoners eager for a break from the towering buildings, the concrete sidewalks, yearning for a patch of green to call their own. My strides lengthen as I head toward the far end where we usually do our drops.
As much as I love the energy of London, the freedom of it, the anonymity of it, I am not a girl for overly large cities. To visit, perhaps, but I crave the salt air, the roar of the ocean, the sight of swaying palms. Havana was many things all rolled into one and I enjoyed her secrets, the hidden surprises on every corner.
I pass the Serpentine, my gaze drawn to my usual spot. The bench doesn’t offer the best view of the park, so more often than not it’s vacant, and today is no exception. We have a backup plan in place, of course, but I prefer the routine of the same bench, the notch in the third rung I have grown used to.
I sit on the cold surface and wrap my coat more tightly around me, attempting to ward off the cool fall air. London in October is far from the coldest I’ve experienced, but for someone more suited to tropical climes, I’ve learned just how thin my blood really is during these fall and winter months.
Minutes pass.
No one comes.
Thirty minutes pass.
An hour.
My contact has never been late. Not once.
I clasp my clutch in hand, hugging it toward me.
Did I make a mistake with regard to Dwyer’s instructions? Did something happen? Did he attempt to contact me at my flat while I was with Nick?
I wait another few minutes, the park no longer feeling so bucolic or safe, the tourists and joggers no longer appearing so innocuous. When my contact still doesn’t show up, I rise from my place on the bench, and head home.
The morning grows later as I exit the park, turning onto Kensington High Street, then another turn, and another, twisting my way through the neighborhood to the brick building I call home. The streets are busier now; more glances cast my way as the red silk skirt of my evening gown peeks out from the bottom of my coat. London is a city where nearly anything goes, but this part of town is more predisposed to the wealthy and conservative, and my appearance and the obvious impression it conveys—that I am wearing a gown more suited to the evening before—draws more notice than I would prefer. I make a terrible invisible spy, but then again I suppose Dwyer knew that when he hired me, imagine he was looking for something else entirely.