Next Year in Havana(105)

“I am.” A little laugh escapes my lips, the cocktail of nerves, excitement, and happiness too great to be contained.

Her smile widens. She stands, smoothing the shift with her pink-manicured fingers. “Well, that settles it, this calls for something festive. Champagne. You’ll tell me about your man and your trip.” Her expression turns somber. “Did you find the right spot for her?”

“I think I did.”

“Where?” she asks.

“The Malecón.”

She’s silent for a moment, her eyes closing, opening again with the faintest shimmer of unshed tears.

“Elisa was happy there. She’ll be happy there again.”

I blink back tears of my own. “I hope so.”

She walks over to the bar cart, a bottle of Bollinger chilling in a silver bucket. Most occasions call for champagne in Aunt Beatriz’s world; no doubt she was prepared to toast my return, or the settlement of my grandmother’s ashes, or whatever reason she invented to pop the cork.

“And your young man? What’s his name?”

“Luis.”

Her hand stills on the champagne bottle, a laugh escaping. “Of course it is. So you’re in love with Ana Rodriguez’s grandson?”

I nod.

“Your grandmother would have been thrilled. I bet Ana was.”

“I think so. She treated me like I was part of the family from the beginning.”

“Well, of course she would. You pretty much are considering how close she and Elisa were. I’m sure having you stay with her was like having a piece of Elisa back.”

She releases the cork with a pop, pouring the gold liquid into two crystal flutes.

“What’s he like?”

I smile. “Smart. Passionate. Dedicated. He was a history professor at the University of Havana.”

“And what will he do now?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, Cristina’s earlier words in Havana coming back to me now. “I hope he’ll like it here. Hope he’ll be happy. Hope he can stay here. We still have to figure everything out. He’s passionate about Cuba, and there’s a part of me that feels guilty for encouraging his decision to leave. At the same time, he didn’t have much of a choice. The regime was no longer willing to turn a blind eye to his protests.”

Her mouth tightens into a thin line. “They’re known for that.”

Beatriz carries the glasses over, handing one to me before raising hers in the air.

“A toast—to finding love in the unlikeliest of places.” Her voice turns serious. “I know you, Marisol. I’ve seen you go through life, and I’ve watched you navigate all the things that have come your way. You wouldn’t have taken this leap if it wasn’t right, if you weren’t sure. I know you’re scared now, and you have doubts, but you’ll both make it work. You’ll build a life here.”

Tears prick my eyes.

“Thank you.”

I take a sip of the champagne, the familiar flavor coating my tongue.

“When will I meet him?” she asks.

“I’m bringing him to Lucia’s birthday party.”

My sister’s turning thirty-three next week, and we’re all gathering for a big bash at the farm in Wellington.

“Good. I can’t wait.” A twinkle enters her gaze. “I still have to come up with the right present for her.”

Knowing Beatriz, it could be anything from a handbag to an exotic animal.

“Speaking of presents, what would you like for a wedding present?” she asks.

I laugh. “I didn’t realize I was getting married.”

“You will someday soon. A painting, perhaps.” She drains her glass, and her expression turns serious. “Now tell me about Cuba. I see worry in your eyes, and not just because of your concern that things won’t work out with your young man. You dredged up family secrets when you were down there, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think we need more champagne.”

She refills our glasses far more than is fashionable, a tremor in her fingers as the liquid in the glass pitches and sways.

“I dream of Cuba,” she confesses. “Of our last days as a family there. Constantly.”

Of my three great-aunts, Beatriz has always been the least sentimental, less prone to deep emotion. She’s the butterfly of the family, the only one who has ever resisted being pinned down.

“Would you ever go back?” I ask, a bit surprised by the depth of emotion in her voice, the pain in her eyes.

Beatriz sighs. “And see it how it is now? No. I’ve already had my heart broken multiple times—no need for Fidel to break it again. I lost everything trying to reclaim Cuba.”

“When you left?”

“Then, too. I don’t want to see it like it is now. I prefer the memories I keep in my heart, rather than the harsh reality of what it has become.”

“Do you—”

“Want to be buried in Cuba?” she asks, finishing my thought.

“Yes.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose I haven’t thought of it. I have a date Wednesday with a very special man; I’m too busy to think about death. Besides, I suspect Elisa’s reasons for wanting to return were a bit different from mine.”