The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(23)

“Hello, Mother.”

She leans forward, kissing my cheeks in greeting, the familiar scent of her perfume wafting over me, and my stepfather follows suit.

Her eyes widen slightly as her gaze runs over me. “I confess, this is the last place I ever imagined to see you, Grace.”

I smile wryly. “I don’t doubt it. I’m here for work.”

Her mouth parts in a little “o,” but she says nothing, my stepfather silent beside her.

My desire to be a journalist has been a bone of contention between us, but my mother is too well-mannered to comment on it, particularly in public. Whatever hand-wringing has been done, it has been conducted in the privacy of their home.

Truthfully, I’m not sure my mother occupies herself too much with such things. When she married my stepfather, she jettisoned her old life and her memories of my father. I didn’t fit into her new world, her child from a previous marriage, so she paid me as little attention as possible, hiring nannies and governesses to care for me. My lackluster debut into society and lack of marital offers ultimately gave me the one thing I craved—independence.

My living situation with my aunt benefits both of us in a way, and our relationship is mostly conducted in a few holidays spent together, and occasions such as these when we exchange pleasantries and little else.

We speak for a few more minutes, and then they’re off to visit an acquaintance from their social set, leaving me to my own devices once more.

I jot down a few additional observations, struggling to find the particular turn of phrase I’d like to use to capture the scene before me, when—

“I’m gratified to see your notepad in attendance this evening,” a voice murmurs beside me.

I nearly jump, so caught up in the story I was drafting in my mind and the difficulty of translating the images before me, the utter decadence of them, into something passable.

Rafael Harden stands beside me, dressed in a costume of some vague European origin, so generic it feels as though he’s thumbing his nose at the whole business.

He arches his brow at me. “Queen Elizabeth?”

“Short-notice costume. Hearst sorted it out for me.” I have the feeling Hearst borrowed it from some theater production. “Besides, I’m working,” I add, gesturing with the aforementioned notepad in my hand. “And you are?”

“Wondering why the hell I came.”

His deadpan response elicits a smile from me.

“Why did you come? I wouldn’t have guessed this would be your usual fare.”

He shrugs. “Business. Same reason as you.” He casts a derisive look at the rest of the crowd. “Some of us do work for a living.” He glances down at my notepad from atop his tall perch. “Get anything good?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maybe. The society beat isn’t my usual.”

“Then why’d you take this assignment?”

“Mr. Hearst asked me. I think he hoped I would have special insight given my former entrées into society.”

I didn’t want to disappoint Hearst with the truth that I hardly possess salacious gossip to pass on to his readers. I also couldn’t afford to say no to an opportunity to impress my boss.

I wait for Rafael to move on, but he doesn’t, his feet firmly planted on the extravagant floor. I turn my body away from his, searching the crowd once more so I can beg off. Whatever his game, I wish he wouldn’t play it with me. He’s too plainspoken for polite society, too handsome, too bold, his reputation too scandalous.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asks, his tone mild.

“I hardly know you well enough to dislike you. I’m sure that’ll take another month of acquaintance, at least,” I joke.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You surprise me, you know.”

“How so?”

“I can only guess why you don’t approve of me, but I would have thought your derision would extend to Will. Doesn’t most of your set look down their noses at him? Why would someone like you want to write for the Journal?”

Hearst’s exploits are notorious, his reputation for being far more at home with the common man than the Four Hundred an anomaly on an otherwise distinguished pedigree. And still, I have to admit whatever my impression of him prior to working at the Journal, Hearst has surprised me. Despite his reputation, and the trouble he might get up to in his extracurricular time, he is professional and fair with his staff.

“Mr. Hearst is not what I expected,” I admit, sidestepping his latter question about my motives for joining the Journal.

“True. Will is nothing if not unique.”

The genuine affection in his voice catches me off guard. I had assumed their friendship was limited to similar interests—whiskey, and women, and general debauchery, and perhaps a shared utility when it comes to Cuba. The protective note in his words suggests something else altogether.

“And how do you like working for Will?” Rafael asks. “He’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure. Some people admire that about him. Others fear it.”

“We come from the same place, and yet, I heard what everyone said about him—that he eschewed society for hanging out with the people—and figured it must be part of his persona, a way to endear himself to the masses, to increase his circulation. But he seems to genuinely embrace change. Is that why you’re friends? Because you’re both looking to shake things up?”