The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(27)

Even though I do not see him again, I cannot get Rafael’s words out of my mind, and I confess, everywhere I look now I feel as though I am seeing the city with new eyes. I knew we needed to do better, wanted to be a part of those reforms, but I am beginning to wonder if Hearst is somewhat right. Maybe it’s not simply enough to report on the news. Maybe we are called to act as well.

In late February, I travel to the corner of Beaver and William Streets for a rare meeting with Pulitzer in one of the private rooms on the second floor at Delmonico’s.

It’s nearly been a year since Pulitzer hired me to begin spying on Hearst, and I fear that I’ve unearthed little information of use to him. I’m hardly privy to the sort of stories Pulitzer would likely be interested in. Hearst’s correspondents are off doing the real reporting in far-flung places. I can relay the goings-on in a ballroom or dangle myself on a building scaffolding, but I’ve yet to find my foothold in the world, the story that will make me respected among my colleagues. My reporting vacillates between the mundane and the stunt—scaffold walking and the like—with little meaningful journalism in between, the stories about women I’d hoped to write unpublished.

And the more time I spend at the Journal, the more I find myself questioning my loyalties while the deadline Pulitzer originally gave me weighs heavily on my mind.

Still, I dress carefully for the occasion, choosing an elegant navy dress from my wardrobe and a matching hat, bundling up in an attempt to ward off the elements. It’s been a bitterly cold winter, and many have struggled throughout the city to stay warm.

Around the newsroom, I dress as plainly as possible, but in a nod to Mr. Pulitzer’s position in society and the locale, I spent more time on my appearance than I normally would.

When Pulitzer requested this meeting at such a public place, I felt a pang of nerves. The World newspaper offices are, of course, out of the question considering the frequent staff turnover between the two men and the likelihood of discovery, but still. At least Delmonico’s isn’t the complete crush it once was with so many of our set moving uptown to the Waldorf-Astoria and its environs. If I’m lucky, it’ll be a quick meeting between us.

I walk through the Beaver Street entrance, keeping my head ducked as I make my way to the second floor.

Delmonico’s has long been a favorite of mine. It is perhaps the personification of the disparity between the wealthy and the poor that this city does to such an extreme, but as much as it represents excess, it is also filled with fond memories. My father used to bring me to the restaurant when I was a little girl. We celebrated birthdays and other momentous occasions here, and in the rare times when I dine at Delmonico’s now and look across the table, over the flawless place setting, I glimpse my father staring back at me.

As I turn a corner, I run straight into a hard object.

“Pardon me, I didn’t see anyo—”

I stare up into Rafael Harden’s eyes.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Rafael drawls. He glances behind me to the private dining room’s open door for a beat, and then his gaze returns to me, his brow rising. “A private dining room? How decadent.”

Of all the people to encounter, today of all days. I hope Mr. Pulitzer is already waiting for me and not en route.

Rafael leans down slightly, closing the distance between us so we are nearly eye level.

“And in the afternoon? I didn’t think you were after such assignations.”

My cheeks burn under his knowing gaze.

For a moment, I can’t decide which is worse: the implication that I’m meeting a lover here or the truth.

Definitely the truth.

“And if I am meeting someone, what of it?” I bluff. “I notice you’re here in the same place, for what, a similar purpose?”

He grins. “Well done, Grace. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed that the “Miss Harrington” has been dropped between us.

“As it happens, I’m not meeting a woman here. I had business. Not all of the men I work with want their affairs conducted in public drawing rooms.”

My eyes narrow at the emphasis he puts on the word “affairs.” I have to admit, part of me is curious about his business interests, but the desire to see him gone far outweighs any curiosity I might have.

“Well, it was lovely to see you again, Mr. Harden,” I lie.

“Oh, I think we’re far past this ‘Mr. Harden’ business. Call me Rafael. All my friends do.”

“I wouldn’t describe us as friends.”

“No? How about this. In the spirit of our budding friendship, I’ll give you something you want.”

“I don’t think we’re well enough acquainted for you to know what I want.”

There’s that devilish grin again. “Well, now you’ve piqued my interest. I was talking about business, but you’ve just opened my mind up to a whole other host of delicious possibilities.” He leans against the wall, settling in, and it takes everything in my power to keep from looking over my shoulder to see if Pulitzer is in the room waiting for me. Would Rafael tell Hearst if he saw us together? I can’t imagine he wouldn’t, considering they’re friends. And still, despite the urgency, the word “business” reels me in.

“What business? Cuba?”

He nods, and before I can fully register the movement, he’s pushed off from the wall and leans into me, his lips inches from my ear.