The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(68)
He’s silent for a beat, and then almost as an aside, he says—
“You look beautiful tonight.”
Now I’m quite simply gobsmacked. He’s never paid me such an extravagant compliment before, and considering this dress isn’t particularly fine, I wouldn’t have expected this to be the moment he chose to do it.
“Thank you.” And then because I can’t help myself, I add—“That’s quite a step up from ‘nice.’”
He laughs. “If I’d told you you’re the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen, you would have accused me of flattery and dismissed the compliment. Maybe I’m working up to the truth.”
“I thought the truth means different things to different people,” I say, feeling more than a bit faint.
What is happening to me? Why am I flirting with Rafael?
“Are you going to the reception after this?” he asks me, his gaze once again trained to the stage so all I can make out is his profile.
Hearst has reserved the grand ballroom at Delmonico’s at Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street for a more intimate and formal event celebrating Evangelina.
“Of course. I’m to document all of this,” I reply, gesturing to my notepad and pen. “Hearst has me working on her life story as well.”
“He told me.”
I never imagined they would talk about me.
“He likes you,” Rafael adds, leaving me further caught off guard in a conversation where I largely feel out to sea. “Says you’re ambitious, that you aren’t afraid to go after what you want. He thinks you’re talented, too. A natural.”
“I never realized. He’s never said.”
Rafael shrugs. “Will isn’t like the rest of us. Sometimes I think he forgets what it feels like to be a mere mortal.”
He’s silent for a moment. “It’s a hard business, isn’t it?”
I nod, beyond mortified by the lump forming in my throat. The fact that Hearst thinks I’m talented, those few words delivered by Rafael, mean more than he can probably ever know. When I first envisioned becoming a reporter, I had glamorous visions of exposing society’s ills for the world to see. The reality is that I exist on tenterhooks, waiting to see if this will be the story that gives me a chance to make a name for myself, or if today is the day I’ll be called into the editor’s office and let go.
For each story that one of Hearst’s star reporters gets, the thousands of dollars they are paid to dash off to Cuba or the like, the more this jealousy that I am hardly proud of grows; the fear that it will never be my name on everyone’s lips is overwhelming. It’s not supposed to be about the fame or the glory; it’s supposed to be about the stories we write and the public’s interest to be informed, but it is impossible to walk this tightrope of a career and not fear obscurity for that is our death knell. The truth is, as much as we work together in close quarters, the competition is fierce, and there’s a thread of desperation in all of us that pushes us to take whatever risks necessary to get the story.
“I admire you for doing what you do,” Rafael says without a hint of teasing in his voice. He leans down, closing the distance between us. “I particularly liked your exposé of the landlord,” he whispers.
The story I wrote about a thieving landlord ran in the paper a month or so ago and was another stunt job I took on at Hearst’s behest.
“How did you—”
Rafael is gone before I can finish asking him how on earth he figured out that it was my story when I used a pen name on the byline.
Twenty-Eight
Evangelina
After the whirlwind that is the reception at the Waldorf-Astoria, I travel from New York City to Washington D.C., for a special reception for me and Karl where I am to meet President McKinley.
I am excited to see the town where Karl is from, considering all he has done for me, and am more than a bit nervous to meet the American president. I’ve practiced over and over again what I want to say if I’m given the opportunity. I am here because of my story, but I am also Cuban, and my people desperately need my help.
We drive onto the beautiful grounds of the White House, and the closer we get, the more my nerves grow.
I remember the conversations my father had with me growing up, the legacy of revolution that runs through my veins. I am representing my family and my country, and it feels as though this is too big of an opportunity for me to squander. What if America could intervene against Spain as they have for me? If they directed the support they’ve given me to the Cuban people, then I can’t imagine Spain would stand a chance.
“The president is very excited to meet you,” Mrs. Logan whispers, squeezing my hand. She’s become my frequent companion and also a wonderful friend. “There’s no need to be nervous; despite his position, he really is an unassuming man. And very kind.”
Grace sits across from us in the carriage.
“There’s truly nothing to be nervous about,” Grace reassures me. “After all, you’ve faced off against the Spanish. President McKinley should be tame in comparison.”
I smile at the teasing note in her voice. We’ve struck up a friendship of sorts in the weeks we’ve spent together. I will truly miss her companionship when I leave to tour the country to tell my story, and hopefully raise funds and awareness for the fight for independence.