The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(72)

Have I failed her?

Isabella pulls back first, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. Her skin is splotchy from crying, her eyes red, and the expression on her face haunts me. She looks so alone in this moment. She has been forced to grow up so quickly.

What sort of childhood is this?

We have lost so many children in the camps, their little bodies dumped in the death carts. Such a loss has become a common occurrence now, grief clouding our daily lives. There’s no denying I am fortunate to have this opportunity to save my daughter that many others don’t.

With one last hug and a kiss on the cheek, I rise and walk with her through the enormous entry gates to the estate, grateful they are open and I am spared having to ask to be let in.

Some of the gardeners are out working, and they cast a few curious glances our way, but I keep walking, Isabella’s hand clutched in mine as we near the front entrance.

We stop when we arrive at the house, and I take a deep breath before reaching out and knocking on the door, Isabella coughing beside me.

A minute later, it opens, and our longtime housekeeper, Carmela, stands on the other end.

For a moment, she looks through me as though she doesn’t recognize me, her mouth open as though she is about to send me away or redirect me to the servants’ entrance, and then her eyes widen with awareness.

“Marina!”

“Carmela.”

I step forward and wrap my arms around her, the familiar weight of her body a comfort. She looked after me when I was a little girl, provided sanctuary in a house where there was often disharmony between my parents. She raised me and my brother Arturo as much as my mother or father did, likely more so, and I’ve thought of her often through the years, missing her dearly.

When I finally pull back, her gaze shifts from me to Isabella.

A little gasp escapes Carmela’s mouth.

“And who is this?” she asks, her voice gentle.

“This is my daughter, Isabella.”

Carmela’s eyes fill with tears. “She looks just like you did when you were a little girl. She’s beautiful.”

Isabella steps forward and greets her as I’ve taught her, and I can’t miss the flash of worry in Carmela’s eyes as she takes in the sight of my daughter. I’ve grown so used to life in the camps that our appearances don’t shock me anymore, but the contrast between the way we’ve been living and the enclave of wealth this house and my parents’ position provides is stark.

“I’d like to see my mother,” I say. “Is she home?”



* * *



—

Carmela leads us not to the grand sitting room where my parents entertain guests, but rather to the smaller, more private salon we’ve always used for family gatherings. We’ve celebrated many a Christmas in this room, and for a moment, the memories of all of our special occasions flood me, and it is as if I have been transported back in time.

Isabella appears dazed by the furnishings, and I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.

“Is my brother here?” I ask.

Arturo and I were never particularly close, but I’ve missed him over the years, and often wondered if he has married or had children of his own. It’s strange to be so disconnected from one’s family, to share blood with them and yet know so little about them. Have they thought of me over the years or when I left to marry Mateo was I simply written off, my name stricken from the family Bible?

“Your brother and your father are at work,” Carmela replies, her gaze understanding. She’s a trusted family member, and she’s privy to all of the goings-on of the house, including the details of my estrangement from my family. “Arturo will be sad that he missed you, I think.”

She opens her mouth as though there is more she wants to say, but all she offers is a—

“Let me tell your mother you’re here.”

Isabella and I sit beside each other on the green silk settee after Carmela leaves.

Nerves fill me, but between my mother and father, my mother is the easier, more sympathetic choice.

I hear her before I see her, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor a familiar noise from my childhood.

I rise slowly, steeling myself for the moment I’ve imagined, and then she’s standing in front of me.

She’s still as beautiful as she always was, and despite the years since we’ve seen each other, she looks so much as I remember. I see pieces of myself and Isabella in her—our eyes, the shape of our face, our mouths.

Her eyes widen slightly as they rest on me, drifting to Isabella seated behind me.

I can only imagine her impressions of me. The daughter who left home at seventeen is now twenty-seven years old, and yet, I’m sure I look worn-out and tired, far older than I should.

My mother looks and smells like wealth and security, whereas I wear all of my losses like a badge of honor I couldn’t remove even if I wanted to.

I didn’t expect a dramatic reunion. My mother isn’t the type to descend into theatrics. Rather, her fingers drift to the ostentatious pearl necklace that was her mother’s as they always do when she’s nervous. The familiar gesture brings a wave of emotion I hardly expected.

“Marina. What a surprise.” Her gaze settles on Isabella once more.

“This is my daughter, Isabella. She’s eight.”