The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(74)
Everything has been choreographed to perfection, except, of course, the one thing that even Hearst could not bend to his will:
The weather.
Rain falls heavily, the cold converting it into the occasional snowfall.
We briefly considered postponing but decided against it. It was the right call.
The weather hasn’t affected the crowds one bit. They came early and in droves. There must be a hundred thousand people here.
Mr. Hearst has taken this city, and all of its dirt and grime and misery and defeat, and transformed it with a flick of his elegant wrist.
And, of course, because he is Hearst, advertisements encouraging people to read the Journal are everywhere you turn.
The air pulses with magic, a heady excitement that spreads like contagion throughout the crowd as if for one night the entire city is on tenterhooks to discover what possibility awaits them in the new year. In this spectacle, this absurd, overly indulgent, perfect night, Hearst has given the people the essence of what the Four Hundred tried so desperately to manufacture in their drafty ballrooms. Tonight, out here beneath the exploding lights, is the beating heart of New York City, and I doubt there is a person among us who at this moment isn’t imagining all that could be if fortune would just turn its favor upon them.
Children laugh around me, their legs pumping as they run past to see whatever singular amusement is up ahead. Their parents call behind them, their voices laced with good-natured humor, the glee and wonder contagious. We exist in a sea of umbrellas, the elements be damned.
My fingers reach instinctively in my coat pocket for the pad of paper and pencil I keep there, the desire—need—to etch these moments into memory too powerful a lure to resist. I don’t trust my own ability to recall them, the champagne I’ve drunk altering my senses and loosening my limbs.
“I think I’d give up my entire fortune just to hear your thoughts right now.”
I whirl around at the familiar voice, at the confidence injected in each syllable that seems intrinsic to breathing.
Rafael stands before me wearing another impeccably tailored coat, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Your entire fortune? I find that very hard to believe. I assure you my thoughts aren’t worth nearly that much.”
“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. After all, it’s entirely in the eye of the beholder.”
Despite the cold, warmth seeps into my bones.
He takes a quick, sure step, and suddenly, we are no more than a breath apart. Rafael lowers his voice as though we are coconspirators sharing a secret. “Perhaps half, then. You’re right—I’m entirely too mercenary to give up everything.”
It takes everything in me to keep from retreating. He’s the sort of man that, if you cede an inch, will try for a mile.
And yet, he’s the one who ultimately takes a step back, putting distance between us once more even as his gaze turns speculative.
“Why does it feel like every time I see you, whatever progress we’ve made has been erased?” he asks.
“Progress?” I echo.
I haven’t seen him since Evangelina Cisneros’s reception at Madison Square.
He smiles. “Our friendship, Grace.”
“I didn’t realize we were making progress,” I lie.
“You wound me.”
I barely stifle a snort. “I find that very unlikely.”
“And yet, true.”
I can’t quite formulate a proper retort to that one.
“Would you like to walk together?” he asks. “Moving is probably our best ward against the cold.”
I nod, surprising myself.
As we walk, the weather hardly registers, the atmosphere far too magical for such sensibilities. Even though I was privy to much of the planning for tonight’s event, I still can’t help but be a little dazzled by it as everyone else is.
City Hall Plaza is lit up with magnesium lights.
A firework fills the night sky. You can barely hear the choral singers over the sound of the other entertainments.
“What if I told you I wished to be something other than your friend?” Rafael asks unexpectedly, stopping me in my tracks.
I gaze up at him, waiting for the witty rejoinder, or a teasing note to fill the air, but his expression is hooded, and I can’t decipher if it’s amusement or something else in his eyes.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
It takes far longer than it should for me to formulate a response.
“I’m flattered,” I say carefully. “I am sure you are quite the catch.”
His lips curve, amusement filling his gaze.
“But I doubt we would suit,” I add.
He shifts, and I can no longer see his face. “You don’t think so?”
“I like you, as a friend, of course. But the other—No.”
“Why not?”
“I—I don’t have time for such things. Or the patience for them.”
A man would no doubt object to my choice of career, would rather me see to his needs instead of fulfilling my own. What’s romance if not a precursor to marriage, and I’ve yet to see the marriage that didn’t require a woman to sacrifice far more than she should.
I sneak a peek at him, trying to read his expression, a pang in my chest at the idea that I might have hurt his feelings.