Beatriz

JANUARY 1960

The thing about collecting marriage proposals is they’re much like cultivating eccentricities. One is an absolute must for being admired in polite—or slightly less-than-polite—society. Two ensure you’re a sought-after guest at parties. Three add a soupçon of mystery, four are a scandal, and five, well, five make you a legend.

I peer down at the man on bended knee in front of me—what is his name?—his body tipping precariously from an overabundance of champagne, and mentally catalogue his appeal. He’s a second cousin to the venerable Preston clan, related by marriage to a former vice president, and cousin to a sitting U.S. senator. His tuxedo is understated elegance, his fortune modest, if not optimistic, for the largesse of a bequest from a deceased aunt or an unexpected inheritance landing on his doorstep. His chin is weak from one too many Prestons marrying Prestons, his last name likely to be followed by Roman numerals.

Andrew. Maybe Albert. Adam?

We’ve met a handful of times at parties like this in Palm Beach, ones I once would have ruled over in Havana but now must bow and scrape in order to gain admittance. I could do worse than a second cousin to American royalty; after all, beggars can’t be choosers, and exiles even less so. The prudent thing would be to accept his proposal—my auspicious fifth—and to follow my sister Elisa into the sacrament of holy matrimony.

But where’s the fun in that?

Whispers brush against my gown. I feel the weight of curious gazes on my back, some more malevolent than others, and the words clawing their way up my skirt, snatching the faux jewels from my neck and casting them to the ground.

Look at her.

Haughty. The whole family is. Someone should tell them this isn’t Cuba.

Those hips. That dress.

Didn’t they lose everything? Fidel Castro nationalized all those sugar fields her father used to own.

Has she no shame?

Perhaps it would be different if we were men, if we weren’t threats to the marital prospects of their friends, nieces, or daughters. If we slid seamlessly into the social fabric they’ve created here.

But we aren’t men, and our sex too often has a particular affinity for hitting where it hurts. With a look, we are dismissed, some indescribable quality identifying us as different, as separate from the society we’ve fled to. We’re treated as cuckoos in a nest, as though our presence here will only serve to snatch up the limited marital resources and steal some of the spotlight that is apparently in meager supply in Palm Beach. The truth is, they can keep their prospective husbands; I’ve little use for men these days.

My smile widens, brightening, flashier than the fake jewels at my neck and just as sincere. I lift my chin an inch and scan the crowd, sweeping past Alexander on his knees, looking like a man who hasn’t quite acquired his sea legs, past the Palm Beach guard shooting daggers my way. My gaze rests on my sisters Isabel and Elisa, standing in the corner, deep in conversation, flutes of champagne in hand. Elisa’s husband hovers nearby in that protective way of his. She might no longer be a Perez in name, but the sight of them, the reminder to bow to nothing and no one . . .

I turn back to Alistair.

“Thank you, but I fear I must decline.”

I keep my tone light, as though the whole thing is a giant jest, which I hope it is. People don’t go falling in love and proposing in one fell swoop, do they? Surely that’s . . . inconvenient. I’ve seen the havoc love has wrought on my sisters’ lives, and I’m more than a little glad to have escaped a similar fate.

For a moment, poor Arthur looks stunned by my answer. Perhaps this wasn’t a joke after all. Slowly, he recovers, and the same easy smile on his face that lingered moments before he fell to his knees returns with a vengeance, restoring his countenance to what is likely its natural state: perpetually pleased with himself and the world he inhabits. He grasps my outstretched hand, his palm clammy against mine, and pulls himself up with an unsteady sway. A soft grunt escapes his lips.

His eyes narrow a bit once we’re level—nearly level, at least, given the extra inch my sister’s borrowed heels provide. It truly is a tragic thing when God doesn’t give you the height you deserve. I would like to be an Amazon, preternaturally tall, stalwart and fierce, towering over my foes, rather than a curvy slip of a woman bent by the winds of revolution.

The glint in Alec’s eyes reminds me of a child whose favorite toy has been taken away and will make you pay for it later by throwing a spectacularly effective tantrum. I think I prefer the honesty of it compared to the smile.

“Let me guess, you left someone back in Cuba?” he asks, enough of a bite in his tone to nip at my skin.

Men so do enjoy pursuing that which they cannot have.

My diamond smile reappears. Honed at my mother’s knee and so very useful in situations like these, the edges sharp and brittle, warning the recipient of the perils of coming too close.

I bite, too.

“Something like that,” I reply in a casual drawl.

Now that one of their own is back on his feet, no longer prostrate in front of the interloper they’ve been forced to tolerate this social season, the crowd turns its attention from us with a sniff, a sigh, and a flurry of bespoke gowns. We possess just enough money and influence—it turns out sugar is nearly as lucrative in America as it is in Cuba—that they can’t afford to cut us directly, but not nearly enough to prevent them from devouring us like a sleek pack of wolves scenting red meat. Fidel Castro has made beggars of all of us, and for that alone, I’d thrust a knife through his heart.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, the walls are too close together, the lights in the ballroom too bright, my bodice too tight, and my heart bleeds out over the elegant parquet floor. Acting as though everything is effortless is surprisingly exhausting, and pretending that their disdain is beyond my notice even more so.

It’s been nearly a year since we left Cuba for what was supposed to be a few months away, until the world realized what Fidel Castro had done to our island—before Cubans came to their senses and understood he wasn’t the savior they sought, but rather a charlatan hungry for power. Hardly better than President Batista, and with each day that passes, I fear far worse.

America has welcomed us into her loving embrace—almost.

I am surrounded by people who don’t want me here, even if their contempt hides behind a polite smile and feigned sympathy. They look down their patrician noses at me because my family hasn’t been in America since the country’s founding or hadn’t sailed on a boat from England, or some nonsense like that. They think their sons are too good to dance with me, their daughters too precious to speak to me. Thanks to my education, I speak English well enough, if not for the faintest accent, but that’s not enough for them. My features are a hint too dark, my voice too foreign, my religion too Catholic, my last name too Cuban. I am not one of them, and they won’t let me forget it.

And at the same time . . .

There is no quarter in Cuba right now for differing from Fidel in the slightest. They’re killing Perezes in Havana, so we must make do with the life we borrow in Palm Beach.

It is a strange thing to lack a corner of the world to call your own, to feel as though you are reviled wherever you go. In Havana, we are ostracized for having too much. In Palm Beach, we are written off for not being enough, dismissed as being of little use by a society that defines itself by how high one has climbed until one has reached a rarified status and can prevent all others from occupying the same space.

In truth, we did the same in Havana, and look where it has landed us.

The past tugs at me each moment, the memory of what we left behind a constant ache. The present hurls me back to the airport lounge at Rancho Boyeros airport—now renamed by Castro to Jose Martí airport—waiting in between our old life and an uncertain future. It’s easy to not feel like any of this counts, as though this year we’ve spent in Palm Beach is a placeholder, a dress rehearsal for a different life. What will we care for their contempt when we have returned home?

In a flash, an elderly woman who looks suspiciously like Anderson’s mother approaches us, sparing me a cutting look no doubt designed to knock me down a peg or two—as though a pair of steely gray eyes compares to the face of a firing squad—before turning her attention to her son. In a cloud of Givenchy, he’s swept away until I’m left standing alone, my fall from grace on full display.

If I had my way, we wouldn’t attend these parties, save this one, wouldn’t attempt to ingratiate ourselves to Palm Beach society; they and their stuffy opinions can hang, for all I care. Of course, it isn’t about me and what I want. It’s about my mother and sisters, and my father’s need to extend his business empire through these social connections so no one ever has the power to destroy us again.

And of course, as always, it’s about Alejandro.

I perform another visual sweep of the ballroom. There must be two hundred people here tonight, surrounded by walls adorned in gold leaf, entombed in their unwritten rules and code. We had them in Havana, too, and while some things translate, others don’t. I’ve learned the basics, but there are subtle nuances I’ve yet to grasp.

I turn on my heel and head for one of the open balconies off the ballroom, the hem of my gown gathered in hand, careful to keep from tearing the delicate fabric. We have a system in place for re-wearing and repurposing gowns; there’s an art to appearing far wealthier than you really are.

I slip through one of the open doors and step out onto the stone terrace, a breeze from the water blowing the skirt of my dress. There’s the barest hint of a chill in the air, or at least as close to one as South Florida experiences, the sky is clear, the stars are shining down, and the moon is full. The sound of the ocean is a dull, distant roar. It’s the noise of my childhood and my adulthood calling to me like a Siren’s song. I close my eyes, a sting there, pretending for a moment that I’m standing on another balcony, in another country, in another time. What would happen if I left the party behind and headed for the water, removed the pinching shoes and curled my toes in the sand, let the ocean pool around my ankles?

I close my eyes, moisture gathering in the corners, a tear trickling down my cheek. Just one.

I never imagined it was possible to miss a place this much.

When I open my eyes again, I turn, rubbing my damp cheek with the back of my hand, my gaze on the corner of the balcony, the palms swaying in the distance—

A man stands off to the side of the house, one side of him shrouded in darkness, the rest illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. He’s tall. Blond hair—nearly reddish, really. His arms are braced against the railing, his broad shoulders straining the back of his tailored tuxedo, as though he, too, knows a thing about cramped ballrooms and strangling obligations.

He’s so still he could be a statue.

I didn’t come here for company, and if I’m honest, I’ve more than had my fill of Americans. I take a step back, and then another, about to turn around, when he turns—

Oh.

Oh.

The thing about people telling you you’re beautiful your whole life is that the more you hear it, the more meaningless it becomes. What does “beautiful” even mean, anyway? That your features are randomly arranged in a shape that someone, somewhere, arbitrarily decided is pleasing. “Beautiful” never quite matches up to the other things you could be—smart, interesting, brave. And yet . . .

He’s beautiful. Blindingly so. Shockingly so.

For a moment that stretches on and on, I can’t look away.

He appears as though he’s been painted in broad strokes, his visage immortalized by exuberant sweeps and swirls of the artist’s brush, a god come down to meddle in the affairs of mere mortals.

Irritatingly beautiful.

In that moment, I hate him just a little bit. He looks like the sort of man who has never had to wonder if he’ll have a roof over his head, or if his father will die in a cage with eight other men, or face a firing squad, or had to flee the only life he has ever known. Surely he’s never held his murdered twin in his arms, blood spilling over that pristine tuxedo. No, he looks like the sort of man who is told he is perfection from the moment he wakes in the morning to the moment his head hits the pillow at night.

He’s noticed me, too.

Golden Boy leans against the balcony railing, his broad arms crossed in front of his chest. His gaze—piercing blue eyes—begins at the top of my head, where Isabel and I fussed with the style for an hour, cursing the absence of a maid to help us. From my dark hair, he traverses the length of my face, down to the décolletage exposed by the gown’s low bodice, the gaudy fake jewels that suddenly make me feel unmistakably cheap, as though he can see that I am an impostor and he is the real deal, to my waist and my hips, lingering there.

A tingle slides down my spine, goose bumps pricking my skin.

I take another step back.

“Am I to call you cousin?”

I freeze, his voice holding me in place as surely as a hand coming to rest possessively on my waist, as though he is the sort of man used to bending others to his will with little to no effort at all.

I loathe such men.

His voice sounds like what I am now learning passes for money in this country: smooth, crisp, and devoid of any hint of foreignness—the wrong kind, at least. The kind of voice that is secure in the knowledge that every word will be savored.

I arch my brow. “Excuse me?”

He reaches between us and grabs my hand, his skin warm, his thumb rubbing over my bare ring finger. His touch is a shock to my system, waking me from the slumber of a party I tired of hours ago. His mouth quirks in a smile as he looks up, his gaze connecting with mine, little lines crinkling around his eyes. How nice to see that even gods have flaws.

“Andrew’s my cousin,” he offers by way of explanation, his tone faintly amused.

I find that most rich people who are still, in fact, rich, manage to pull this off, as though a dollop more amusement would be atrociously gauche.

Andrew. The fifth marriage proposal has a name. And the man before me likely has a prestigious one—is he a Preston, or merely related to one, like Andrew?

“We were all waiting with breathless anticipation to see what you would say,” he comments.

There’s that faint amusement again, a weapon of sorts when honed appropriately. He possesses the same edge to him everyone here seems to have, except I get the sense that under all of that seriousness, he is laughing with me, not at me, which is a welcome change.

I grace him with a smile, the edges sanded down a bit. “Your cousin has an impeccable sense of timing and an obvious appreciation for drawing a crowd.”

“Not to mention excellent taste,” he counters smoothly—too smoothly—returning my smile with one of his own.

My breath hitches.

He was handsome before, but this is simply ridiculous.

He leans back against the stone railing once more, his long legs crossed at the ankle. My gaze drops to the soles of his shoes, to the scuffs there, seizing on that imperfection.

“True,” I agree. I have little use for false modesty these days; if you’re not going to fight for yourself, who will?

“No wonder you’ve whipped everyone into a frenzy,” he replies, appreciation in his gaze.

I arch my brow once more, for a moment feeling as though I have indeed gone back in time to when I was a different person, my problems far simpler. To when I enjoyed flirting with men on balconies and in ballrooms and the like.

“Me?”

He chuckles, the sound low and seductive, like the first sip of rum curling in your belly.

“You know the effect you have.” There’s that admiration again. “I saw you in the ballroom.”

How did I miss him? He’s not the sort of man who blends in with the crowd.

“And what did you see?” I ask, emboldened by the fact that his gaze has yet to drift.

“You.”

My heartbeat quickens.

He pushes off from the balcony railing, taking a step toward me, then another, and then another, until only a foot separates us, his golden, blond frame looming over me.

“Just you,” he says, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the ocean and the wind.

His eyes are the color of the deep parts of the water off the Malecón.

“I didn’t see you.”

My own voice sounds husky, like it belongs to someone else, someone who is rattled by this.

My gaze has yet to drift from him, too.

His eyes widen slightly, a dimple denting his cheek, another imperfection to hoard, even if it adds more character than flaw.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

I curl my fingers into a ball to keep from giving into temptation, to keep from reaching out and laying my palm against his cheek. “I’d venture a guess that you have plenty of people making you feel special all the time.”

There’s that smile again. “That I do,” he acknowledges with a tip of his head.

I shift until we stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the moonlit sky. He gives me a sidelong look. “I imagine it’s true, then?”

“What’s true?”

“They say you ruled like a queen in Havana.”

I have no time left for such frivolities. Over a year ago, I would have accepted the distinction as my due. Now—

“There are no queens in Havana. Only a tyrant who aims to be king.”

“I take it you aren’t a fan of the revolutionaries?” he asks, interest in his voice.

“It depends on the revolutionaries to whom you refer. Some have their uses. Fidel and his ilk are little more than vultures feasting on the carrion that has become Cuba.” I walk forward, sidestepping him so the full skirt of my dress swishes against his elegant tuxedo pants. I feel him behind me, his breath on my nape, but I don’t look back. “Batista needed to be eliminated. In that, they succeeded. Now, if only we could rid ourselves of the victors—”

I turn, facing him.

His gaze has sharpened from an indolent gleam to something far more interesting. “And replace them with what, exactly?” he asks, his tone silk sliding over my bare skin.

“A leader who cares about Cubans, about their future. Who is willing to remove the island from the Americans’ yoke,” I say, caring little for the fact that he is an American and acknowledging the line that has already been drawn in the sand between us. I am not one of them and have no desire to pretend to be. “A leader who will reduce sugar’s influence,” I add. “One who will bring us true democracy and freedom.”

He’s silent, his gaze appraising once again, and I’m not sure if it’s the wind, my imagination, or his breath against my neck, but goose bumps rise over my skin again.

“You’re a dangerous girl, Beatriz Perez.”

My lips curve. So he asked someone for my name.

I tilt my head to the side, studying him, trying desperately to fight the faint prick of pleasure at the phrase “dangerous girl” and the fact that he knows my name.

“Dangerous for who?” I tease.

He doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t have to.

Another smile. Another dent in his cheeks. “I’ll bet you left a trail of broken hearts behind you.”

I shrug, registering how his gaze is drawn to my bare shoulder.

“A proposal or two, perhaps.”

“Rum scions and sugar barons, or wild-haired, bearded freedom fighters?”

I laugh. “Let’s just say my tastes are varied.” I turn so it’s no longer just his profile that’s visible to me. “I kissed Che Guevara once.”

I can’t tell who is more surprised by the announcement. I don’t know why I said it, why I’m sharing a secret not even my family knows with a total stranger. To shock him, maybe; these Americans are so easy to scandalize. To warn him that I am not some simpering debutante, that I have done and seen things he cannot fathom. And also, perhaps, because there’s some power in it—the lengths to which you will go to secure your father’s release from Guevara’s hellhole of a prison, La Cabaña. It makes a good story, even if I inwardly cringe at the young girl whose hubris made her think a kiss could save a life.

Whatever arrogance I had, Fidel whittled away.

“Did you enjoy it?” Golden Boy asks, his expression utterly inscrutable, a clever and effective mask sliding into place. I can’t tell if he’s scandalized, or if he feels sorry for me; I far prefer their scorn to their pity.

“The kiss?”

He nods.

“I would have preferred to cut his throat.”

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at my bloodthirsty response.

“Then why did you do it?”

I surprise myself—and perhaps him—by going with the truth rather than prevarication.

“Because I was tired of things happening to me, and I wanted to make things happen for myself. Because I was trying to save someone’s life.”

“And did you?”

The taste of defeat fills my mouth with ash.

“That time, I did.”

The problem is that the wave of power brings another emotion with it, the memory of the life I couldn’t save, of a car screeching to a stop in front of the enormous gates of our home and the door opening, my twin brother’s still-warm, dead body tumbling to the ground, his blood staining the steps we once played on when we were children, his head cradled in my lap while I sobbed.

“Is it as bad as everyone says?” he asks, his tone gentled to something I can hardly bear.

“Worse.”

“I can’t imagine—”

“No, you can’t.” I take a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs, staving off the panic creeping toward me. “You have no idea how fortunate you are to be born in this time, in this place. Without freedom, you have nothing.”

He doesn’t take his gaze off me, the solemnity in his eyes speaking to the sort of man he is. The understanding there surprises me and gives the impression that, despite the differences in our nationalities and stations in life, we might be more similar than I originally thought.

“And what would you tell a man with only a few minutes of freedom left?” he asks.

“To run,” I reply, my tone wry.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t buying what I’m selling, and I like him a bit better for it, for seeing past the facade.

“To savor the last few minutes he has,” I answer instead.

I know a thing or two about cages.

He nods as though he can read the truth in my answer.

Who is he?

Part of me wants to ask his name, but my pride holds me back a bit. And if I’m being completely honest, it isn’t just my pride—it’s my fear.

Such luxuries have no place in my life at the moment.

I blink, only to be greeted by an outstretched palm, waiting for mine to join it.

“Dance with me,” he says, and even though the words are phrased as a command, the question contained there is what strikes me the most—that and the earnestness.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, cocking my head to the side, studying him, pretending my heart isn’t thundering in my chest, that my hand isn’t itching to take his.

“Now, why does that feel more like a challenge than an invitation?”

The music is a faint hum in the background of the evening, the notes drifting out onto the balcony.

“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser of revolutionaries and thief of hearts?”

He’s too smooth by half, and I like him far too much for it.

I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”

He smiles again, that full wattage hitting me. “No, I did.”

Do I really even stand a chance?

He steps forward, obliterating the space between us, his cologne filling my nostrils, my eyes level with the snowy white front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest on my waist, the heat from his palm warming me through the thin fabric of my dress. He takes my hand with his free one, our fingers entwined, our bodies closer than I normally dance with men I don’t know.

What is happening to me?

My heart turns over in my chest as I follow his lead, as the music fills me. Unsurprisingly, he’s a natural, confident, elegant dancer.

We don’t speak, but then again, considering the conversation between our bodies—the rustle of fabric, the brushing of limbs, the fleeting touches that imprint themselves upon my skin—words seem superfluous and far less intimate.

The thing about collecting marriage proposals is that people assume you’re a flirt. And perhaps I was, once, long ago, but now, it feels unnatural to play the coquette. I am somewhere between the girl I was and the woman I want to be.

The song ends and another begins with far too much speed, the dance equal parts stretching for eternity and ending with a blink. He releases me with a subtle heave of his shoulders, the cool air between us, my fingers missing the twine of his, the shock of his absence surprisingly sharp.

I tip my head up to look into his eyes, steeling myself against the onslaught of flirtation that is likely to come, the invitation to lunch or dinner, the compliments about my dancing, the heat in his gaze. I have no use for romantic entanglements at the moment, even though part of me thinks I would very much like to be temporarily entangled with this man.

He smiles. “Thank you for the dance.”

A glimmer of something that might be regret flashes in those eyes—or perhaps it’s my own imagination—before he inclines his head and turns back for the ballroom.

I watch him walk away, rooted to the spot, my heart hammering in my chest, secure in the knowledge that he will turn around and look back at me.

He doesn’t.

I turn once he’s disappeared back into the ballroom, into the world where he clearly belongs. I stare at the swaying palms, at the water, attempting to get my traitorous heart under control. Minutes pass before I’m ready to return to the ballroom, to the glittering chandeliers, the harsh glint of the other guests. The world where I will never belong.

I pass through the balcony doors to find Isabel standing off to the side, Elisa nowhere to be seen.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” Isabel says when I ask about our sister’s whereabouts. “Juan took her home.”

A waiter approaches us with a tray of champagne flutes in hand, more waiters around the ballroom doing the same thing. A murmur resounds through the ballroom, whispers tucked behind cupped hands, names on everyone’s lips, the calm before a scandal breaks.

Curious as to the piece of gossip they’re all eager to seize upon, I scan the crowd, looking for Golden Boy, looking for—

He stands next to the orchestra near the front of the ballroom with an older couple and a woman.

Oh.

Oh.

There’s no point in dissecting her flaws, for I fear it would be a useless endeavor and do me no favors. It’s clear as can be that her family did hail on a great big ship at this nation’s founding, that she’s stunning with her blond hair and delicate features, the perfect complement to his golden looks. Her gown is the height of fashion, her jewels certainly not paste, a pretty smile affixed to her face.

And who can blame her for smiling?

I join the rest of the ballroom in lifting my champagne flute and toasting the happy couple, as the bride’s father announces his daughter’s engagement to Nicholas Randolph Preston III. He is not just a Preston—he is the Preston. The sitting U.S. Senator rumored to have aspirations of reaching the White House one day.

Our gazes meet across the ballroom.

How could I not see this coming a mile away? In the end, life always comes down to timing. It’s New Year’s Eve, 1958, and your world is parties and shopping trips; it’s New Year’s Day, 1959, and it’s soldiers, guns, and death. You meet a man on a balcony, and for a moment you forget yourself, only to be reminded once again how mercurial fate can be.

I drain the glass in one unladylike gulp.

And then I see him—the one I came for—and nothing else matters anymore.

A different sort of awareness hums through my veins as I spy a man in the corner, standing on the fringes of the party, Nicholas Randolph Preston III a ghost of a memory.

This man is short and stout, his hair balding at the top, his nose better suited to a larger face. He wears his tuxedo like it’s strangling him rather than as though he was born to it. Through the research I’ve done, I know he’s invited to these parties for one reason and one reason only: His wife is the darling of the charity circuit, her maiden name whispered with reverence throughout the ballroom. He clearly prefers the comfort of the shadows, every inch of him reinforcing the intelligence I’ve received. He’s a man who isn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves and dirty his hands, who enjoys moving world leaders around like they are pieces on a chessboard, wiping the whole lot of them out with a crushing and fatal blow.

He is the CIA’s man on Latin America. They say he has been suspicious of Fidel from the beginning, even when others in the agency were not. In the growing exile circles in Miami and Palm Beach, people whisper that he has a plan to do something about Cuba, about the situation ravaging my country.

I didn’t come here to dance with a prince on a moonlit balcony, and I lied before, when Nicholas Randolph Preston III—soon-to-be-married U.S. Senator—asked me about freedom. I would savor it for a moment.

And then I’d fight like hell to make sure it was never, ever taken away from me again.

As nice as moonlit dances with princes are, I came here with more important business at hand. I came to meet the man who is going to help me avenge my brother’s death and kill Fidel Castro.