“Somehow, I don’t think you can. It’s easier for men, isn’t it? Thank heavens I wasn’t born a homely girl in addition to being a single one, hungry and desperate, consigned to doing extra washing and dreaming of a future that will never come.”

This depression is hard on all of us, but it’s hardest on the women still. So many women dreamed of marriage and having families, but these days fewer and fewer people are getting married. Others dreamed of careers, only to be scolded for taking jobs away from men.

“They say that the worst is over,” Sam replies.

I’m hardly surprised one of the government’s employees buys the lies they’re selling.

“They would say that, wouldn’t they?” I retort. “It can’t get any worse when you’ve already lost everything.” I stare out the window, watching the scenery pass us by. It is beautiful here—untamed and wild. For all that Manhattan is heavily populated, New York society is actually quite small, and when we lost everything, there was no privacy to be had, our failures laid out for all to see. I can understand the appeal of coming down here to disappear, the respite from the whispers and gossips. With the ocean at your back, the sun on your face, the sand beneath your toes, there are worse places you could end up.

Surely, I’ll find him this weekend.

I have to.

Six

Mirta

After lunch, once someone helps Anthony patch the tire, we are back on the road, continuing our journey north as we pass most of the drive in silence until we arrive at No Name Key. There we board a ferry to Lower Matecumbe Key, the sun nearing its descent. Anthony is quiet, a grim expression on his face for much of the journey. He’s obviously displeased by the delay brought on by the flat tire, and I struggle to lighten his mood, until I simply give up entirely and doze the remainder of the trip. When I wake, it is to the sight of my husband’s brown eyes staring down at me, watching me. We disembark the ferry and are back in the car again for another short drive before we arrive at the place where we are to spend our honeymoon.

The residence is a surprise: a large, white beach house with a wraparound porch and dark shutters. Towering palm trees frame the entryway, adding to the secluded setting.

Romantic.

“The old money is at Flagler’s fishing camp on Long Key,” Anthony comments. “Vanderbilts and the like.”

He needn’t say more. There are some things no amount of money can buy, and it’s apparent that respectability is as impregnable in the United States as it is in Cuba.

He parks our car, and we are greeted by a skeleton staff that will see to our needs while we are here. We make our way through the house, and one of the caretakers—he introduces himself as Gus—leads us up to the master bedroom and sets down my suitcases near the wooden armoire opposite the bed. I am greeted by pale green walls, large windows offering a view of the ocean and sandy beach.

“There’s no electricity in these parts, but you can use the kerosene lamps at night. You’re lucky—the house has plumbing, which is rare around here,” Gus says.

My gaze darts to my husband.

Anthony leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He removed his jacket when we left Key West, the top down on the car, the air heavy with an impending storm, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. His white shirtsleeves are rolled up to expose his tanned forearms, a sprinkling of dark hair there. His gaze is on me.

The caretaker leaves the room as quietly as he entered, and we are alone, the great big bed between us.

Surely, he can’t mean for us . . . Heat rises along the back of my neck.

“Would you like to go for a swim?” Anthony asks, a smile playing on his lips as though he can read my mind and my desire to do anything to prolong the time before my wedding night. We didn’t spend the night together in Havana after our businesslike marriage. Anthony said a casino hotel was no place for his wife, and I don’t think either one of us was comfortable with taking a room under my parents’ roof. Awkward enough to share such intimacies with a stranger, even more so in the house where I grew up.

Tonight it is, then.

“It’s nearly dark,” I say.

“Not quite, though. There’s probably an hour of daylight left. We have the beach to ourselves, or so I’m told,” Anthony adds, excitement in his gaze that could almost be described as boyish.

I suppose when you live in New York City, the beach is still a novelty, and on the bright side, it buys me a reprieve from marital relations.

He leaves me alone, and I change quickly into one of the bathing suits I purchased for my trousseau.

Anthony waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, clad in his swim trunks, a towel wrapped around his neck.

Did they stow his luggage in a separate bedroom? Will we share a room while we’re here or maintain separate bedrooms like my parents have throughout my life? Is this the sort of thing one discusses with a spouse, or does it happen organically, through some mutual, unspoken agreement?

“Ready?” he asks.

Hardly.

I follow him to the water.

* * *

—

We walk along the beach, the waves breaking beside us. A breeze comes off the water, alleviating the heat slightly, but the air is stickier than I’m used to, pregnant with humidity. Anthony moves to the spot closest to the water, and something about the movement is reassuring—that act of kindness, that chivalry, the fact that he cares enough to spare me this small indignity.

He is rougher around the edges than the men—boys, really—I’m used to. While there’s nothing outwardly objectionable to his manners, the way he carries himself, it is impossible to miss the fact that he comes from a different world than the one I inhabited in Cuba.

What sort of man have I married?

“It’s beautiful here,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the water.

It is beautiful in a wild, rugged sort of way, although in truth, I’m not sure anything holds a candle to Cuba.

Our pale pink home in the Miramar neighborhood in Havana occupies nearly the entire block, trees surrounding the landscape. The house has been in our family for generations, and one day it will be my brother Emilio’s, the place where he raises his children. I used to spend hours swimming in the pool in the backyard, my skin growing wrinkled from the water. Whenever I think of home, I see those sturdy walls, the bright Cuban sky.

“You’ve probably seen your share of beautiful beaches,” Anthony adds.

“I have.”

Cuba, for all of her faults and foibles, is unquestionably stunning. Maybe that’s the problem; there’s a double-edged sword to beauty and all the interest—good and bad—it attracts.