My nightgown is sheer white lace, leaving entirely too little to the imagination. And still, modesty aside, my mother counseled me that pleasing my husband would make my marriage more bearable—the gleam in his eyes, the manner in which his gaze rakes me over, assures me I have succeeded.

“Come here,” Anthony commands.

I walk toward him on shaky legs, heat spreading throughout my body. Between the gown’s immodest slashes and dips of fabric, the hazy, filmy gauze covering my skin, I’m practically bare before him.

I stop out of reach. I can’t make myself take that final step.

“You’re scared.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He sighs. “I know what they say about me.”

“It’s not only that.”

“But it doesn’t help, does it?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Where I’m from, there’s an advantage to people fearing you, to thinking you capable of about anything,” Anthony replies. “With fear comes respect; otherwise, the world tears you apart. When I was a kid, I watched my father get shot on the street because he owed the wrong people some money. It wasn’t even a lot of money, but it was enough for them to make an example of him.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“It taught me that in order to be safe, to keep the people I loved safe, to hold on to the things I built, I had to be strong, too. Strong enough that no one could take anything from me again.”

The world he describes isn’t so different from the one I grew up in; politics in Cuba is a particularly bloodthirsty sport. And still, I very much doubt my father is capable of the things this man has done.

I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure I’m ready for the answers to the questions running through my mind.

“You can ask me anything. You’re my wife.”

The sincerity in his voice surprises me. As does the reverence he injects in the word “wife.”

“My parents loved each other before my father was killed. Very much. I’m not interested in a bloodless society marriage.”

“How is this supposed to be a real marriage?” I sputter. “We know nothing of each other.”

Anthony closes the distance between us and reaches out, trailing his fingers down my arm as though he is attempting to soothe a skittish colt.

Goose bumps rise over my skin.

“I want more from you,” he says. “I want everything.”

“You didn’t—” I suck in a deep breath, gathering my courage. “We haven’t—”

“Why haven’t I bedded you yet?” he finishes for me.

My cheeks burn.

“Not for lack of desire, I assure you,” he replies, his tone wry.

“Then why?”

“Because our marriage got off to a shaky start, and I don’t want to risk our future by rushing you into something you’re not ready for. When you end up in my bed, I want it to be because you want to be there. Because you want me.” Anthony leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Good night.”

My body is a riot of emotions and unfamiliar sensations, the desire his casual caresses have ignited sending off sparks inside me.

“That’s it?”

He grins. “I think it’s best if it is for now. I want to make you happy in this marriage, Mirta. Just give me a chance.”

He walks away, and I am left staring at his retreating back, torn between relief and disappointment.

I spend the night reading Anthony’s copy of Tortilla Flat, wondering if he will return to the bedroom, worrying over where he has gone and what he’s doing.

At some point, I fall asleep, and when I wake, the book is back on the nightstand, the bookmark moved from the spot where Anthony had marked it to where I left off, his side of the bed empty.

Where is my husband?

Seven

Elizabeth

It’s dark when we arrive at Upper Matecumbe Key, our surroundings considerably less welcome than the ones we encountered in Key West. Here the area is relatively barren, the landscape populated by an odd rickety cottage on stilts. So far I’ve counted more wild animals than people, the heavy brush home to all manner of creatures.

After our initial attempts at conversation, Sam and I descended into silence for the rest of the journey, but despite my best efforts to ignore him, the closer we get to our final destination, the more I struggle to stay quiet, the starkness of our surroundings setting off a whole host of questions inside me.

Perhaps it looks better in the light of day with the glittering sun to recommend it, but at the moment, I can’t see it. What would possess someone to come down here?

“Did you fight in the Great War?” I ask Sam.

“I did.”

“You must have been little more than a boy at the time.”

“I was eighteen. Marched myself down to the nearest recruiting station.”

“When you came back—were you—”

“Affected by what I’d seen?”

“Yes.”

“How could I not be?”

“How did you move on?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think of it much, I suppose. I just did.”

Sam navigates a turn down an even rougher road than the one we were on.

The farther we drive, the more I begin to doubt the wisdom of coming here without a better plan.

“Are you going to tell me more about what brought you down here from New York City?” Sam asks.

“That’s personal.”

He gives a sharp laugh. “As though you haven’t been trying to excavate my past for the last few hours?”

“It’s not as though you gave me much to work with,” I retort.

“You got more than most.” He grins, the gesture softening the harsh planes of his face, making him appear years younger. “Has anyone told you you’re pretty observant?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, you are. It’s a good quality; it’ll serve you well in life.”

“Unfortunately, it’s yet to be of much use.”

“Why did you come down here by yourself?” Sam asks. “There wasn’t a family member who could travel with you?”