“I’m leaving tomorrow for a fishing trip. I’ll be back in a few days.”

His absence brings an immediate sense of relief, a gulp of air in my lungs, but still—

“The storm—”

I try to tread carefully, existing in half sentences and thoughts, whittling down my existence to the least likely to make him angry.

“Storm’s nowhere near us,” he retorts. “I heard the latest report. It’ll be fine.”

The sad thing is that as much as I want him gone, I’m also afraid. What if the baby comes early, what if—

He must have read the fear in my eyes, because his expression darkens. “Who puts food on this table?”

“You do,” I whisper.

“Damn straight.”

The floor is hard against my back, and I try to push myself up into a seated position, try to make my legs move, but the weight in my stomach upends my balance and pushes me back again.

Tom makes a sound of disgust and gives me his hand, and despite the desire to turn away, I take it, letting him pull me off the ground. When I’m standing on my own, I pull out the change, still stained with John’s blood when those men stabbed him.

I place the coins in Tom’s outstretched palm, fighting the wave of anger, the desire to take back the money and squirrel it away somewhere.

He does a quick scan and slips the change into his pocket.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces, and after nine years of marriage, I know I am to follow him.

We fall into our evening routine in silence, our earlier fight fading into the background.

I wince as I remove my clothes, slipping the worn cotton nightgown over my head, my wrist throbbing with the effort.

There’s a moment when my head hits the pillow that I fear Tom will roll over and face me, pressing himself on me, his body looming over mine. At this point in my pregnancy, our marital intimacy has lessened considerably, but there’s still enough of a spark of fear inside me to have me lying as still as possible, regulating my breathing, hoping he believes I have fallen asleep.

My husband doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

Minutes pass, a creak of the bed, a rustling of the sheets, and I hear it—a soft snore, and another, and another.

I stare up at the ceiling, the baby moving around in my belly, the pain in my wrist lessening not one bit. The night is quiet, the water a distant sound, the creatures that inhabit the mangroves surrounding our cottage scurrying around. I rise from the bed with a wince, padding to the front cottage window, my uninjured hand pressing against the small of my back to relieve some of the pressure from my midsection. I stare out at the sky, up at the moon, the stars, imagining a life as far away from here as I could get.

Paradise.

Through the trees, I see a spark of flame—like the end of a cigarette.

It’s too dark to make out the man holding it, but I know it’s him, and I wonder if John can see me in the moonlight, if he knows I’m standing here watching him.

I remain at the window far longer than I should, far longer than is wise, before returning to my place beside Tom in bed, before I close my eyes, and I remember the sensation of holding that post, of swinging with all my might, and the satisfying crack of hearing the wood strike Henry’s skull as I watched him fall to the ground.

When I dream, I am back in the woods outside Ruby’s Café, and this time Tom is on the ground, blood seeping from his skull, his eyes lifeless, as I stand over him, the post in my hand and vengeance coursing through my veins.

Nine

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1935

Mirta

When I come downstairs for breakfast the next morning, Anthony is seated at the spacious dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of him, a newspaper folded beside his plate. Someone has cut an arrangement of flowers and put them in a vase at the center of the table, the china and linens the same creamy color.

Anthony glances up from the paper with a smile.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I reply.

Where did he sleep last night after he left me alone in the bedroom?

He rises as I walk toward the table, pulling out the chair across from his for me. Before I sit, Anthony leans forward, the scent of his aftershave filling my nostrils, and kisses my cheek.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear.

My cheeks heat. “Thank you.”

I sit down in the chair, waiting while he slides it forward, the domesticity of the moment rattling me once more. He must be a dozen or so years older than me, but we have, what—forty more years of this? One day, there will likely be children seated at the table with us. I am truly no longer Mirta Perez, but someone else entirely.

“How did you sleep?” Anthony asks as one of the staff emerges from the kitchen, setting our breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of us.

“Well,” I lie, not courageous enough to admit to the inordinate amount of time I spent thinking about our new relationship. “How about you?”

His lips curve. “As well as could be expected, I suppose. Would you like the paper?” Anthony gestures toward the folded sheet next to his plate.

In Cuba, my knowledge of current affairs and politics came from my father’s table discussions, from the fear and uncertainty that surrounded our days. It seems wise to learn more about the country I am to inhabit.

I scan the headlines, my husband’s gaze on me. The paper talks of violence and death. A man named Frank Morgan has apparently started a crime wave in New York, and I can’t help but wonder how often my husband’s name graces the pages of these papers with similar stories about his involvement in such matters.

I set down the paper.

“I could get used to this, you know,” Anthony says. “Starting my day with you seated across from me at the table.”

Gus, the caretaker, walks into the dining room, saving me from formulating a suitable response.

“I apologize for interrupting your morning,” he says. “I thought you should know—the storm’s getting worse.”

“Are you worried about it?” Anthony asks him.

“Can’t say for sure right now. People are boarding windows. ’Course, it could miss us entirely. Right now it seems like it’ll hit closer to Cuba.”

“We got out of Havana in time, then.” Anthony turns to me. “Do you want to call your family?”

A lump fills my throat. “I’d like that.”