I scream—

A man emerges from the mangroves at the edge of the property, wearing a pair of ratty overalls with a dirty shirt beneath them. His hair is matted with sweat and sea, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

One of the gardeners, I imagine, his tanned skin roughened from days spent working under the sun.

I give an embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry I screamed. I must have startled you. There was a snake, and, well . . .” I gesture ruefully toward my ridiculous footwear. “I didn’t exactly pack for these conditions.”

He doesn’t speak, merely stares back at me.

I hurry past the spot where the snake crossed in front of me.

The weight of his gaze follows me as I walk toward the mangroves, heading for the opening to the stretch of beach. In Cuba, I was friendly with the staff—most of them had been with the family since I was a little girl. Our gardener, Carlos, taught me all about flowers, and I helped him plant at the start of each season. If I were back home, I would walk up to the man and introduce myself. But here, the rules are different. I am an outsider, noticeably so. The staff keeps their distance, and not just because I don’t quite fit in, but more likely because I am Anthony Cordero’s wife.

People are deferential, and it isn’t only because of his wealth. They fear my husband.

When I look back, the man is gone.

Ten

Elizabeth

I wake early and dress quickly, eager to start the day.

I walk to Sam’s room next door and knock. From my place in the hallway, I can hear the sound of furniture creaking, the rustling of linens, heavy footfalls padding across the floor. The door opens with a creak, and Sam peers through the crevice, his hair mussed, dressed only in his undershirt and a pair of slacks.

“What time is it?” he asks, his voice husky with sleep.

“Just after eight.”

A wince.

“I’ve always been an early riser,” I chirp, letting my eyes wander as I look my fill. There’s something utterly delicious about a rumpled man, and in his sleepy surliness, Sam doesn’t disappoint.

“I’d have guessed you debutantes lounge around in bed for hours.”

“Ex-debutante, remember? Besides, I could never sit still long enough to lounge.” I grin. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a late riser, though.”

Sam rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ve been on a job for a few weeks now. Sleep’s been hard to come by.”

“Sin never sleeps?”

“Something like that.”

“This man you’ve been hunting has to be pretty dangerous to keep you up at night.”

“He is.”

“Well, if he’s as bad as you say, are you sure it’s a good idea to take the morning off? Are you still interested in going with me to the camps today?”

“I am. I can spare a few hours. Just give me time to get dressed.”

“I’m going to walk down by the water. I’ll meet you in front of the inn in”—I take in his appearance, the cross expression on his face, and factor the late hour at which we arrived last night—“thirty minutes?”

“Fine.” Sam closes the door without another word.

I descend the steps quickly, flashing the man behind the desk who checked us in last night a smile.

“Storm’s coming,” he calls out as I walk by.

Sam mentioned something about a storm yesterday. Hopefully, it won’t rain too much before we make it to the camps.

As soon as I step out of the inn, the sound of the ocean hits me, the unfamiliar landscape lending itself to the sensation that I have traveled to a distant land. I couldn’t be anywhere more distinct from Manhattan if I tried. The beach is narrow, the skinny strip of sand bordered by mangroves and swamp. Debris litters the sand—pieces of wood, an empty glass bottle, parts of crates broken up and adrift on the shore—remnants of civilization in a notably uncivilized place.

And still, despite the slender island, the strange little beach, it’s not an entirely unpleasant place. The sun is bright, the air still, the sky clear. It’s beautiful in a wild, wanton sort of way that calls to something inside me yearning to be free.

A girl walks down the sandy path toward the beach. She stops a few feet away from me.

“I was beginning to think I was the only one out here at the end of the world,” I say in greeting.

“Not quite the end of the world,” she calls back, walking closer toward me. “Though, perhaps, one of the less-inhabited corners of it.”

She speaks with an accent that in addition to her glamorous attire furthers the notion that she’s not a local.

I appraise the girl quickly, taking in the trim dress better suited for a stroll on Fifth Avenue, the ostentatious diamond on her ring finger, the sublime rose-colored shoes. She looks and smells like money, and for a moment, I let the scent waft over me, remembering how good it tasted on my tongue—oysters, and exotic fruits, their flavor sweet and tangy running down my throat, champagne, the odor of perfume from Paris. I almost want to stroke the fabric of her dress, if only to feel something other than this cheap, worn material against my skin.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m here on my honeymoon.”

“Congratulations.”

She doesn’t respond with the lovesick smile of a newlywed or the smug expression of a woman who’s snared a prime marital catch. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, so I fill the silence myself.

“I’m Elizabeth.”

After my family’s disgrace, my old friends proverbially flew south for the winter rather than have their good reputation tarnished. Not that I can entirely blame them—a girl’s good name is everything, or so they tell me.

She smiles, and I detect a hint of loneliness there, too.

“Mirta. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Interesting spot for a honeymoon, Mirta.”

“We married in Havana. We’re on our way to New York City. We’re here for a few days, but my husband thought it was a convenient stopping point.”

“What a small world. I came from New York. What’s your husband’s name?”

If there was a single man with a respectable fortune—or a single man with an obscene fortune and a less than respectable reputation—my mother kept tabs on him up until recently.

“Anthony Cordero,” she answers.