“Are we safe to stay in the house tonight?” I ask Anthony.

“It’s probably the best shelter we can hope for considering the circumstances. The car’s gone, and I wouldn’t want to venture out in this weather anyway.”

Anthony drags the body toward the water, wading into the sea as I watch from my perch near the porch. There’s some wrestling and some cursing, Anthony disappearing into the dark night as my heart pounds, waiting for his safe return.

What seems like an age passes before I spy him walking back to the house.

“It’s bad out there,” he says, his voice grim.

“What did you do with him?”

“He’s tangled up in some mangroves now. Hopefully when the tide comes back, it’ll carry him off somewhere else. Either way, with how strong this storm was, people will likely turn up all over the place.”

I shiver at the macabre thought, at the image it presents, and Anthony wraps his arm around me, leading me back toward the house.

It isn’t until much later, when we are nearly asleep, Anthony’s fingers entwined with mine, that I glance down at my hand and realize my engagement ring is gone.

Twenty-Four

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1935

Helen

When I wake, there is light. Not the bright sunlight I’m used to, but a muted shade that signifies day has broken, albeit reluctantly.

John stands near one of the cottage windows, the shutters ripped off long ago in the storm, Lucy in his arms.

“Is it over?” I ask.

“You’re awake.” He walks over, handing Lucy to me. He looks away as I adjust her so she can nurse.

Half the roof is gone, the remnants of the rising water in the cabin still visible, but we’re no longer moving.

“It’s over, but I’m not entirely sure where we are,” John answers. “Up by Windley Key, maybe? It appears like we were swept north, but the landscape isn’t like anything I remember seeing. All the trees are gone. Everything is gone. There are holes where you can tell there used to be something, but I don’t know what.”

“I can’t believe I fell asleep. That I didn’t wake up.”

“Your body went through a huge shock between the delivery and the storm. You needed the rest. The worst part was already over when you started dozing off. We’ve been beached here for hours.”

My senses are dulled, sluggish. There is Lucy—piercing through the haze—but everything else seems as though it’s happening to someone else, as though I am someone else. There’s Tom out there somewhere, but at this moment, we are truly alone in the world, and I haven’t come to terms with all that has happened or how much we have endured.

I have no idea what comes next.

I gaze down at the baby nursing comfortably on my breast. “Is she doing all right? She seems healthy.”

He smiles. “I’d say she’s a fighter. Her mother, too.”

“I didn’t do anything—just rode out the storm.”

“I couldn’t have gotten through it without you. You helped me keep it together. Stayed strong for me, for her, too. Now we have to get out of here. There’s some canned supplies over in the kitchen area, but water’s going to be a problem eventually, and you really should be checked out by a doctor. Same with Lucy.

“The cabin seems to be fine on this stretch of beach,” he adds. “It’s not going anywhere. I wouldn’t recommend taking Lucy out in this until we know what the conditions are like. I don’t want to leave you, but it’s best for you two to stay here. Lie in bed and get some rest. I’ll see if there’s someone nearby to help.”

John leans down, and his lips ghost across my forehead. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Twenty-Five

Mirta

We huddle together on the settee in the living room, our limbs intertwined, Anthony’s long legs hanging off the edge. It’s hardly comfortable, and we’re unable to piece together more than a few hours of sleep, but considering how bad the storm was, it’s a miracle we made it through the night.

When the sun comes up, its rays are dimmed considerably.

“I need to go out and see how bad this is. Try to get help.” Anthony hesitates. “I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Mirta.”

“You said it yourself—you don’t want to leave me. The aftermath of a storm can be difficult. Looters and the like. We’ve experienced the same thing in Havana. Not to mention this Frank Morgan situation—you don’t know who’s out there, and I don’t want to worry that there are more men coming after us.”

Anthony picks up the gun and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. “Let’s go, then.”

My hand tightly clasped in his, we set out of the house in search of assistance. Our feet hit the top step of the porch before we freeze. The view we’ve grown accustomed to these past few days is completely gone. The trees that framed the entrance to the house—towering palms with fat coconuts hanging from them—are nowhere to be found. Nor are the coconuts. The sand has been swept all over the porch, the steps from the house to the beach another casualty of the storm. An icebox rests on its side, and I’m fairly certain it’s not the house’s icebox.

The roof is gone from large sections of the house, windows blown out, walls ragged and lilting like a bomb has exploded. The porch sags in places where it appears as though the railings were ripped away by the wind.

There is all manner of debris strewn about—foliage from the mangroves, palm fronds, clothes I don’t recognize as ours.

My gaze sweeps over the beach and rests on a white wooden object sitting on curved legs.

Pink painted ribbons adorn the side, and I can barely make out a name—

Ruth.

It’s a cradle.

I run toward it, my heart in my throat, listening for the sound of a baby’s cries—

It’s empty.

“Mirta.”

Anthony wraps his arms around me from behind and holds me tight against him.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight of that name painstakingly painted on the wood. “Do you think the baby is safe? There’s no sign of a body, but the nearest house must be at least a mile away. How could—”

“I’m sure the baby’s fine,” Anthony replies, his tone belying the certainty in his words. “The cradle probably blew away in the storm.”