With everything we’ve been through together, his presence has been a comfort, and I’m hesitant to separate now.

John must see the indecision and fear in my eyes, because he sits down beside me on the bed and wraps his arm around me.

“I’ll be up there as soon as I can get out of here. I promise. You’ll be in good hands.”

* * *

—

The men come to the cabin an hour later with a boat like John said. My legs are weak from the delivery as I walk from the structure to the water’s edge where the boat waits, and John scoops me up, Lucy cradled in my arms, carrying me the rest of the way, my worn nightgown trailing behind me, my head resting in the curve where his neck and shoulder meet, the scent of sweat and man filling my nostrils. I grip his neck, clinging to him.

We walk past a group of men standing near the shore, looking worse for the wear. One of them seems familiar, and I struggle to place where I have seen him before.

John carries me through the water, his pants growing wet as he wades deeper, until we reach the boat bobbing in the sea.

Neither one of us speaks.

The owner of the vessel has come down from Miami and is the only one who is not sporting visible injuries from the storm, his clothes in far better condition than those of the rest of the survivors.

John sets us down gently, and I clutch Lucy to my breast, the rocking of the waves jostling us.

I want to hold on to John, to the security I have known these past few days, but I force myself to release him.

“I’ll find you as soon as I can get out of here,” he vows.

What happens next? Where will we go? And what awaits us when we get there?

John turns to the man with the boat, and they exchange a few words before we cast off.

I bat at the tears running down my face, crooning to Lucy as she fusses at the pitching of the waves.

It is only once we are out to sea that I recognize the man on the shore—he is the man from Ruby’s, the one with the young, pretty Cuban wife, Mirta. He appears nothing like he did days ago, his clothes dirty and torn, his face haunted.

What happened to his wife?

I hope she is somewhere safe.

I keep my eyes trained to the shore, on John, until the Keys are behind us and he is little more than a speck on the beach, the ocean surrounding us, and we’re alone once more.

Twenty-Seven

Mirta

As exhausted as I am from the night before, I cannot sleep. I wait for Anthony, the gun clasped tightly in my hand, my heart racing at every creak of the house, every noise outside.

The communications are still down—given the destruction caused by the storm they likely will be gone for a very long time—and considering we are cut off from the rest of the world, it’s easy to feel both alone and entirely too cramped on this tiny island. Are there people out there in the night scavenging for whatever they can find? Anthony was right to be concerned earlier—depending on how long it takes for us to be rescued, food and water shortages will likely be a problem.

A noise breaks through the relative silence of the night—a rustling, followed by the fall of footsteps over the floorboards on the front porch.

Gun in hand, I walk from the sitting room to the front door, my heart hammering in my breast.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice shouts, and I open the door in time to see Anthony make his way up the porch.

I close the distance between us, meeting him halfway, and he sags against my body, his arms around my waist.

We stand there holding each other, no words between us. What is left to say? We have lived what seems like a lifetime in the past twenty-four hours, and I am hollowed out and strung tight. At the moment, I only want to forget everything that has happened.

I want Anthony.

I press my lips to his, my body taking over.

I sense the same desperation that lives in me in him as the kiss changes, his body shifting from pliant to possessive. From the moment our lips meet, it’s clear this embrace is different from all the ones we’ve shared up to this point; maybe he’s been holding back from me, and now I’m seeing a new side of him.

Or maybe he’s as broken up by what we’ve seen today as I am.

We move apart, and I look at him, and suddenly, it’s like something has been unlocked inside me.

“Why did you want to marry me?” I demand.

I hear my mother’s voice in my ear, admonishing me for my forwardness, and I don’t have the energy to care.

“Because I wanted you.”

His words send a thrill through me.

“And you always get what you want?” I ask.

“Almost always.”

“And you want what exactly? From me?”

“Everything.”

My heart pounds.

“I want you to respect me. I don’t want you to regret this.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to love me.”

“I want that, too,” I acknowledge, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “But you can’t tell me you want those things and not give me more of yourself. Why did you want me? What about me specifically? Was it merely that you’d heard through the grapevine that my father was in dire straits and I was pretty enough to suit your needs?”

“No. You sell yourself too short.”

“I’ve learned to be pragmatic.”

“You don’t have to worry about such things anymore.”

“Does anyone really stop worrying about them?”

“No, I suppose they don’t. And I did know you. In a manner of speaking, at least.”

“That day in the library—”

“That day in the library was the first time we talked, but it wasn’t the first time I saw you. The first time I saw you was outside my hotel. You were walking with friends. In this dress I won’t ever forget.” He pauses as though the memory deserves a moment of reflection.

“What color was the dress?” I ask, wanting to be a part of this history he has that I was unaware of until now.

“Blue.”

The moment is hazy, a night of innocence and splendor in a long string of them like a rope of pearls around my neck.

Anthony’s hands drift down to my waist. “It was fitted here, and when I saw you, I thought I could span the width of you.” I stare down at his hands encircling me. “Just so,” he adds with a swallow.

“The skirt fell away from you—” His hands drift lower, skimming my hips, cupping, caressing.