“I would.”

Something passes between them, an unspoken conversation occurring between the pauses and the words they say aloud.

Whatever it is, Agent Watson nods. “Best of luck to you both.”

He snaps up the newspaper, folding it under his arm and leaving us alone.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “He never should have approached you.”

“It’s fine. It surprised me—that’s all.”

I move away from Anthony, returning to my seat. He sits next to me, shifting so that his back is toward the rest of the train, his gaze on me.

“Are you going to ask me if I’m responsible?” he asks, his voice low.

“No. I’m not.”

I’ve learned enough about the man I’ve married to have the answer to my own question without having to ask it. And for better or worse, I’ve learned enough about myself to know that whatever answer he would give me is not as important as the reason behind his actions.

“You’re upset,” Anthony says.

“No. I wish we didn’t have to worry about such things, wish they weren’t part of our lives, but I understand why you did what you did. I know a thing or two about protecting the people you love. After all, I can’t say I didn’t do the same thing back in Islamorada. Or that I regret it.”

It’s the first time the word “love” has come up between us, but in this, it’s another question I think I know the answer to.

Anthony takes my hand, the diamond glinting in the afternoon sun coming through the windows of the train car. “I meant what I said when we married. I’m going to protect you. That side of my life is over. No one is coming after us now, and if they do, I’ll handle it.”

What sort of man have I married?

Now I know.

I lean forward and kiss him, my lips curving at his sharp inhale as our mouths touch, a thrill running through me as his arms move to my waist, his palms pressing into my back, pulling me closer to him.

The motion of the train departing the station jolts us apart, and he wraps his arm around me once more, holding me close against his side as we journey north to New York City—as we head home.

I sleep for several hours, using Anthony’s shoulder as my pillow. When I wake, it is to the sight of him watching me, his expression softer than any I have seen him wear before.

Perhaps we will be safe now that Frank Morgan is out of the picture. Or maybe this safety is little more than an illusion and there will always be another threat lurking around the corner. Who can say for certain? If I have learned anything in this life, it is that you cannot prepare for the unexpected that sneaks up on you and turns your world upside down.

My husband is happy. My family is safe in Cuba, the revolution over, the storm having missed them entirely. We are alive. I am falling in love.

In this moment, that seems a great many things to be grateful for indeed.

That evening, we make our way to the dining car. Anthony orders us a bottle of champagne, and we dine on a gourmet meal, the conversation around us filled with other passengers discussing the hurricane, guessing at what it must have been like to survive such an ordeal.

Agent Watson sits alone at a table, a drink in front of him, his gaze on the entrance to the dining car, his body tense as though he is anticipating a potential threat to emerge at any moment.

There’s a commotion, a low buzz that has me turning my head to see what has caught everyone’s attention.

A woman walks into the train car, her red hair gleaming, her beauty eye-catching.

I recognize her instantly from that day on the beach.

Elizabeth.

She walks toward Agent Watson’s table, a smile on her lips. There’s no question that she’s aware of the attention she’s drawn or that she enjoys it.

Anthony watches her sit across from Agent Watson, a sharp laugh escaping from his mouth.

“What?”

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about with Agent Watson,” he answers.

At the moment, the man hardly seems threatening, the obvious affection for the redhead shining in his eyes.

“I met her before the hurricane hit. She said she’d come down from New York by herself.”

“She was Frank Morgan’s fiancée,” Anthony drawls.

I gape at him.

He shrugs. “I make it my business to know everything about my enemies. She was a society girl whose father made a bad deal with Morgan. Can’t guess how she got involved with a federal agent, but by the expression on Watson’s face, I’d wager he’s not too broken up about Morgan’s death.”

No, he doesn’t appear upset at all. He looks like a man in love, and Elizabeth hardly seems to be in mourning.

She’s incandescent.

Our gazes meet across the train car, and she inclines her head in a silent nod of recognition.

She smiles.

The train rumbles on, carrying us north, out of Florida, carrying us home.

Thirty-Seven

APRIL 1936

Helen

When the winds cease, and the waters recede, the sand settling back to some semblance of what it once was, palms scattered about the ground, roofs torn off homes—mansions and shacks alike, Mr. Flagler’s magical railroad in twisted metal pieces, we are left with the storm’s aftermath.

There are funeral pyres everywhere, the bodies of the dead heaped upon one another. There was talk of giving them a proper burial, but those plans were swiftly abandoned in the name of expediency and concern over the potential spread of disease from the decay.

Aunt Alice’s body burned in one of those pyres, the desire to bury her on the land she loved taken out of our hands. Instead, we erected a small memorial between the inn and the ocean, a place where I carry flowers and share the thoughts I would have once put in my letters to her.

I hope she would have been proud of the new Sunrise Inn. It is much like the original, with a room for Lucy and me in the back that overlooks the water, a porch where I like to sit and drink my coffee in the early-morning hours.

All around us, people are rebuilding, attempting to recover from the hurricane’s aftermath.

The physical structures are the easiest to replace, the rest of it much more difficult.

More than two hundred fifty of the veterans—over half—have perished. The work camps have been obliterated. We now know at least four hundred people are dead throughout the Keys. So many more are missing, unaccounted for, families unable to grieve, to mourn, left without answers.