He snorts. “That you’re trouble.”

I wait for the rest of it. Despite their protestations, I’ve learned most men like a bit of trouble. You could say I’ve cultivated a study of it, if you’d like.

When he doesn’t reply, I lean in closer, allowing him to get a whiff of my French perfume—the last of it, anyway, which I assiduously diluted with water to eke out the remaining scent.

“And what’s your opinion on trouble?”

“I don’t have time for trouble.” He smirks. “And certainly not the barely legal kind.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Like I said.”

“How old are you?” I retort.

“A lot older than twenty-three. I don’t have time for spoiled girls with more time on their hands than sense.” He gestures toward his paper. “There’s enough trouble in this world. No point in searching for more.”

If I was easily deterred, I wouldn’t be here on this train, and I’ve yet to meet the man who could resist a pair of fine legs and a hint of cleavage. Everyone knows these are desperate times, and in desperate times, everyone plays it a little fast and loose—among my set, at least. When you’ve lost it all, it’s hard not to feel as though there’s little to be gained by following the rules, by playing it safe.

My heartbeat picks up as I lean forward again, on the precipice of tipping out of my chair entirely, my lips inches from his ear. Goose bumps rise over my body at the scent of masculine soap and skin.

“You might like it,” I tease.

Gray Suit doesn’t flinch at my words or pull back in alarm. Instead he holds steady, the only discernible motion in his body a tic in his jaw.

In the beginning, this was merely a game, one I’ve been playing since God gave me breasts and hips, and Gray Suit wasn’t wrong: at the moment, I have more time on my hands than anything else. But in the space between my approaching him and now, my lips inches away from his warm, tanned skin, the game has changed.

I want to kiss him.

I pull back with a jerk.

He doesn’t look at me, as much as look through me.

“I don’t believe I would like it,” he replies in that accent that could be from anywhere, really.

I open my mouth to offer up some retort, but the words fail me, the bravado I’ve clung to for so long eluding me.

Emotion clogs my throat, embarrassment hot on my cheeks, and I rise from my seat on unsteady legs, choosing a different seat from the one I previously occupied, away from College Boy, away from everyone, my gaze trained on the water rushing below the tracks.

My father owned shares in this railroad once upon a time when I was still a girl living in a gilded world. Before the crash. Before we lost everything. Before he killed himself.

I pull the letter from my pocketbook, the envelope worn, the paper creased, reading over the words there, clinging to the faint thread of hope that brought me to Key West.

The rocking motion of the train lulls me to sleep.

* * *

—

Four hours later, we arrive at the main terminal in Key West, and I wake to the sounds of passengers moving around me. At some point, someone draped a blanket over my shoulders.

Gray Suit is nowhere to be seen. Now that the journey is over and I’m here, I can’t quite muster the energy for flirtations.

I step off the train, bag in hand, the humidity in the air a shock to a girl’s system. The water is within walking distance, palm trees peppering the landscape, so different from what I’m used to back in New York.

There’s comfort to be found in the hustle and bustle of the city, in the anonymity of bodies brushing against you on the street, the buildings around you forming a phalanx of sorts. There are boundaries in the city, streets forming a map for you to follow, putting one foot in front of another and carrying on.

I always avoid the section of streets down near Wall Street, the ones I used to walk with my mother on our way to visit my father in his office. Another life.

I take the letter out of my pocketbook once more, rubbing my fingers over the Key West postmark.

My stomach rumbles, eliciting a sound that would make Mother cringe. There’s a diner off in the distance, a weathered white sign with faded lettering proclaiming it to be:

Ruby’s Café.

And in smaller letters below, the auspicious moniker:

Best key lime pie in town.

I slip the letter back into my pocketbook, opening my change purse and quickly counting my money. My heart sinks.

As I stuff the meager supply back in the purse, my fingers brush against something metallic, the platinum prongs of my engagement ring digging into my skin, sharp enough to draw a drop of blood.

I take a deep breath and set off in the direction of Ruby’s Café.

Four

Helen

Labor Day weekend keeps us busier than normal, a steady stream of locals, tourists, and veterans enjoying their time off, distracting me from the discomfort brought on by the baby.

In that strange in-between transition from lunch to dinner, the restaurant crowd thins, and I duck outside and sit on one of the wooden benches in front of Ruby’s.

A gleaming black car is parked near the restaurant, the young woman I served earlier standing beside it, her husband nowhere to be seen.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“Flat tire,” she replies, her words tinged in an accent I recognize from the Cubans who frequent Key West, enjoying the close proximity and the ferry service between the two places. “My husband went to find someone to fix it.”

I’ve never been to Cuba myself; Tom always said we would go when we were newly married. After all, his fishing often took him to the island, and he would disappear for weeks at a time, returning to me smelling like rum, cigar smoke, and the hint of a woman’s perfume. Eventually, though, the promises became less and less frequent until I gave up on the idea entirely when I realized I was likely better off not knowing what he did down there.

The elegant car’s front right tire is indeed flat, a jagged gash the obvious source of the problem.

“Did y’all get in an accident? That’s a nasty cut.”

“No.”

“Did this happen while you were eating in the diner?”

“It might have. We aren’t certain, but we didn’t notice anything wrong with the car until we came to leave. It certainly wasn’t like that when they unloaded the car from the ferry.”