Eduardo trails a finger along the sleeve of my top. “Dare I ask, or are there some things I’m better off not knowing?”

Despite the fact that he’s been my initial contact with the CIA, Dwyer stressed secrecy on the spying front, and the fact that he hasn’t mentioned any of this to Eduardo gives me the impression I shouldn’t, either.

“Better off not knowing,” I reply. “Let me guess, you’re here to whisk me away to acquire more explosives.”

I’ve heard nothing of the dynamite we picked up that evening months ago, of his plans for it, or whether they’ve come to fruition.

“You’re hilarious. I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” I ask.

It’s become a routine of sorts between us when he’s in Palm Beach, and I’ve missed the time together.

“Of course.”

I follow him down the path, exchanging small talk.

When we arrive at the beach, we both remove our shoes and walk barefoot in the sand.

“How was New York?” he asks.

“Confusing.”

“Was it hard? Seeing Fidel?”

“Harder than I imagined it would be. In the beginning, he looked so ordinary sitting there with everyone else. I suppose I let my guard down a bit. And then it all came rushing back to me: Alejandro’s death, the violence in Cuba, the fear we all felt. La Caba?a, everything. It was like a scream kept building inside me while I sat there staring at his smug, smiling face, and then I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to leave.”

“I heard it went well. That he was interested.”

“I hope he was interested. It was difficult to tell.”

“I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t be interested. You’re beautiful, Beatriz.”

“He was interested as any man is interested, but will that be enough for me to get close to him at a later date? I don’t know.”

I am tired of waiting, of making incremental progress like going to the meeting in Hialeah, while the world around us shifts, Cuba drifting farther and farther away.

“Hopefully, you won’t have to pretend much longer,” Eduardo says.

“Did Dwyer tell you anything about their plans to send me to Havana?”

“No. At the moment, the CIA is preoccupied with other things, not to mention the American presidential election.”

“And you? You’ve been absent quite a bit lately. What’s kept you preoccupied? A woman?”

He laughs. “Not even close.” He reaches out, tugging my hair affectionately. “Don’t you know you’re the only woman in my life?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

“Would you believe I’ve missed you, then?”

I smile. “Perhaps that.”

“I came back to see you. To see how you were doing. I was worried after New York.” He stops walking, and turns to face me, his gaze turning serious. “I heard other rumors about your time in New York.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you go to dinner with him?”

I struggle to keep my expression blank. “With who?”

How does he know about this? Was the CIA watching me while I was in New York? I confess I didn’t even think of it, figured I was too far beneath their notice for them to exhaust their resources on someone like me. Did someone else see me and Nick together?

“I heard you looked beautiful. That he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Is this it? Have I finally ruined my reputation beyond repair? Do people know Nick Preston and I stayed in my hotel room together?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

“So after everything, all the secrets we’ve shared, this is how it is to be between us?”

The disappointment in his eyes strikes a chord within me, but then again, it’s not just my reputation I’m protecting; it’s also Nick’s.

“It was nothing,” I lie again.

“Be careful. He’s a powerful man.”

“Are you really one to lecture me about being careful?” I ask. “Where do you go when you leave Palm Beach? What did you do with the dynamite we picked up that night? Who are you working with? What’s your plan in all of this?”

He sighs.

“Do you love him?” Eduardo asks, ignoring my questions.

I look down at the sand. “Fidel?”

“Beatriz.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t love him.”

Everyone knows an affair is impermanent; I would be foolish indeed to risk my heart under such circumstances. I’ve already committed myself to one lost cause. Two seems exceedingly reckless.

chapter fifteen

October turns into November, and there is no word from the CIA, but I keep my scribbled notes from the meetings with the group in Hialeah in a box crammed in the back of my bedroom closet. The intelligence I’ve gleaned so far is hardly significant on its own, but perhaps Mr. Dwyer will view it through a different lens with his experience to guide him.

Eduardo is absent as well, and I am left to my own devices: wondering about Nick’s whereabouts, helping my sister Elisa set up her spacious new house in Coral Gables, worrying whether Isabel will be the next one to marry, her romance with her American businessman boyfriend gaining speed. Our mother couldn’t be more pleased, crowing over Isabel’s future matrimonial success, while simultaneously readying herself for the upcoming season and her marital designs for me.

“Did you hear Thomas mention his cousin, Beatriz?” my mother asks me from her usual spot in the living room.

Thomas is Isabel’s boyfriend, single-handedly bolstering the floral industry in Palm Beach with his wooing of my sister, and if I’ve ever encountered a duller man, I can’t recall. Suffice to say, I don’t have high hopes for the cousin.

“His cousin has his own firm. Accounting, I think,” she adds.

I make a noncommittal sound, my attention on the television. Our father is off somewhere on business, but Isabel, Maria, our mother, and I are gathered around the television in the sitting room in the late hours of November 8, awaiting the results of the American presidential election.

It is strange to live in a place where election results are not a foregone conclusion, to hear the excitement in the Americans’ voices as they wait to learn who their next president will be. Before the revolution, my childhood was dominated by Batista’s presidency, and just prior to him fleeing the country, we had an election of our own, one that, despite our hope for change, was dominated by whispers of rigged votes and the knowledge that Batista had ensured one of his cronies would take his place.

Of all of us, Maria is the most excited for this election. She sits on the couch with a pad of paper and a pencil in hand, eager to record the early results. They’ve been studying civics in her school, and she comes home each day with a new piece of information she has gleaned about the American political process. Truthfully, her enthusiasm and fervor for the subject have caught us all a bit off guard. Perhaps by virtue of her youth, she has acclimated the easiest to our life here, even as we have all worried about the toll it would take on her. I try to remember myself at fifteen; did I have her resilience, or is the manner in which she bounds through life merely another facet of her personality?

The rest of us watch the election on-screen with varying levels of interest, Chet Huntley and David Brinkley reading off the early returns. My mother is unconcerned with politics; our father has been closemouthed about the entire affair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hedged his bets, doing everything he can to forge relationships with both parties. I’ve learned from our experience in Cuba that in my father’s eyes, business supersedes ideology.

If the media reports are to be believed, this contest between Kennedy and Nixon will be a close one indeed, the election dragging on into the early hours of Wednesday morning. My interest in the results is much narrower. Is the lack of communication from Mr. Dwyer a result of the upcoming election, the waiting game the CIA is playing to see how the administration changes hands? And if so, will the election’s outcome affect our plans for Castro and Cuba?

Nixon’s position mimics President Eisenhower’s: that the administration has helped the Cuban people realize their goals of progress through freedom. Kennedy challenges the position, labeling Castro’s regime as communist and decrying Eisenhower’s—and Nixon’s—inaction in preventing Cuba’s slide toward the Soviets. I admit to a degree of hope when I hear Kennedy’s thoughts on Cuba; there is comfort to be had in the fact that someone recognizes the political situation in my country for the farce that it is. Will Kennedy sign off on the CIA’s plans if he’s elected? Will he take military action against Fidel? The hope of it is enough for me to support Kennedy and his Democrats. That he and Nick share a political party in common doesn’t hurt, either.

It’s been a month and a half since I last saw Nick, his business card tucked away in a drawer, the number never called. What would I even say? There’s no future in this flirtation, and I wasn’t lying when I told him I had no desire to be a mistress, and even less to be a wife.