I continue attending the meetings with the group in Hialeah, but I’ve come to realize they are little more than a social club, idealizing men like Castro and Khrushchev, delighting in reading the works of Lenin and Marx, rallying against the American president and capitalism. On the one hand, I have found the dialogue I craved when I argued for my parents to send me to university, but it comes at the expense of being unable to express my true opinions, unable to indulge the overwhelming desire to disagree when they cite communist rhetoric as gospel.

I am still most curious about the Cuban brothers and their role in all of this. Like me, they engage in the conversations, however, with much less fervor than the Americans. Their family appears to own some sort of business in Hialeah, but they are surprisingly reticent when asked about anything even remotely personal, and I’ve largely given up my attempts to do so for fear of arousing their suspicions.

Claudia has yet to make an appearance; her name has not been uttered again since my initial introduction to the group.

The group members speak of the Cubans who have left in recent months as traitors, “worms,” and rage fills me. More of our friends have fled Cuba in the wake of Fidel’s increasing limitations on their freedom; some have traveled to South Florida, others farther afield and overseas. What does Fidel think of the exodus? Does he gloat each time another prominent Cuban family departs Havana?

I find an empty stretch of beach and sink down on the sand, looking out at the sea, listening to the waves crash against the shore. It’s early enough that it’s breezy and cool, the sun nowhere near its full strength. A couple passes by me, deep in conversation, the obvious familiarity of years together marking their body language, their heads bent.

I pull my knees to my chest, their retreating backs now a speck in the distance.

A man walks a few hundred feet behind the couple, dressed in a pair of light linen pants and a white collared shirt, his shoes dangling from his hand. My gaze skims over him, returning back to the sea, the urge to dip my toes in the water overwhelming. I begin to rise, intending to do just that when—

The man has stopped walking, and is staring at me, and at once, it all comes together, like puzzle pieces falling into place: the cut of his shirt, the broad shoulders, the tanned skin, the solemn blue eyes, the body I know intimately.

I blink.

Still there.

He closes the distance between us in several long strides, and I rise on shaky legs, dusting the sand from my clothes.

“Hello,” he says.

I wondered when he would come to Palm Beach, worried whether he would return this season at all, and now he’s here.

“Hello,” I echo.

The wind whips between us, and then Nick steps forward.

His lips brush my cheek for a moment before he pulls back.

My heart thunders in my chest.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I called at the house. It was foolish, I know. Your sister Isabel told me you like to walk on the beach.”

“Did you see my mother?”

Please, tell me he didn’t meet my mother.

Nick shakes his head.

That’s a blessing, at least. I can only imagine the fuss she would make over a wealthy senator calling on me.

“I didn’t want to wait to see you for the first time at some party where everyone would stare at us, and whisper, and wonder. And I wasn’t sure of your plans, if you were even in town for the season, if you’d gone back to Cuba, or moved on somewhere else, or if you’d—”

“It’s good to see you again,” I blurt out.

“It’s good to see you again, too. Would you like to walk?” he asks.

It’s still early out, the season not officially started. Surely, little harm will come from an innocent walk?

I nod.

We head east down the stretch of beach, Nick measuring his strides against mine.

I sneak a sidelong look his way.

“Congratulations on the election.”

“Thank you.”

“It must have been a relief.”

Is there anything more awkward than making polite conversation when there are other things you wish to say?

Nick smiles as though he can read my thoughts.

“It was.”

“And you must be pleased with the results of the presidential election.”

His smile deepens. “I am.” He’s silent for a beat. “Are we to speak of polite topics like politics and the weather now?”

“Is politics a polite topic? I thought it ranked up there with discussing religion.”

“True. The weather, then. It is a particular fine day we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Oh, fine. No, I don’t want to talk about the stupid weather.”

“Then what do you wish to talk about?”

The way we left things, what he’s been up to since we last saw each other, whether he’s in love with his fiancée, if they set a wedding date, if another woman has been in his bed since we parted.

“It’s not fair, you know,” I say instead. “You came looking for me today, and I wasn’t expecting to see you, certainly not now, not like this. Give me a moment to catch up.”

He bursts into laughter.

“You just described the way I’ve felt since I saw you in that ballroom. Sorry, but you won’t find any sympathy here. I’ve been trying to catch up for nearly a year now.”

Relief floods me.

“You missed me, then?”

“You have no idea how much.”

“You didn’t try to reach me.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to. You didn’t call.”

“It seemed imprudent. And I didn’t know what to say.”

“I thought you didn’t worry about things like that.”

“Maybe I’m trying to be more considerate.”

“You’re worried about my reputation?” His tone is fairly incredulous.

I shrug. “You’re the one with something to lose.”

“And what about your reputation?”

“I told you. I have no plans to marry. As long as my reputation doesn’t trouble my family overmuch, I don’t really care what people say about me here.”

“Because this is just temporary. Because you’re still planning on returning to Cuba.”

“Yes.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing here. I wasn’t a monk before, but I’ve never been involved with someone so—”

“Young?” I finish for him.

“That’s part of it, but not everything.”

“Innocent?” It’s a struggle to say the word with a straight face. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I find it hard to believe anyone would describe me thusly.

“No, I guess I just don’t want to complicate your life.”

“Don’t worry on that front. Fidel already complicated it for you.”

“I don’t want to be the thing you use to make yourself forget, either. To numb the pain.”

“You’re not.”

“Where does that leave us then?” he asks.

“Why do we have to worry about that? Can’t we just keep this private, between us?”

“So there’s an ‘us’ now?”

“You tell me. I’m not the one with the fiancée. I don’t want to hurt her, either, although I suppose we’re already far past that.”

“I know. It’s not like that. I know how that sounds. How seedy the whole thing sounds. But it’s not—we’re not—she doesn’t love me. I don’t love her. It’s not about that. I don’t want to hurt her, either, don’t want to cause any gossip that will embarrass her. Or my family. Or you.”

“Then we probably shouldn’t be standing on the beach together. Take me somewhere,” I say recklessly.

* * *

? ? ?

    Nick leads me down the beach, past the mansions shuttered until their inhabitants return. We stop in front an empty house on a stretch of beach near the Breakers.

My family and I live in a less fashionable section of the island, although, really, there are no bad neighborhoods to be had. Once you cross the bridge, you’re automatically in an enclave of wealth and privilege.

“Whose place is this?” I ask.

A spacious veranda and pool deck lined in hedges overlooks the water, the house set back a bit, the entire rear portion of the mansion a wall of enormous glass doors. It must be incredible to watch the sun rise and set from such a vantage point.

“It’s mine,” he answers, a touch of pride in his voice. “I bought it a couple months ago. I had my attorney offer on it when it came on the market in October.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It was the view that sold me. I imagined myself standing out here, listening to the waves crash. I was in the throes of the campaign, and the idea of finding some peace and quiet here was extremely persuasive. My family has a home on the island, but there’s little solace to be had there. Relatives pop in and out all the time, the rooms filled with guests and interlopers. I figured it was time I found a place of my own.”

“I can imagine. Sometimes I just want to escape my house a bit. My morning walks give me the chance to clear my head. It can be both a blessing and a curse being surrounded by family.”

“Yes, it can. Do you want to take a look around?”

“I’d love that,” I answer, even as I wonder if seeing this will make it worse. Will I now be able to envision him here with his fiancée?

“Katherine’s father wishes to gift us a house as a wedding present when we do eventually marry,” he adds as though he can hear the thoughts running through my mind.

“And this house?”