It hardly looks like a love nest with its vaulted ceilings and elegant fixtures, but is that what this is? An expensive house in which to situate a mistress?

“An investment. An indulgence. When I marry, perhaps I’ll sell it or rent it out to those who come down for the season.” His expression turns serious. “It’s not what you think. I knew the family that owned it before, and I always loved this house. When it came on the market, my friend mentioned it in passing, and the idea of having my own place, of being able to relax, was eminently persuasive.

“And yes, perhaps I imagined you standing on the balcony next to me. I hoped when we saw each other again, we would have the opportunity to do so. I’ve thought of you every day since we parted in New York.”

I’ve been on the receiving end of some truly magnificent flattery, but it is the truth in his words that speaks to me most. After being surrounded by subterfuge, his honesty is a welcome change, even when the very nature of our relationship demands secrecy and discretion.

I take his hand. “Show me the rest of the house.”

I follow him from room to room, our fingers linked. The marble floor is cool against my bare feet, the furniture covered in crisp white sheets.

“The staff hasn’t opened the house for me yet. I’ve been staying at the Breakers. It was easier than trying to get a household set up from Washington. Plus I was eager to get down here.” He hooks his arm around my waist, his lips brushing my temple. “Desperate to see you.”

“Be careful,” I tease, even as a thrill fills me. “You’re beginning to sound like a man prone to little rebellions.”

He laughs. “Perhaps I am.”

We end up in the master bedroom as though it was our destination all along. The big room boasts an impressive view of the ocean, the sound of the waves filtering in from the enormous windows dominating one of the walls. The bed is set on a raised dais, the sort of furniture that looks as though it belongs in a stately home in Europe. A single white sheet covers the mattress.

If I’m going to have regrets in this life, I’d rather them be for the chances I took and not the opportunities I let slip away.

I let go of his hand and sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at him, leaning back on my elbows.

I reach out, my fingers closing around his arm, pulling him toward me, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss I’ve waited months for.

It is everything I remembered, and once again, we are a train hurtling off the tracks, and I don’t want to get off.

* * *

? ? ?

When I take my morning walks now, in the days that follow, I have a destination in mind, the solitude no longer bothersome when I am headed to him. Nick keeps these hours of his schedule open, the staff conveniently absent—limited to scheduled times a few days a week—the sheets off the furniture. I never intended to be a mistress, and as much as we have danced around the title, we act as though I am mistress of this house, as though it is our home. I have a key now, and sometimes when he’s not there, I take a book and curl up in one of the couches, listening to the ocean, reveling in the view, the space from my family. Other days I sit and wait for him to return from the various meetings he attends.

Nick left early this morning to hit the links with Kennedy and some of their friends at the Palm Beach Country Club. The sound of the front door shutting, footsteps on the marble, startles me from my reading, and I set the book down, rising from the couch, just in time to see him walking into the living room.

“Hello, honey, I’m home,” Nick jokes, as he walks over and kisses me.

“I made you a drink.” I hand him his old-fashioned.

“How domestic.”

I laugh. “Don’t get too excited. I might know my way about the bar, but the kitchen is a mystery best left to more capable hands than mine.”

“I happen to like your hands, and think they’re very capable, thank you very much.”

I grin and sit back down on the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me. “How was golf?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Nick takes a sip of his drink. “Crowds of people came out just to see him. They tried to shake his hand. It was a mob. I don’t know how he goes around like that, can’t imagine what it’s like when he tries to go out with Jackie and the kids.”

“They love him.”

“Many do.” Nick’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “It makes the Secret Service’s job harder, though. With all these bodies pushing at him, the crowds, well, it puts him at risk.”

Kennedy and anyone with him.

They arrested a man a few days ago, a retired postal worker turned would-be assassin. Responding to a tip, the police pulled him over and found the dynamite he planned to use against the president-elect in his car. It’s a sobering reminder that the security around Kennedy isn’t foolproof, that men like Nick are at risk because of their career.

“Are you worried?” I ask.

“He’s taking it seriously, thankfully. So is the Secret Service. Still, there is no perfect solution. Jack wants to be a president for the people, wants them to feel connected to him and his family. The more you open yourself up, the more danger you let in, too.”

“Do you ever worry about your own safety?”

“Me?” He shakes his head. “I’m just a lowly senator from Connecticut. My office occasionally receives threats, but I highly doubt someone would ever act on them. The president is another matter, though.”

I wrap my arms around him. “I still worry about you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He sets his glass down on the table next to me and takes me into his arms. “You’re not going to be rid of me so easily.”

* * *

? ? ?

We celebrate Christmas in private on December 26, after the family celebrations have ended. Palm Beach is brimming with the holiday spirit; the pews of St. Edward’s Catholic Church are packed on Christmas Day, everyone clamoring for a peek at the president-elect.

Nick gifts me with an extravagant diamond tennis bracelet I will somehow have to pawn off as paste in front of my family. I bought him a watch I saw in a shop on Worth Avenue using some of my money from the CIA, enjoying the freedom of no longer relying on an allowance from my parents. I spin a tale to my mother and father about staying at an imaginary friend’s house, and Nick and I enjoy the unique pleasure of spending the night together, sneaking out late in the evening when the beach is empty to swim in the ocean, waking beside each other the next morning with lazy caresses and breakfast in bed.

I don’t ask for details on how he spent his Christmas, and he doesn’t offer any, but I have heard the rumors that his fiancée is now back in town, and Nick and I perform an intricate dance to keep ourselves from bumping into each other during the social whirl.

My New Year’s Eve is spent at home; after the last New Year’s Eve party I attended, the one where we learned President Batista had fled the country leaving us in Fidel’s hands, I have little use for ringing in the New Year with fanfare and champagne, the occasion one I mark with solemnity more than glee.

The next morning I read in the paper that Nick spent his evening at the Coconuts’ bash, Palm Beach’s oldest and most prestigious private affair. Reportedly, a secret committee rules the party, and members each invite a handful of guests. My mother lamented our lack of invitation for days; I can only imagine the blow it would be if she learned I was essentially sharing a mansion on the beach with one of the Coconuts and had failed to use it for my social gain at all.

Shortly after the New Year, Nick returns to Washington during the week, journeying down to Palm Beach on the weekends. I continue with my morning walks, spending hours by myself. We set up times for Nick to call the house daily now, and the distance that existed between us before is obliterated by the freedom the house provides us. I once decried the existence of a “love nest” between us, but I now appreciate the convenience it provides, practicality eclipsing pride. And still, the walls of the mansion are unable to keep the rest of the world and its problems at bay.

Nick calls on a Tuesday evening, distracted, his voice full of worry.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We’ve abandoned our embassy in Havana. The staff boarded a ferry and left. President Eisenhower made the decision to sever diplomatic and consular relations with Cuba.” He’s quiet as though he’s weighing the benefits of trusting me, the line between lover and politician whisper thin. “There are rumors that there are pilots training in Miami, landing at night with their lights off, the operation being conducted in secrecy.”

My heartbeat picks up. “They’re planning for an invasion?”

Is this what has kept Eduardo occupied and away from Palm Beach?

I’ve been to two more meetings with the communists in Miami, and this is the first I’ve heard of any American plan to invade Cuba. Is it a matter of them not trusting me, or are they simply not well-connected enough to have spies placed among the exiles?

“I don’t know,” Nick answers.

“You could find out.”

He is silent.