“No, I don’t.” His mouth tightens in a thin line. “How far does this thing go? Are you involved with the planning of the invasion everyone is whispering about?”

“No.” I hesitate. “Eduardo has kept me separate from most of it.”

“Eduardo is the one who got you involved in this mess with the CIA, though, isn’t he?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Are we back on you being jealous again?”

“We’re back to me being worried about your involvement with the CIA. You need to stop going to the meetings in Hialeah. You need to stop trusting Dwyer.”

“Don’t you understand? This is all I know. In Cuba, it was me and my brother and Eduardo going to meetings and organizing against Batista. This was my life before Castro. This is my future. My brother isn’t here to carry on the work we once did. Now it’s my job to continue the fight.”

“Beatriz.”

“I should leave. I can’t do this. I can’t compartmentalize these different parts of my life. I don’t want to lie to you, but just like some things are off-limits to me—your fiancée for one, your job—this is off-limits to you.”

I move to leave, but he reaches for me, and that’s all it takes for me to hesitate.

“I’m sorry. I know how important this is to you. I’m just worried about you. I don’t trust the CIA.”

“I understand why you’re worried, but I know what I’m doing. My eyes are open on this. I promise.”

I lie back on the bed next to him, staring up at the ceiling, the fight draining out of me.

I lay my head on his chest, breathing in his scent, hoping something will change.

My mouth finds his in a fierce kiss, our limbs entwined.

Sex is easy. It’s everything else that’s so very complicated.

chapter nineteen

We see less of each other after Valentine’s Day, Nick’s weekends in Palm Beach fewer and farther between, his time spent in Washington, working in the Senate, caught up in President Kennedy’s political agenda.

Isabel’s wedding continues to dominate our mother’s interests, the unrelenting not-so-subtle hints about throwing Thomas’s cousin and me together. I spend as much time out of the house as I can, splitting my days between the communist meetings in Hialeah and volunteering in the camps set up by the Diocese of Miami to accommodate the growing number of children being sent out of Cuba to protect them from Fidel’s policies.

As I walk through one of the camps, I am struck by the sight of their young faces, see myself, and Maria, and Isabel, and Elisa in their eyes. Everyone is doing the best they can to make this situation as bearable for the children as possible, but by its very nature, none of this is bearable.

And when I sit in those meetings in Hialeah and listen to the communists spout ideology, it’s these children’s faces that I think of. I want to shout at those pampered students whose notions of war came from something they read in a book. I want to tell them that this is war: not some words scribbled down by Marx, but the haunted eyes of thousands of children who have crossed the ocean on their own, who are now crammed together in camps, waiting to be reunited with their families, waiting to go home, waiting for the revolution to end.

This is what Nick doesn’t understand when we fight about politics. For him, politics is an external entity. It is his job, but it is not who he is. And for me, none of this is just politics. It’s personal.

* * *

? ? ?

At the end of March, I accompany my parents and Isabel to a party thrown by one of my father’s business associates. I’m eager for the season to end this year, for everyone to go up north and leave us alone. I’ve attended far fewer events than normal, but still, rumors are growing about Nick and me, and I look forward to the break from all the scrutiny.

He’s stayed behind in Washington D.C. this weekend, preparing for an upcoming vote in the Senate.

“That’s a pretty bracelet,” Isabel comments, eyeing my outfit as we ride in the car to the charity event.

Perhaps it was foolish to wear the bracelet Nick gave me for Christmas, to attempt to pass it off as a piece of costume jewelry and nothing more, but I couldn’t resist. I’ve missed him since he’s been in Washington more frequently, the phone calls doing little to alleviate the distance between us. Maybe Nick was right; maybe the secrets between us are creating a gulf we can’t cross.

“Is it new?” Isabel asks, her voice loud enough to threaten our parents overhearing. It’s a trick we perfected when we were younger and wanted to get a sibling in trouble or bend them to our will.

I flash her a smile that’s all teeth and plenty of bite.

“Did you go out last night? I could have sworn I heard footsteps outside your room.”

Isabel has been less and less discreet lately, sneaking out of the house at all hours, a skill she never quite excelled at as well as the rest of us.

She returns my glare, but offers no more comments about the bracelet, and the rest of the car ride passes mostly in silence, save for our mother’s occasional one-sided chatter about tonight’s festivities. Our father is largely silent in the car beside her, his presence in the family a distant one. When my brother was alive, our father was more engaged, but now he is surrounded by women, and despite the love I know he feels for all of us, he treats us as though we inhabit a mysterious world and are best left to our own devices.

We arrive fashionably late, which really isn’t so fashionable considering everyone else imitates the same unwritten rule until we’re all tardy, the impact lessened as we push into the room at the same time.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

I turn at the familiar voice at my ear, my social smile converted to a real one at the sight of Eduardo in a tuxedo.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” I say as we exchange customary air-kisses.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but my plans changed.”

“I haven’t seen you in months.”

He smiles. “Have you missed me?”

“Perhaps a bit,” I tease. “Is everything fine?” I take a step closer to him, my voice lowering to avoid being overheard.

My family has been swept up in the crowd, leaving the two of us alone, but I swear I can feel my mother’s gaze on me, following my every move.

Eduardo nods.

“Where have you been?”

He hesitates. “Miami.”

Nick’s earlier words come back to me.

There are rumors that there are pilots training in Miami.

“You’re going to Cuba,” I whisper.

Eduardo doesn’t answer me. His gaze rests on the diamond bracelet on my arm.

It was foolish to have worn it tonight. Foolish to have given in to my emotions, to missing Nick and needing the connection between us. I should have left the bracelet in my jewelry box at home.

I pull back, dropping my arm to my side.

Eduardo steps toward me. He snags my wrist, the pads of his fingers rubbing the diamonds.

“Everyone is talking about you,” he murmurs.

I tear my gaze away from him and glance around the room. There are, indeed, quite a few eyes cast our way. Is it the proximity of our bodies? Do they think we are lovers? And why do they care? For all of Eduardo’s popularity, neither one of us is particularly prominent in these circles. Besides, there are far more interesting scandals to be had.

“What are you . . .”

My voice trails off.

People aren’t just staring at Eduardo and me. They’re staring at Eduardo and me, but their attention also darts to a couple on the opposite side of the room, and then back again, as though they’re watching a particularly competitive bout of tennis.

I cannot help but look, either: at a beautiful blond debutante and her handsome fiancé.

Nick’s gaze meets mine across the ballroom, and a myriad of emotions cross his face—guilt, confusion, anger—as his gaze rests on the point where my arm is linked with Eduardo’s.

* * *

? ? ?

    It takes every ounce of self-restraint mixed with a healthy dollop of the training I’ve received from Mr. Dwyer to tear my gaze away from Nick’s. I take Eduardo’s arm with a false smile on my lips, my head held high as I accompany him onto the balcony for some air.

Eduardo wasn’t wrong—everyone watches our progress, and whatever I thought of my reputation, it’s clear it is in tatters.

Nick lied to me.

He said he would be in Washington; he told me he couldn’t make it to Palm Beach this weekend.

He lied to me.

“Beatriz.”

There’s pity in Eduardo’s voice as he says my name—pity and worry.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

I will be fine.

I knew this would happen eventually, that he wasn’t mine to keep. I knew all of this, and still, it hurts.

“People are talking,” Eduardo urges.

“I see that now.” I’m not even angry with Nick; I’m angry with myself. I should have known better. I do know better. I was so busy playing house; I stuck my head in the sand at a time when I should have been more cautious.

“Are the rumors true?” Eduardo asks.

“What are you doing in Miami?” I counter.

“Beatriz.”