In another life, we might have been magnificent together.

A smile plays at Eduardo’s mouth, satisfaction in his eyes. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

I take an uneven breath, then another, attempting to steady myself, to clear my head after his drugging kiss.

“You’re as good as they say you are.”

He gives me an indulgent smile. “You’re as good as I knew you would be.”

So, not an impulse, then.

“No, not all,” he replies, and I realize I’ve spoken the thought aloud.

“I don’t—I’m not—”

I don’t see you that way. I’m not looking to further complicate my life.

Both of those things would have been true a few minutes ago, but then he kissed me, and I realize I’ve underestimated him, been so focused on Cuba and Nick, that I didn’t see Eduardo as anything other than a friend, a connection to the CIA, when the reality is, he could be so much more.

He knows it, too, his gaze sharpening, satisfaction in his eyes, and a hint of my lipstick on his mouth.

“Something to think about. For when I return.”

He’s gone without a second glance, leaving me on the balcony alone, my arms wrapped around my body, my lips swollen from his kisses, my heart heavy from Nick’s lie, and the knowledge that if Nick was watching the balcony entrance, he just saw Eduardo walk out with a smudge of my signature red lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

* * *

? ? ?

I escape to a powder room off the ballroom, locking myself in one of the stalls, taking a moment to catch my breath.

I stifle the urge to cry.

I can’t stay here the rest of the evening, can’t risk running into Nick again, having to face his fiancée. Surely, I can convince my parents that we should leave. I should have left with Eduardo.

To say this night has been a disaster is an understatement.

Outside the stall door, women mill around, but no one speaks of me or of the spectacle earlier.

Once the bathroom has gone blissfully silent, the sound of running water from the faucets ceased, the chatter stopped, I take a deep breath, steeling my shoulders, and open the door— I freeze, the stall door clanging shut awkwardly behind me.

Nick’s fiancée sits in a chair in the waiting area, her gaze trained on me.

I glance around the room, looking for—an ally, one of my sisters, a distraction, anything—but the rest of the powder room is empty, and we are really and truly alone.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now,” she says by way of greeting. There’s an elegant lilt to her voice, her expression inscrutable. “I confess to a curiosity of sorts, I suppose. Nick wasn’t planning on coming tonight, but when I heard you would be here, well, I orchestrated this little meeting. Although, to be fair, it didn’t go quite the way I’d planned. He shouldn’t display his feelings so clearly.”

She looks to be about my age, or perhaps a bit younger, her skin dewy and fresh, her hair like spun gold, swept up in an elegant style, perfect for complementing the emerald and diamond earrings that match her green eyes, offset by the green silk gown.

I catch sight of my reflection in one of the bathroom mirrors.

Hair mussed from Eduardo’s hands, lips swollen from Eduardo’s mouth, eyes red from Nick Preston’s deception, panic etched all over my face.

She rises from her seat.

“I’m Katherine Davies. Nick’s fiancée. He’s quite taken with you, isn’t he? I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Men are never quite as discreet as they like to think they are. He bought the house on the beach for you.”

“I—”

I am perhaps for the first time in my life truly at a loss for words.

“There’s really no need to be uncomfortable. He’s not the first politician to take a mistress, and I’m sure he won’t be the last.”

There’s an unspoken hint contained in her voice: I’m sure you won’t be the last.

“I’m not his mistress.”

“Well, you’re not his fiancée, so at the moment ‘mistress’ is the most appropriate term we can come up with, isn’t it?”

The sharpness in her tone pricks me, shame filling me. I am inescapably the villain in this tableau.

“I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Oh, please, let’s not go down that path. It’s beneath both of us. You haven’t hurt me, although I will confess this little scene tonight has proved to be an embarrassing one. You might enjoy your notoriety in Palm Beach, but some of us have worked very hard to secure our reputations. He is to be an important man someday. He can’t afford the scandal.”

“I know.”

She smiles. “There, you see, we are on the same side of things. I understand men have their urges, that they do things with women like you they won’t do with their wives. You appeal to his baser nature, and that is all well and good, but I won’t become a laughingstock in this town. Keep your relationship confined to the bedroom, and we won’t have a problem. Flaunt it in society again, and you will learn what a formidable enemy my family can be. Have a good evening.”

She’s gone without a backward glance.

chapter twenty

I don’t go to the house in Palm Beach.

Our house.

I can’t.

The anger over Nick’s betrayal burns fresh and strong for over a week, my own confusion and regret over the kiss with Eduardo a knot in my chest, the shame of coming face-to-face with Nick’s fiancée inescapable. Finally, just two weeks after the party, I use my key to open the Palm Beach house, knowing he is in Washington for a vote in the Senate. I set the diamond bracelet and the house key on the bed, which looks as though it hasn’t been slept in for weeks.

I don’t leave a note.

What is there to say? We were over from the first moment we met, minutes before his engagement was announced.

I wasn’t made to be a mistress, and even my recklessness has its bounds. It seems remarkably stupid to give my heart to a man who can never be mine.

I slip out one of the side doors, walking down the beach, the salt water mixing with the tears on my face. It is for the best. The season is ending, and Nick would have run out of excuses for his continued presence in Palm Beach. Surely, he will have to set a wedding date soon. Men are allowed their indulgences when their lives are unencumbered by wives and children, but once he has a family, everything will change, and I cannot envision inserting myself into such a situation.

Our affair has run its course.

I return to the house to find my mother and father seated in the living room, Isabel next to them, Maria at home when she should be at school.

“Where were you?” my mother asks as I walk into the room.

“On the beach. I went for a walk.” I brush at my face surreptitiously, hoping the tears have dried, that they will chalk my disheveled appearance up to the elements.

“Why aren’t you at school?” I ask Maria.

“Quiet,” Isabel interjects, gesturing toward the TV.

I follow their gazes, as Maria rises from her perch on the couch, turning up the volume on the television.

My breath catches.

The rumors are true; there’s been an invasion of Cuba.

* * *

? ? ?

The thing about hope is that when it fills you, when you hold it in the palm of your hand, the promise of it is everything. You can go for days, weeks, months, years on that hope, telling yourself everything will be fine, eventually, you’ll have what you’ve been waiting for, this is just a momentary setback in your life, one you will overcome. After all, if there isn’t a happy ending at the end of the story, what is the purpose of all of it?

Hope is such a beautiful lie.

The initial reports are scant, the news dire. The invasion at Playa Girón—the Bay of Pigs, as the Americans call it—failed miserably. Over a hundred men killed, over a thousand men captured. There is little room for my broken heart in these times, and I spend my days gathering whatever news I can on the situation in Cuba, while my father calls friends and business associates trying to discover what has happened to our island, while my mother and sisters pray in the pews of St. Edward’s.

Does Eduardo’s body litter the shores of Playa Girón, or is he in one of Fidel’s prison cells?

The thought of him dead or injured breaks my heart.

We wait for news to trickle out of Cuba.

Days after the failed invasion, President Kennedy addresses the nation.

We gather in the same living room where we once watched the election night results with eagerness. Now, Maria is quiet and subdued. Our father is here, grim faced and disappointed in yet another politician. And I— I regret the way I left things with Eduardo. But more than that, I am filled with anger again, the hope I had placed in President Kennedy evaporated now. Did I place too much trust in him because he is a friend of Nick’s? Or are we simply naturally predisposed to hope?