Is Cuba lost to us forever?

Kennedy offers words, but it is not words we need now. We need weapons: planes and tanks. We need men willing to fight. Men who are trained in the art of such warfare, who are adequately prepared, not men who are sent to be killed and captured, outmanned and outgunned, abandoned by the Americans.

We need military action from the United States.

“We’re never going back, are we?” Maria asks me as she readies for bed that night.

And in my weakness, in my grief, I admit the truth that has plagued me all along.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

? ? ?

Days pass, my nights spent tossing and turning in bed, worrying about Eduardo, about Cuba. I’ve seen firsthand what those prisons are like. Surely, Dwyer and his colleagues will move forward with the assassination plot now. They have to. What else is left? Leaving Cuba for Fidel?

The emerging reports surrounding the failed invasion suggest Fidel knew we were coming, and I am reminded of Dwyer’s earlier concern that Fidel has eyes and ears within the United States reporting back to him.

Were we betrayed by one of our own?

There’s a meeting with the Hialeah group this week; perhaps they’ll have information to share.

In the beginning, I doubted the value of such espionage, but if anything, the recent events in Cuba have made me appreciate the CIA’s role in this. And if it’s possible for me to make a difference, then how can I resist helping? My countrymen lie dead on a Cuban beach; languish in Fidel’s prison. I can’t stand by and do nothing.

The beach is mostly empty at this early hour, the season ended, the social set moved on to Newport, or New York, or wherever. I walk toward my usual spot, stopping in my tracks at the sight of a man standing near the palm tree where I normally sit.

The impulse to turn back home is strong, anger and nerves filling me. The impulse is there, but for all of my flaws, I’ve never been a coward, and so instead of running away, I walk toward him, stopping when we’re so close he could reach out and touch me.

He looks awful.

Thinner than I remembered, shadows under his eyes, a wrinkle—two—in his normally flawlessly pressed dress shirt.

Neither one of us speaks as we look at each other, and I get the sense he’s searching my appearance as much as I am his, looking for signs of—what?—I don’t even know. It’s been over two weeks now since that horrible night I saw him with his fiancée, but it feels like so much longer.

He breaks the silence first.

“You left me.”

“You lied to me,” I counter.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you; I didn’t want to lose you. It’s not an excuse, and I know it doesn’t make what I did right, but that’s why I did it.”

“You didn’t want to lose me so you lied to me? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? I knew you were engaged. I understood where I was in your life. At least, I thought I did. And then you lied.”

“I didn’t want to lose you by disrupting whatever balance we have between us. We’d fought recently, and everything is so complicated right now with Cuba. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Lying to me isn’t the answer.”

“I know that now.”

A woman and her dog walk past us, her gaze on us, Eduardo’s earlier warning coming back to me.

“This isn’t a good idea—us being seen together. People are already talking.”

“I know,” he replies.

“I should go home.”

“Please don’t go.”

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

“I came to talk to you. To fix this. I thought I’d give you time, I knew you were angry, but I didn’t think we were over until I came home and saw your key and bracelet on the bed. You don’t owe it to me to do this in person?”

“This isn’t working.”

“Because you don’t want it to work. You don’t want to do this in public, fine. Come back to the house with me. Talk to me.”

Tears fill my eyes, and I brush them away. “You hurt me.”

“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think it hurt me to see that look on your face, to see you—” His words fall off with an oath. “I barely sleep. I sit in on briefings, and my mind is only half on what I’m supposed to be listening to, and half here with you. Thinking about you, wondering if you’ve moved on. I was wrong. I want to make it right. Please just give me a chance. Talk to me.”

The prudent thing would be to end things here and return to the house. And still— Nick holds out his hand, and I take it, walking toward his house despite my misgivings.

We enter through the veranda; the white sheets are draped over the furniture once more, the familiar sight of where we spent so much time together bringing a pang to my chest. The first morning he brought me here, when the sheets covered the furniture, it seemed full of possibilities. Now everything is shuttered and dead.

I sit on the edge of the couch where we once made love, Nick opting for the opposite chair, waiting for me to speak.

I lead with the excuse because it’s always easier to address what’s on the surface, and not the pain that lingers underneath.

“People are talking about us. I didn’t think it would bother me, but you’re right—everything is complicated now. I need to think about my family. My actions could hurt them.”

“I know things are complicated. That was why I came to Palm Beach and didn’t tell you. Katherine’s father had heard the rumors about us and was angry. He wanted me to put in an appearance at the party, to dispel the gossip. I didn’t think you’d be there.”

I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

“We were a late invite.”

I consider telling him what his fiancée said to me, that she threw us together on purpose, but what would such a revelation serve. She is to be his wife, and I am just the woman who appeals to his baser nature, as she so kindly put it.

“I never wanted you to be in the middle of this, never wanted anyone to try to hurt you because of me. I’m the one who’s engaged, who is in the public eye. I’m responsible for this.”

“It’s not your fault. We knew this was temporary. How could it not be?”

“And the rest of it?” Nick asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want me lying to you. Give me the same courtesy. This isn’t just about the gossip. You’re not done with the CIA, are you?”

“How can I be done with the CIA? Why don’t you ask your President Kennedy about that?” My anger over the failed invasion pushes to the surface, hot and sharp. “Did you know?”

“Beatriz.”

“So you knew.”

“There’s more at stake here than my feelings for you.”

“There’s more at stake here than my feelings for you, too.”

“This isn’t about us. It isn’t personal. It’s politics.”

“It’s personal for me. It must be nice being able to put it out of your head and pretend it doesn’t matter, that it happened to other people, that it doesn’t affect you. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it, though? You want your Cuban mistress in your bed, but I’m not supposed to have my own thoughts on the subject, am just supposed to pretend my country isn’t falling down around me. That my people aren’t dying. That children aren’t being sent away from their families.”

“I’ve never treated you like my mistress.”

“Your fiancée certainly sees me as your mistress.”

He blanches.

“Oh yes, we had a nice conversation in the powder room at the party. It was reassuring to know she wasn’t bothered about our affair as long as your—how did she phrase it—‘baser natures’ were confined to me.”

A blistering oath escapes him.

“I’m not angry. It’s the truth. And I can’t pretend politics aren’t between us anymore. What happened?” I challenge. “Men are dead, in prison, because your government didn’t support Cubans when they had the chance.”

“That’s the betrayal you want to hold against me? The Bay of Pigs?”

At the moment, I can’t tell if that’s the one that cuts the deepest or is merely the easiest to face.

“What happened?” I ask.

“We screwed up.”

“That much is obvious. It’s also not an explanation.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you one.”

Of all the things he could have said to me, that one stings.

“You’re a member of the president’s inner circle, aren’t you? How does Kennedy feel about the invasion?”

“It’s embarrassing for the president. At this point, no one believes the CIA wasn’t involved, and the more the administration denies it, the more disastrous this will prove to be. He needs to get in front of this, to admit we made a mistake and that we are doing everything we can to fix it. Otherwise he will look like a fool.”

“And will he admit it? Is he doing everything he can to fix it?”

“I don’t know.”

“So that’s what this was, then? A mistake?”

“You can’t think it was intentional. Kennedy wants Castro defeated as much as anyone.”

“Please.”