“What a damned waste,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

“They knew,” he continues. “The Americans. From the beginning, they had to have known we were outmanned, outgunned, that we had no chance without their involvement and support. That the little they gave us was not nearly enough. They abandoned us, left us to die on that beach, and for what? So they could rid themselves of the exiles causing trouble in South Florida. So they wouldn’t get their hands dirty. So they could preserve their ridiculous image in front of the international community. As though the rest of the world doesn’t know all too well what they are capable of, where their loyalties lie, how they prioritize their own national interest above everyone else’s.

“‘What was it like?’” he mimics. “You know what Fidel does to his prisoners. You know what it was like.”

I do.

“Perhaps it was better because they were bargaining for us, because we had some value, at least—what was it they wanted first? Tractors for our lives. Then money. So much money. I should be grateful, of course, that I had some value. That they didn’t just let me die there. Kennedy and his powerful political friends saved me.”

It’s coming. Like a storm building over the water, it’s coming. I recognize the anger in him, the uncontainable, dangerous whiplash of rage pushing and shoving its way outside of him.

We are so very alike.

“What good allies we have in these Americans. They said we would hit the beach and we would march straight to Havana. They told us people would join us along the way, come out of their homes and greet us as liberators just as they did for Fidel and his men.” He snorts. “We should have known it sounded too good to be true. That when they told us the sky would be filled with planes, that we would have more support than we needed, than we knew what to do with, it was just another empty promise from the Americans. We should never have been foolish enough to hope.”

Does he see me as one of them—the Americans—because I love one of them? Does he view me as a traitor to my people?

“After we were captured, Fidel and his lackeys marched us with their guns trained on us, our hands tied behind our backs, surveying us as though we were animals being led to slaughter.”

It’s not enough to take our country from us; Fidel and his compatriots are also determined to take our pride, to break our spirit.

“They attached monetary value to each of us as though we were chattel. The lowliest among us were worth a mere $25,000. The rest of us, well, it turns out I was very expensive.”

“Eduardo.”

My heart breaks for him.

“Did he know?”

I flinch at the question, at the condemnation contained in his gaze.

“I don’t know.”

Liar.

“You don’t want to know. Which is, in its own way, answer enough, isn’t it?”

“I left him. When it happened, we fought. I left him. I understand the anger you feel right now. You don’t think I was angry watching what happened to all of you, helpless, stuck here? I wanted to go with you. I wanted to fight. This is my fight as much as it is yours.”

“Then do your part. This is no time to sit on the sidelines. To wait. This is the time for action. You can’t claim to be loyal to Cuba and sleep with one of the men responsible for this mess we’re in. You must choose. Are you loyal to him or are you loyal to your people? To Cuba? You say you left him, but that’s his bracelet on your wrist, isn’t it? You left, but you went back.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, Beatriz. You always complained you weren’t allowed to participate in our plans, that you were shut out because you were a woman. Here’s your chance. You’re sleeping with one of the most influential men in the Senate, a man who has the ear of the president; do something with it.”

“We’re back on that, then. You want me to whore myself out for some votes in the Senate, for a new policy on Cuba.”

“There are worse ways to serve our cause,” he snaps, his gaze darkening.

“It changed you. Playa Girón.”

“How could it not?”

The flash of guilt is back again. I made love to Nick while Eduardo went to war, while he languished in one of Fidel’s prisons. Perhaps I owe him this.

“What do you want from him?”

“The same thing I want from all of them. For them to fix this.”

I once asked the same thing of Nick, for the Americans to use their power and intervene against Castro, but now, hearing such a request fall from Eduardo’s lips, I am struck by how much we continue to rely upon the Americans, and the likelihood that doing so will never be in our best interests.

“Shouldn’t we fix it ourselves?” I ask.

“I don’t think we can fix it ourselves. The failed invasion only helped Fidel, gave him more power. If anything, he’s stronger now, and he was a formidable opponent before. He has the Soviets backing him. How do we stand a chance if we don’t have a great power backing us?”

“I’ve been in contact with Dwyer. I’ve been working with him.”

“It’s not enough. We’re past the point of espionage. We’re past the point of assassination attempts. If Fidel dies, someone else will merely take his place—his brother or Che.”

“Fidel killed Alejandro. Have you forgotten that?”

“No, I haven’t. But you’re a fool if you think this is about your brother. This is bigger than your grudges, Beatriz.”

“I’m aware of that. But don’t pretend you don’t have your own debts to repay, that you’re driven by some altruistic need to save Cuba. I know you far too well for that. You want to see them suffer for what they did to you.”

His tone is mocking. “You figured me out.”

“We were friends once. I cared for you. We’re not friends anymore, are we?”

He laughs. “Friends? I think it’s a bit more complex, don’t you? I loved you once.”

“I didn’t—”

“What? Love me back?”

I stumble over the words. “I didn’t realize you felt that way about me. That you were serious about us. I thought . . .”

“I’ve loved you since we were children.”

I gape at him. “You never said anything. There were always other women.”

“I thought we were inevitable. That I could have my fun, and when we both grew up, we would get married. Start a life together. And then your senator came along; I admit I never saw that one coming. Never thought you would fall in love with a man like him.

“You’ll hurt him, you know. You’ll hurt him, because no matter how much you think you love him, you’re not right for him. You want different things, and in the long run, you’ll never make each other happy. He’s an ambitious man; he’ll need the right wife.”

“I know.” There’s no point in arguing with him, in denying the truth.

Eduardo’s expression changes, and suddenly, he looks like the man I remember.

“Did you ever—could you have ever—”

It’s easy to read the question in his voice, contained in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“And now?”

My silence is answer enough, I suppose.

He gives me a sad little smile. “If things were different, if we were in Havana, if Fidel had never taken power, so many ‘ifs.’”

In the end, life always comes down to timing.

“It’s only fair, I suppose. At one point or another, I was due to have a woman break my heart. Seems fitting it should be you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I should go.” He hesitates, a flash of worry in his eyes. “Tread carefully, Beatriz. All of this is likely to get worse before it gets better.”

His warning sounds a lot like a good-bye.

“And what will you do now?”

“Keep fighting, of course.”

He closes the distance between us, his lips brushing my forehead for a heartbeat before he releases me.

“Will you go?” he asks.

“Where?”

“To Kennedy’s ‘welcome home’ ceremony at the Orange Bowl?”

I shake my head.

He smiles, and in an instant, he looks like the Eduardo I remember.

“Can’t say I blame you. Wish I didn’t have to participate in the farce, either. Good-bye, Beatriz.”

“Good-bye,” I echo, watching him walk away, leaving me alone in my brother-in-law’s study, tears trickling down my face at some unknown emotion I’m unable to name.

chapter thirty

After his return home, Eduardo is conspicuously absent from the season this year, not that I blame him. His name is still on everyone’s lips; clearly, he’s missed by the female half of Palm Beach, his actions in the Bay of Pigs adding to the mystery of it all as he cuts a dashing figure for those who are too ill-informed to know better and see our plight as something to romanticize.