I enroll in university in Miami, relieved to discover my course work will indeed transfer, that I am able to pay my tuition on my own thanks to my arrangement with the CIA. It feels good to be back in the classroom again, strange, though, to discuss in an academic setting the subjects that dominate so much of my private time.

I avoid the social whirl altogether, spending my days and nights with Nick when he isn’t in Washington, preferring quiet time with my sisters to the pressures of being on display. There’s really little point in secrecy these days—I’m fairly certain the entire town knows I’m living here with Nick, has dissected the fact that Eduardo and I disappeared from Elisa’s party at the same time. Nick and I have yet to speak of Eduardo’s return, or of my conversation with him at my sister’s house. We dance around the things of which we cannot speak—our future, the tension between our countries, the pressures from outside pushing at the seams of the private world we have created here.

When the season ends, I choose not to accompany Nick back to Washington, remaining in the Palm Beach house, spring turning to summer, summer turning to fall. I am a weekend mistress, visited on holidays and congressional recesses.

In the mornings, I walk on the beach, sometimes meeting Maria in the halfway spot between our two houses before she goes to school. If our parents disapprove or think I am a bad influence on her, they’ve said nothing on the matter. Sometimes I wonder if it is love for me that keeps them from speaking out, or fear for Nick’s formidable position in society. While his influence hasn’t been able to repair my reputation, he’s made it impossible for the old guard to cut me directly.

This morning when I return from my walk, there’s a man standing on the veranda. My steps falter as I get closer, as I recognize him, something clenching in my heart. When I was a young girl, our relationship was so much easier; I looked up to him as a larger-than-life figure, wanted to please him, for him to be proud of me.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” I say, a lump in my throat.

“I wanted to see you,” my father replies, his voice rougher than I remembered.

“Why?”

It’s the first effort either one of my parents has made to see me since I left Palm Beach over two years ago.

“Because I’m worried about you. Everyone says you’re living here with Preston.”

“I am.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Because you always knew I would come to a bad end?”

“Because you always did as you pleased and cared little for what others thought of it.”

“Let me guess, you fault me for being reckless and impulsive.”

“No, on the contrary. That quality of yours has always been one of the things I love most about you. Unfortunately, society does not always see things the same way. If you were a man, such indulgences would be praised as bold, ambitious, daring. If we were still in Cuba, you could get away with such behavior as the eccentricity of a wealthy and beautiful woman who has the luxury of doing as she pleases. But we are not in Cuba. And though you are, and always will be, a Perez, that does not mean what it once did. Not here. We must do more. Work harder. We must advance ourselves, because if we do not, these people will trample us. They don’t want us here, and they won’t let us forget it. Luxuries, and eccentricities, and indulgences are no longer feasible. They are foolish and dangerous.”

“You’re worried I’m shaming the family name.”

“I’m worried about you,” he counters. “I will not be around forever. When I die, I need to know my family will be taken care of. That my wife will be able to support herself in the manner in which she has grown accustomed, that my daughters will be taken care of, that those I love will be safe.”

He turns from me, looking out to the sea.

“I couldn’t protect your brother. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m not Alejandro. Nothing will happen to me.”

“You don’t think I’ve heard about the risks you’re taking? That your name isn’t just being whispered in Palm Beach circles, but in other ones, too?”

“I thought you didn’t concern yourself with politics anymore.”

“Then you thought wrong. Business is political. Politics is business. I am just very careful now about the friends I make and the alliances I enter into. I wish I could say the same for you.”

“You object to my relationship with Nick.”

“I object to your relationship with Senator Preston, but that’s not why I’m here. That’s not the relationship that will get you killed.”

“You want me to stay out of Cuba.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have heard whispers of your involvement, don’t you think Fidel likely has? Don’t you think he has spies all over, reporting back to him with possible threats? He is a very dangerous man. I underestimated him once, and it was a costly mistake.”

“You once called him a foolish man.”

“And now he has proven himself to be dangerous, too, and the United States has foolishly made an adversary out of him, elevating him to more of a threat than he ever was.”

“He killed Alejandro.”

“Yes, he likely did.”

“How do you live with that? How can you stand not avenging your own son?”

“Because you will one day learn the cost is not worth the payoff. Would it bring me pleasure to see Fidel burn? Of course. But what would it cost me in order to bring such an outcome about? What would I lose?”

“I’m in too deep now to turn back. I have to try. Don’t you see that?”

He sighs. “I do. But I still worry. Be careful. Be careful of who you trust. At the end of the day, none of these people have your best interests at heart, and they won’t hesitate to put you in jeopardy if it furthers their aims.

“And no matter what happens, you are always a Perez. Your mother . . .” His voice trails off. “I made my mistakes with your brother. I regret them more than you can ever know. I don’t agree with your mother’s perspective on this, and while I had hoped her sending you to Spain would get you away from this mess with the CIA, would keep you safe, I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t have a part in this family. You are my daughter. You are a Perez. My fortune, my name, all of it will always be yours. You will always be my daughter.”

Tears fill my eyes. “Thank you.”

“And because you are my daughter, and because I know you, I understand what you must do. Be safe, Beatriz.”

“I will,” I whisper.

“If you have a chance to see the house again—”

His eyes grow wet, and I am struck by how old he looks, how unfair it is that my father has been put in this position at the end of his days, that he is forced to rebuild, a lifetime of work eradicated by the winds of revolution. His legacy has been stolen from him, along with his son.

“I might not be able to keep you safe, may not be able to go with you on this journey, but if you get in trouble when you are in Havana—”

I listen closely as my father shares another Perez family secret with me.

* * *

? ? ?

NOVEMBER 26, 2016

PALM BEACH

She hangs up the phone, a smile on her face. There is something special to be found in conversations with old friends, former lovers, and family. That sense that you are known, that there are words that need not be said, emotions that need not be voiced, yet are felt from miles away. Despite the differences between them, the choices Eduardo has made, at the end of her life, there is still love and respect between them. At her age, there is a reckoning of sorts, and a need to heal old wounds.

They are, after all, countrymen.

Family.

She finishes getting ready, putting on the last piece of jewelry—

The diamond earrings she bought herself to celebrate when she graduated from law school all those years ago.

She studies her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the image staring back at her, her heart quickening as the phone rings once more, this time the voice on the other end of the line inviting her to an impromptu celebration—expected, yet long overdue.

It is, perhaps, poor taste to celebrate a death, even Fidel’s. It might be tempting fate to rejoice in the misfortune of another who has succumbed to the travails of time when she stares it down herself. But this is both celebration and mourning—not for Fidel, never for Fidel, but a way of laying all she has lost to rest now that the villain has finally been brought to a justice of sorts for his crimes.

It’s not the justice she wanted, of course, but she’s learned life doesn’t always give you what you want; time has a way of sorting things out in its own peculiar, indecipherable manner.

When Fidel dies . . .

She goes out into the night.

chapter thirty-one

The letter is delivered in the waning days of November, as the weather turns cooler, Palm Beach readying itself for another season—minor royals and Kennedys, steel magnates and celebrities, descending on the island.

The messenger is Eduardo himself, the intervening months since we last saw each other restoring him to his prior health, his skin tan, his body less slight, more muscular than when he returned from Cuba.

His expression is dark.

“Bad news?” I ask, letting him in.

“Is Preston here?”

“No, he’s in Dallas with the president.”