PALM BEACH

She slips her key into the lock of her Palm Beach estate in the early hours of the morning, the evening spent celebrating with her family and thousands of her countrymen on Calle Ocho. As her palm pushes against the heavy wood, as the door swings open, she knows.

How could she not?

The front door shuts behind her, and she follows the light ahead of her, down the long hallway, the artwork she’s amassed throughout the years flanking her, the antiques collected from her travels abroad, the framed photographs of her family—the next generation—the diplomas she’s earned and proudly hung—

A life well lived.

When she reaches the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that lead out to the veranda, she hesitates, the canary diamond on her ring finger glinting in the light. She’s worn it nearly every day for over fifty years, save for the days when she was in Havana, keeping him close to her, even as her path has taken her farther away.

She turns the doorknob, stepping out into the cool night air. She should be tired considering the late hour, and the fact that she’s no longer a girl of twenty-two, accustomed to creeping into the house as the sun comes up.

They’ll have an hour or so before daybreak, before the sun rises over the water in a brilliant explosion of colors.

She should be tired, but she’s not, running on adrenaline and hope now.

The patio door shuts behind her, and the man standing on her veranda shifts, as though he’s coming to attention. He suddenly seems taller, more broad-shouldered, and for a moment, the image of the man she loved and lost, and the man who stands before her now, his back to her, his gaze cast out to the sea, become one. She’s transported to another time, another place, and another balcony. Another life.

And then he turns.

They’ve seen each other throughout the years, of course.

In a world such as theirs, complete and total obscurity is simply impossible. But there has always been a distance between them, an understanding that they were on separate paths.

Did he read the magazine spread on her? Did he keep up with her legal career? The human rights cases she was involved with? Did he wonder about her other career, the one she lived in shadows, blacked-out reports crossing his Senate desk?

His image has filled her television screen throughout the years, until he retired from the Senate a decade or so ago, the newspaper articles mentioning him tucked away in a scrapbook in her closet, the pages worn with time and frequent turning. And then there are the stories she read about his children in the society pages, a family that held her affection from afar because they were his.

“Have you been waiting long?” Her voice is thick with emotion, the words clumsy to the sound of her own ears.

“Not too long,” he says, a smile playing on his lips and mischief in his eyes, as though he knows they aren’t just talking about this evening, of course.

He is one of those men who have aged with grace, whose handsomeness is like a fine bottle of wine or an exquisite vintage of champagne. It is supremely unfair, of course, but if she has learned anything during her time on earth, it is that life is rarely fair. It simply is.

She crosses the distance between them, her heart pounding at the light in his eyes, at the love shining there.

“I’ve missed you,” she says once barely a whisper separates them.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he replies.

He reaches out and strokes her hair, his fingers grazing the curve of her cheek, and even though her skin is no longer that of a young woman, all the years between them fall away, and they are once again two people standing on a Palm Beach balcony under a moonlit sky.

They both look their fill, the luxury of just being in each other’s company one that is impossible to ignore in the face of such a separation.

“Do you feel at peace now that Fidel is dead?” he asks her.

“I thought I would,” she admits. “Thought victory would taste so sweet. Of course, I didn’t think it would take this long, either.”

“You’ve been happy, though?”

She smiles. “Yes. I have.”

“Good. I’d hoped you were. That the years were kind to you.”

“They were.” She takes a deep breath. “I was sorry to hear about your loss—about your wife.”

Her obituary was printed in the Palm Beach papers six months ago.

“Thank you. Your note meant a great deal. We were blessed with a good marriage. Wonderful children. We had a good life.”

“I’m glad.”

And she is. In her youth, perhaps, she would have been plagued with jealousy. But time has taught her many lessons, chiefly, the ability to put someone else’s happiness above her own. After all, does not the very nature of love demand sacrifice?

He smiles and holds his hand out to her, and her heart skips and sputters in her chest, and it is perhaps the loveliest thing of all that after all this time, the spark between them still burns hot and strong, that eventually they have found their way back to each other.

Fate, and timing, and all that.

“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser-of-revolutionaries and thief-of-hearts?” he asks, and she laughs, the familiar words catapulting her back in time.

He’s still too smooth by half, and she loves him for it. However much time they have left on this earth, however many days, weeks, months, years, she wants to spend them with him.

Beatriz shakes her head, a smile playing at her lips, tears welling in her eyes, joy in her breast.

“I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”

He smiles again, that full wattage hitting her, the love on his face and in his voice enveloping her in its warmth.

“No, I did.”

Does she really even stand a chance?

“Of course,” Beatriz answers, giving him her hand, letting him pull her into his arms, as they begin to dance, the sun rising over the water, time receding with each crashing wave.

epilogue

The secret to dating a man with whom you have been in love nearly your entire adult life is to still somehow maintain an aura of mystery, to ensure that even though he knows your affections are a constant thing, there are still dates, and flowers, and romantic letters you can read in the privacy of your sitting room. There are some who might say that at my age, romance is a ridiculous frivolity, that we must race through the remaining time we have left together, a concession to our declining health and advancing ages.

Fortunately, I’ve never been much for listening to what other people say.

The truth is, time is a luxury—yes. But like so many other luxuries in life, it is best savored rather than gorged, and so I spend ages doing my hair and makeup in preparation for our dates, take shopping trips with my great-nieces to buy new outfits, keeping the secret of Nick close to my heart.

He is punctual when he picks me up, flowers in hand, and the look in his eyes says time has not dimmed his impression of me, has not lessened the romance of our younger years. And I suppose, at a period when our lives are supposed to be winding down, there is something altogether delicious about rekindling a flame that never died.

After nearly two months of dating, he and his driver pick me up in his gleaming gray Rolls, and we drive out to Wellington for my great-niece Lucia’s birthday.

It’s time for him to properly meet the family.

It’s a happy occasion for the Perez clan—my great-niece Marisol has returned from her trip to Cuba, scattering my sister Elisa’s ashes where they belonged. We’re all proud of Marisol and happy to have her back.

I introduce Nick to the family, more than a little amused by the faint look of discomfort on my nephew’s face, as he clearly comes to terms with the fact that his aunt still has romantic affairs.

“Was this your very important date?” Marisol asks, her eyes wide as she leads me away from the rest of the family.

I’ve always considered my great-nieces to be like granddaughters to me, never having the opportunity to miss the children and grandchildren I never had with them around.

I smile, remembering our conversation when she came by the house last week. “Yes.”

“He was nearly president, wasn’t he?” A fair amount of awe fills her voice.

I smile. “Nearly. He would have been an excellent one, too.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“A very long time. Since I was a young girl.”

“Did you—”

“What? Love him before?”

Marisol nods.

“Always.”

“I’m glad he’s here. And that you’re happy.”

Lucia walks up to us, a glass of champagne in hand, and takes a seat next to me.

“Open your gift,” I tell her, gesturing toward the wrapped square package sitting against the dessert table.

“I thought I’d wait until later.”

“Forget etiquette. If you can’t do what you want on your birthday, then what’s the point? Besides, one of the benefits of being old is that the rules can hang. I give you full permission to open one gift—my gift—before the allotted time.”