chapter seventeen
On a clear and cold Friday in January, snow on the ground, John Fitzgerald Kennedy is inaugurated as the thirty-fifth president of the United States while the nation rejoices. Nick spends more time in Washington after Kennedy’s inauguration, trading sand for snow. What little time Nick and I can cobble together between his work and social obligations, we do. I can’t help but wonder:
How long can I keep up this secret life?
Nick’s absence leaves me to my own devices, and I wander the Palm Beach house alone in my private time, escaping the wedding festivities overtaking my parents’ home. Isabel’s businessman proposed a week ago, and already she and our mother are planning the wedding with the efficiency and determination of generals commanding men into battle. I watch as my mother pores over the guest list, biting my tongue as she adds illustrious name after illustrious name that will likely sniff when they see the names on the ivory card stock and ignore the invitation altogether.
We don’t speak of it, but for all of his wealth, Isabel’s husband-to-be made his fortune owning a string of ice cream parlors, a profession that once would have been beneath my mother’s notice even as the marriage is now viewed as a coup, the gaudy diamond on Isabel’s hand something my mother can gloat about to her small circle of friends.
It is to be just Maria and me in the house soon, and my mother’s not-so-subtle hints of fixing me up with Isabel’s fiancé’s cousin grow with each day that passes. She has started asking about my whereabouts more than usual, taking an interest in my daily activities she never expressed before.
My mother walks into my room without knocking as I am finishing dressing for a meeting with Mr. Dwyer.
I glance at my watch. I have to leave in fifteen minutes if I’m going to make it in time. I have a feeling Mr. Dwyer is not one for being kept waiting.
“Where are you headed?” my mother asks, her gaze running over me, taking in the knee-length skirt, the ivory blouse, the sensible heels.
Not my usual fare.
“Lunch with friends,” I reply.
“Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so.”
I dab perfume behind my ears and at my wrists.
“Thomas is coming over,” she says, referring to Isabel’s fiancé. “They’re going to go over the wedding plans. I would like you to be here.”
“I doubt they want my input considering Isabel and I don’t exactly have the same taste.”
My sister’s wardrobe is unremarkably beige.
“I don’t want you to give your input. I want you to make a good impression on Thomas.”
“Why? Why does it matter what he thinks of me? He isn’t marrying me; he’s marrying Isabel.”
“It’s nearly February, Beatriz.”
“It is.”
“The season will be over before you realize it, and then where will you be? Another year lost, another year older, another year unmarried. Thomas’s cousin would be a good match for you.”
“Why? Because he has money? Because I need a husband? We’ve never even met. You know nothing about him.”
“I know you might have a chance with him. If you continue the way you are, no man will have you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you think I haven’t noticed how many walks you go on now? How often you disappear for hours at a time?”
Is she suspicious of my political activities or my relationship with Nick?
“I could speak to your father about it. He gives you too much freedom,” she snaps.
We’ve never been particularly close, my parents leaving the raising of their children to others, but the anger in her voice, etched all over her face, catches me off guard.
“Whatever you are up to, you will put an end to it. I will not let you ruin this family. Our reputation and good standing are all we have.”
I laugh, the sound devoid of any humor. “This isn’t Cuba anymore. And we aren’t the same family we once were. Can’t you see we’re already ruined?”
Her cheeks flush with anger. “You go too far.”
“I have to leave. I’m going to be late.”
I don’t give her a chance to respond before I walk out the door and head to my meeting with Mr. Dwyer.
* * *
• • •
“Tell me your impressions of the Hialeah group,” Mr. Dwyer commands when we are seated across from each other at what is becoming our usual table at the restaurant where we met in Jupiter last year. I drove myself, Eduardo once again suspiciously absent.
I sip my coffee, still rattled from my earlier fight with my mother.
“They’re children playing at politics.”
“We said that of Fidel and his friends once,” Mr. Dwyer cautions.
“That may be, but it doesn’t change the reality that they sit around speaking of things they do not understand, their rhetoric bombastic and hyperbolic, but devoid of any practical considerations. They are children, with little understanding of the world outside of the books they read.”
“They’re not much younger than you, Miss Perez.”
“Why do you want me to watch them? Is this another test?”
“Not at all. The group is a very real threat, their support for Fidel unshakable. Did you not feel the zeal rolling off of them?”
“What can they do at the end of the day? Two American university girls, a boy . . .”
“What about the brothers?”
“The brothers are more interesting,” I admit.
“They are. What have you learned about them?”
“Not much.”
“Come now, Miss Perez. You are a beautiful woman. Surely, they’ve expressed interest.”
“They haven’t.”
“Perhaps you haven’t given them enough of an incentive.”
“I have plenty of experience knowing when a man is interested in me. They’re not. In fact, I can’t quite figure out why they’re in the group besides their hatred of Batista. They speak little; they don’t appear to have a relationship with the other members. They’re—”
“The ones you should be watching.”
“Why?”
“What do you know about Fidel Castro’s father?”
“Are you always going to answer a question with a question, or will you ever give me an explanation straightaway?”