“What are you . . .”
My voice trails off.
People aren’t just staring at Eduardo and me. They’re staring at Eduardo and me, but their attention also darts to a couple on the opposite side of the room, and then back again, as though they’re watching a particularly competitive bout of tennis.
I cannot help but look, either: at a beautiful blond debutante and her handsome fiancé.
Nick’s gaze meets mine across the ballroom, and a myriad of emotions cross his face—guilt, confusion, anger—as his gaze rests on the point where my arm is linked with Eduardo’s.
* * *
• • •
It takes every ounce of self-restraint mixed with a healthy dollop of the training I’ve received from Mr. Dwyer to tear my gaze away from Nick’s. I take Eduardo’s arm with a false smile on my lips, my head held high as I accompany him onto the balcony for some air.
Eduardo wasn’t wrong—everyone watches our progress, and whatever I thought of my reputation, it’s clear it is in tatters.
Nick lied to me.
He said he would be in Washington; he told me he couldn’t make it to Palm Beach this weekend.
He lied to me.
“Beatriz.”
There’s pity in Eduardo’s voice as he says my name—pity and worry.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
I will be fine.
I knew this would happen eventually, that he wasn’t mine to keep. I knew all of this, and still, it hurts.
“People are talking,” Eduardo urges.
“I see that now.” I’m not even angry with Nick; I’m angry with myself. I should have known better. I do know better. I was so busy playing house; I stuck my head in the sand at a time when I should have been more cautious.
“Are the rumors true?” Eduardo asks.
“What are you doing in Miami?” I counter.
“Beatriz.”
“You want to do this? You get my cooperation with Castro. You don’t get the rest of it.”
“I thought we were friends first,” Eduardo replies. “I’m concerned about you.”
“We are friends. And if you’re my friend, you won’t ask me about this.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m fine. What is happening in Miami?”
“You are impossibly stubborn.”
“You used to think that was one of my most charming qualities.”
“I used to think a lot of things.”
“Miami?”
There’s no place for a broken heart in all of this.
“You already have an inkling, don’t you?” His tone is faintly mocking. “What is it? Pillow talk?”
“They’re training pilots. To invade Cuba.”
“Yes.”
“Are you one of the pilots?”
He laughs. “God, no. Far too much responsibility.”
“But you’re involved.”
“Yes. As is your Mr. Dwyer.”
“And President Kennedy? I assume you’ve secured his support?”
The president’s approval rating is high, his popularity soaring. People like the image he presents: the young, handsome idealist with the beautiful, accomplished wife and the two adorable children. I mostly like the president. Idealists make me wary as a matter of principle, but there is a thread of pragmatism in Kennedy’s policies that gives me hope. Besides, at the end of the day, he is merely one man. The coffers of the American political machine are lined with men like Mr. Dwyer who scoff at ideals and have no compunction about rolling up their sleeves and getting to work. If the president lacks the stomach to do what needs to be done in order to defeat Fidel, no doubt one of his advisors will do the trick.
“Allegedly, Kennedy supports it,” Eduardo answers. “I imagine your senator would know more about the president’s intentions, though.”
“He’s not my senator.”
“That’s not the story I’ve heard.”
“Well, he’s not.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Eduardo’s gaze returns to my wrist. “That’s an expensive bracelet.”
“For what? A mistress?”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“It’s what everyone else is saying, isn’t it?”
“Well, what did you expect, Beatriz? He’s here with his fiancée.”
“Don’t tell me your latent morality is outraged by an affair. Half the party is sleeping with someone they aren’t married to, and everyone knows it. You’ve certainly had no compunction over doing the same thing.”
“It’s not about my morality. It’s about your pride.”
I laugh, as though my aforementioned pride isn’t currently lying on the floor in disgrace. “Do you think I’m settling?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Why does everyone assume I want marriage? That if I’m not someone’s wife, I’m not worth anything.”
“It’s not about marriage. You shouldn’t be anyone’s second choice. Don’t you want to be someone’s first choice?”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s choice. I want them to be mine.”
“And you choose him?” Disbelief threads through his voice.
“I choose myself. And right now I choose Cuba.” I take a step back. “I should return to the party before people talk even more.”
This is what Isabel attempted to warn me about in the car earlier. Have the whispers reached my parents’ ears?
“Before he gets too angry, you mean. I saw the way he looked at us standing together. He’s jealous.” The smug note in Eduardo’s voice throws me off. “He won’t claim you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have you, either.”
I laugh angrily. “And if that is true, how does that make him any different from the rest of you?”
I am hurt, and the image of Eduardo standing before me in his elegant tuxedo, an arrogant expression on his face, makes me want to hurt him.
“Is that what this is?” I taunt, understanding dawning. “You want me because you think he has me?”