Nick holds out his hand, and I take it, walking toward his house despite my misgivings.
We enter through the veranda; the white sheets are draped over the furniture once more, the familiar sight of where we spent so much time together bringing a pang to my chest. The first morning he brought me here, when the sheets covered the furniture, it seemed full of possibilities. Now everything is shuttered and dead.
I sit on the edge of the couch where we once made love, Nick opting for the opposite chair, waiting for me to speak.
I lead with the excuse because it’s always easier to address what’s on the surface, and not the pain that lingers underneath.
“People are talking about us. I didn’t think it would bother me, but you’re right—everything is complicated now. I need to think about my family. My actions could hurt them.”
“I know things are complicated. That was why I came to Palm Beach and didn’t tell you. Katherine’s father had heard the rumors about us and was angry. He wanted me to put in an appearance at the party, to dispel the gossip. I didn’t think you’d be there.”
I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.
“We were a late invite.”
I consider telling him what his fiancée said to me, that she threw us together on purpose, but what would such a revelation serve. She is to be his wife, and I am just the woman who appeals to his baser nature, as she so kindly put it.
“I never wanted you to be in the middle of this, never wanted anyone to try to hurt you because of me. I’m the one who’s engaged, who is in the public eye. I’m responsible for this.”
“It’s not your fault. We knew this was temporary. How could it not be?”
“And the rest of it?” Nick asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t want me lying to you. Give me the same courtesy. This isn’t just about the gossip. You’re not done with the CIA, are you?”
“How can I be done with the CIA? Why don’t you ask your President Kennedy about that?” My anger over the failed invasion pushes to the surface, hot and sharp. “Did you know?”
“Beatriz.”
“So you knew.”
“There’s more at stake here than my feelings for you.”
“There’s more at stake here than my feelings for you, too.”
“This isn’t about us. It isn’t personal. It’s politics.”
“It’s personal for me. It must be nice being able to put it out of your head and pretend it doesn’t matter, that it happened to other people, that it doesn’t affect you. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it, though? You want your Cuban mistress in your bed, but I’m not supposed to have my own thoughts on the subject, am just supposed to pretend my country isn’t falling down around me. That my people aren’t dying. That children aren’t being sent away from their families.”
“I’ve never treated you like my mistress.”
“Your fiancée certainly sees me as your mistress.”
He blanches.
“Oh yes, we had a nice conversation in the powder room at the party. It was reassuring to know she wasn’t bothered about our affair as long as your—how did she phrase it—‘baser natures’ were confined to me.”
A blistering oath escapes him.
“I’m not angry. It’s the truth. And I can’t pretend politics aren’t between us anymore. What happened?” I challenge. “Men are dead, in prison, because your government didn’t support Cubans when they had the chance.”
“That’s the betrayal you want to hold against me? The Bay of Pigs?”
At the moment, I can’t tell if that’s the one that cuts the deepest or is merely the easiest to face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“We screwed up.”
“That much is obvious. It’s also not an explanation.”
“I didn’t realize I owed you one.”
Of all the things he could have said to me, that one stings.
“You’re a member of the president’s inner circle, aren’t you? How does Kennedy feel about the invasion?”
“It’s embarrassing for the president. At this point, no one believes the CIA wasn’t involved, and the more the administration denies it, the more disastrous this will prove to be. He needs to get in front of this, to admit we made a mistake and that we are doing everything we can to fix it. Otherwise he will look like a fool.”
“And will he admit it? Is he doing everything he can to fix it?”
“I don’t know.”
“So that’s what this was, then? A mistake?”
“You can’t think it was intentional. Kennedy wants Castro defeated as much as anyone.”
“Please.”
“He does.”
“Then why didn’t he give the men who landed at Playa Girón more support? Why isn’t the United States throwing its weight and might behind removing Fidel from power? You and I both know that if they did, we’d be having a very different discussion.”
“Because we can’t look as though we are in the business of nation building, that we’re dethroning governments simply because we don’t like them.”
“But isn’t that exactly what the United States does throughout the world? Don’t tell me Cuba is any different. Fidel isn’t what the Cuban people want. Do you know how many Cubans were involved in his 26th of July Movement? A few hundred. A few hundred guerrillas took control of my country.”
“And no one fought back. Those who opposed him left. Others are trying to leave even as we speak. This was our attempt to help you get your country back. And it failed.”
“Don’t put this on us like it’s our fault, like the United States hasn’t been behind the scenes the entire time. You have no idea what it was like under Batista. None. He created an environment where there was a vacuum of power so no one would be able to take his power away from him. And you helped him with your guns and your sugar—”
“Do you really want to talk about sugar?”
I flinch.
“I can’t get past this,” I add. “I can’t compartmentalize these parts of my reply. I can’t maintain some semblance of self-respect anymore and sleep in your bed while you take your fiancée out in society. I can’t pretend I’m not angry with you for what your Congress isn’t doing to help my country, for the mess your government has caused. I can’t turn a blind eye to the president’s handling of the situation or to your friendship with him.”