“Our work is often thankless. Soldiers come back from war and are praised for their heroism. We live in a constant state of war and operate under a cover of invisibility. But what we do saves lives. If you’re looking for something to give you purpose in the future, for what it’s worth, I think you would be very good at this line of work. And you would enjoy it.”
“Where would you send me?”
“How do you feel about Europe? I believe your mother has a cousin in Spain, correct? Married to a diplomat?”
He smiles, as though he knows I am already his, the decision already made. Perhaps Cuba is lost for now. But there’s still a fight to be had.
“When do I leave?”
* * *
• • •
NOVEMBER 26, 2016
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.