The Last Train to Key West
PRAISE FOR
When We Left Cuba
“Both a hard-earned love story and a visceral account of history. Cleeton’s writing pulsates with passion and intimacy. . . . She’s long since established herself as a remarkable writer, but with When We Left Cuba, she’s written with a sublime force that keeps us tethered to her words.”
—The Washington Post
“You won’t be able to put this one down.”
—Cosmopolitan
“A thrilling story about love, loss, and what we will do to go home again. Utterly unputdownable.”
—PopSugar
“A beautiful and utterly transporting novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With rich historical detail, incisive dialogue and a firebrand heroine, Cleeton paints a vivid portrait of a woman caught in the currents of a turbulent time yet determined to make her own way.”
—Shelf Awareness
“An exhilarating read with a fearless heroine.”
—Woman’s World
“Has sex, drama, suspense . . . and pairs perfectly with a mojito.”
—People
“When We Left Cuba is chock full of espionage, murder, romance, politics, family drama, and themes of national identity. . . . If you loved Next Year in Havana, read this straightaway!”
—Key Womans World
“Bold, unconventional Beatriz makes a heroine for the ages. . . . A thrilling, thought-provoking read!”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Alice Network and The Huntress
“A gorgeously atmospheric homage to a country and a past that vibrates with emotion on every page. Historic events, espionage, and a Kennedy-esque romance make this novel a rich read, but the addition of a formidable heroine truly makes it unputdownable. This is not just historical fiction, but also an unrequited love story for a country and a way of life, as well as a journey of self-discovery for a woman torn between love and the two countries she calls home.”
—New York Times bestselling author Karen White
“Cleeton once again delivers a masterful tale of political intrigue tinged with personal heartbreak. Her ferocity and fearlessness can be found on every page, and Beatriz’s story—one of vengeance, betrayal, and bravery—astonishes and thrills.”
—Fiona Davis, national bestselling author of The Masterpiece
“Scintillating. . . . An intriguing dive into the turbulent Cuban-American history of the 1960s, and the unorthodox choices made by a strong historical woman.”
—Marie Benedict, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Woman in the Room
“Atmospheric and evocative, When We Left Cuba captivates with its compelling portrayals of the glamorous Cuban exile community and powerful forbidden love set against the dangerous intrigue of the Cold War. Unforgettable and unputdownable!”
—Laura Kamoie, New York Times bestselling coauthor of My Dear Hamilton
“By turns a captivating historical novel, a sweeping love story, and a daring tale of espionage—I absolutely adored this gem of a novel.”
—Jillian Cantor, author of The Lost Letter and In Another Time
“Oozing with atmosphere and intrigue, When We Left Cuba is an evocative, powerful, and beautifully written historical novel that had me completely captivated from the first page to the last. Take a bow, Chanel Cleeton!”
—Hazel Gaynor, New York Times bestselling author of The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter
“With a sure hand for historical detail, an impeccable eye for setting, and a heroine who grasps hold of your heart and never lets go, Chanel Cleeton has created another dazzlingly atmospheric and absorbing story of Cuba and its exiles. A beautiful and profoundly affecting novel from a writer whose work belongs on the shelves of every lover of historical fiction.”
—Jennifer Robson, USA Today bestselling author of The Gown
“Powerful, emotional, and oh so real. One woman’s fight to reclaim her own country, against all odds and no matter what the cost is intertwined with the real history of our lifetime and creates an unforgettable story.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of The Tuscan Child and the Royal Spyness Mysteries
“Rich in historic detail, When We Left Cuba has it all—the excitement of a page-turning thriller, the sizzle of a steamy romance, and the elegant prose of a master storyteller.”
—Renée Rosen, author of Park Avenue Summer
“Cleeton draws you into the glamour, intrigue, and uncertainty of the Cuban exile community just after Castro’s coup through a heroine who could give Mata Hari a run for her money. . . . You’ll be rooting for Beatriz to change the course of history—and find her own hard-won happily ever after.”
—Lauren Willig, New York Times bestselling author of The English Wife
“With a richly imagined setting and a heroine worth rooting for from the start, When We Left Cuba is thrilling and romantic, and timely to boot.”
—Michelle Gable, New York Times bestselling author of The Summer I Met Jack
“A compelling, unputdownable story of love—for a man, for a country, for a past ripped away, and a future’s tenuous promise. When We Left Cuba swept me away.”
—Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of Lighthouse Beach
“Electric and fierce. Beatriz Perez’s romance with a handsome, important senator will sweep you away, but it’s her profound loyalty to Cuba and her formidable determination to be her own woman despite life-and-death odds that will really hold you in thrall.”
—Kerri Maher, author of The Kennedy Debutante
“In a tale as tempestuous as Cuba itself, When We Left Cuba is the revolutionary story of one woman’s bold courage and her many sacrifices for her beloved country. An absolutely spectacular read!”
—Stephanie Marie Thornton, author of American Princess
“Beatriz Perez’s brand of vintage-Havana glamour dazzles with equal parts intrigue, rebellion, and romance to make for an unforgettable story.”
—Elise Hooper, author of The Other Alcott
“When We Left Cuba is a breathtaking book, and it captures what I love best about historical fiction.”
—Camille Di Maio, author of The Way of Beauty
MORE PRAISE FOR CHANEL CLEETON
“A beautiful novel that’s full of forbidden passions, family secrets, and a lot of courage and sacrifice.”
—Reese Witherspoon
“A sweeping love story and tale of courage and familial and patriotic legacy that spans generations.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“This Cuban-set historical novel is just what you need to get that ~extra-summery~ feeling.”
—Bustle
“The Ultimate Beach Read.”
—Real Simple
“Next Year in Havana reminds us that while love is complicated and occasionally heartbreaking, it’s always worth the risk.”
—NPR
“A flat-out stunner of a book, at once a dual-timeline mystery, a passionate romance, and paean to the tragedy and beauty of war-torn Cuba. Simply wonderful!”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Alice Network
“Cleeton has penned an atmospheric, politically insightful, and highly hopeful homage to a lost world. Devour Next Year in Havana and you, too, will smell the perfumed groves, taste the ropa vieja, and feel the sun on your face.”
—Stephanie Dray, New York Times bestselling coauthor of America’s First Daughter
“D
on’t miss this smart, moving, and romantic story.”
—HelloGiggles
BERKLEY TITLES BY CHANEL CLEETON
Fly With Me
Into the Blue
On Broken Wings
Next Year in Havana
When We Left Cuba
The Last Train to Key West
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Chanel Cleeton
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2020 by Chanel Cleeton
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cleeton, Chanel, author.
Title: The last train to Key West / Chanel Cleeton.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019051313 (print) | LCCN 2019051314 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780451490889 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780451490896 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3603.L455445 L37 2020 (print) | LCC PS3603.L455445 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019051313
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019051314
First Edition: June 2020
Cover art: image of model: Vogue 1952 © Henry Clarke/Condé Nast via Getty Images; background image of Key West, Florida © Westend61/Getty Images
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
Interior art: palm tree pattern by Nata Kuprova/Shutterstock.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
Contents
Praise for Chanel Cleeton
Berkley Titles by Chanel Cleeton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
To my family, my heart
One
SATURDAY, AUGUST 31, 1935
Helen
I’ve imagined my husband’s death a thousand times. It starts, always, on the boat. There are waves, and perhaps some wind, and then he’s pitched over the edge, into the sea, the water carrying him away on a strong tide, his head bobbing in the churn of turquoise and aqua, the vessel swaying to and fro in the middle of the ocean without another soul nearby to come to its aid.
Sometimes the image assaults me as I go about my day, hanging the laundry on the clothesline, the white sheets flapping in the breeze, the scent of lye on the air. Sometimes I ease into it, my thoughts lulling me away as I daydream, when I’m frying the fish Tom catches when he goes out on the Helen, a vessel with whom I share two things in common: a name, and the fact that our glory days have long since passed.
Other times it comes to me in sleep, and I jolt awake, my breaths harsh and ragged, mixing with the sound of my husband snoring beside me, his hairy arm thrown over my waist, his breath hot on my neck, the scent of gin oozing from his pores.
This morning, it’s the dream, and when I wake, no arm holds me down; the space beside me is empty, an indent in the mattress from where my husband’s body lay.
How could I have overslept?
I dress quickly, going through my morning ablutions efficiently in the water closet, hoping for the proper balance between looking pleasing and expediency. The tenor of our days is set in the mornings, in the early moments before Tom goes out to sea, the sun hours from showing its face.
If Tom is happy, if the weather is good, the fish plentiful, if I do as I am supposed to, it will be a passable day. If Tom isn’t happy—
A wave of nausea hits me. Pain pulses at my abdomen, settling deep in my lower back, and I brace myself against the bedroom wall. The baby kicks, and I slide my hand down to catch the end of the movement.
These past few weeks, the baby has become more active, rolling and jabbing, pushing to make its way into the world now that the due date is near.
The nausea subsides, and I right myself, the pain passing as quickly as it came.
I walk from the bedroom to the main part of the cottage. Tom is seated at the table shoved into one corner of the open room that serves as our kitchen, living, and dining space.
When Tom first brought me here after our marriage nine years ago, it seemed the perfect place for us to start our life together—the home where we would grow our family. I scrubbed every inch of it until it shone, roamed the beaches when Tom was out to sea, and collected all sort of interesting things that had been cast ashore by boaters and smugglers, repurposing them as furniture we could ill afford to buy. The dining table where Tom’s body looms was once a crate that likely carried contraband alcohol back in the day when doing so was a crime.
Where I once cleaned with pride for all of the possibility of what could be, I now see the loss of all we could have been, the house where I poured so many dreams just another promise left unfulfilled.
Floorboards are missing, paint peeling on the exterior, our living space shared with all manner of beasts and vermin that push their way inside all available nooks and crevices, the proximity to the water—not even fifty feet away—the only thing to recommend it.
Tom’s boat is moored in the cove, within an easy distance. When Tom is at sea, the cottage is cozy, the mangroves surrounding us our protection from the outside world. When he is home, it is a pair of hands around my neck.
“Storm’s coming,” Tom rumbles, his back to me, the added weight from the baby making my footsteps heavier than usual, announcing my presence before I have steeled myself for the first moment of contact. His chair is positioned so he can gaze out the window at th
e ocean beyond. For a fisherman, the weather is everything.
“Rainstorm in the Bahamas,” he adds, his voice gruff with sleep and an indescribable undertone that has developed through the years of our marriage. “It’ll head this way eventually.”
It was Tom’s love of the sea that first drew me to him—the way the water clung to his skin, the faint taste of salt on his lips when he’d sneak a kiss, the wind in his hair, the sense of adventure when he would go out on his boat. I was younger then, just fifteen when we started dating, sixteen when we married, and I was drawn to things that seemed innocuous at the time—his big hands, the muscle and sinew in his tanned forearms, the broad shoulders built from days hauling boxes and crates of questionable origins. I thought he was a man who would keep me safe—another promise broken.
“Will the weather be bad?” I ask.
We get our fair share of storms down here in our little corner of the world. We’ve been fortunate we haven’t had a strong one recently, but when I was just a girl, we had a nasty hurricane hit Key West. Luckily, no one died, but I still remember the wind blowing my parents’ cottage around, the water threatening to engulf it. I was absolutely terrified.
“No one seems to think it’s anything to worry about,” Tom answers. “Heard on the radio that the Weather Bureau thinks it’ll miss us.”
“Will you go out on the water today?” I struggle to keep my tone light. I’ve learned not to press the issue of where he’ll go or what he’ll do. Times like these, a man will resort to all manner of things to put food on the table.
Tom grunts in acknowledgment.
I walk toward the countertop, careful to keep my body out of reach, my hip connecting with one of the knobs on the stove, my foot brushing against the icebox in the floor.
In a cramped cottage, in a cramped marriage, you learn to use the physical space around you as a buffer of sorts, to make yourself fluid and flexible, to bend to the will of another. But now, my body has changed, my stomach bloated, my limbs ungainly, and I’ve had to relearn the art of taking up as little physical space as possible—for me and the baby. It’s difficult to be quick when you carry the extra weight of another.