The Last Train to Key West Page 6

  “And what do you do with your time?” he asks me, turning the tables quite neatly.

  I shrug. “The same as anyone else, I suppose.”

  “And what’s life like in New York City?”

  Which answer should I give? The “before” answer—when life was parties, and laughter, and fun—or the “after” answer—when we were as desperate as everyone else?

  “These days, likely very similar to what the rest of the country experiences. Not enough jobs to go around; not enough money, either.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  Had the question been posed to me a few years ago, I would have laughed. Now, it brings a tinge of embarrassment.

  “I marched myself down to the employment bureau a couple times. Tried to get a job.”

  “And what did you find there?”

  “Far too many women in the same desperate straits. Women with experience, women with children to feed.” I shrug. “They offered me a position working the counter of one of the department stores because I was pretty.”

  Even in a depression, it seems there’s some sort of work for beautiful women.

  “I tried my hand at it, but to tell you the truth, I was terrible.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I didn’t have the patience for it. All that standing around and waiting for someone to approach you. And the money wasn’t nearly enough to improve our situation. There are always other things a pretty girl can do.”

  “I can imagine,” he replies, not a drop of humor in his voice.

  “Somehow, I don’t think you can. It’s easier for men, isn’t it? Thank heavens I wasn’t born a homely girl in addition to being a single one, hungry and desperate, consigned to doing extra washing and dreaming of a future that will never come.”

  This depression is hard on all of us, but it’s hardest on the women still. So many women dreamed of marriage and having families, but these days fewer and fewer people are getting married. Others dreamed of careers, only to be scolded for taking jobs away from men.

  “They say that the worst is over,” Sam replies.

  I’m hardly surprised one of the government’s employees buys the lies they’re selling.

  “They would say that, wouldn’t they?” I retort. “It can’t get any worse when you’ve already lost everything.” I stare out the window, watching the scenery pass us by. It is beautiful here—untamed and wild. For all that Manhattan is heavily populated, New York society is actually quite small, and when we lost everything, there was no privacy to be had, our failures laid out for all to see. I can understand the appeal of coming down here to disappear, the respite from the whispers and gossips. With the ocean at your back, the sun on your face, the sand beneath your toes, there are worse places you could end up.

  Surely, I’ll find him this weekend.

  I have to.

  Six

  Mirta

  After lunch, once someone helps Anthony patch the tire, we are back on the road, continuing our journey north as we pass most of the drive in silence until we arrive at No Name Key. There we board a ferry to Lower Matecumbe Key, the sun nearing its descent. Anthony is quiet, a grim expression on his face for much of the journey. He’s obviously displeased by the delay brought on by the flat tire, and I struggle to lighten his mood, until I simply give up entirely and doze the remainder of the trip. When I wake, it is to the sight of my husband’s brown eyes staring down at me, watching me. We disembark the ferry and are back in the car again for another short drive before we arrive at the place where we are to spend our honeymoon.

  The residence is a surprise: a large, white beach house with a wraparound porch and dark shutters. Towering palm trees frame the entryway, adding to the secluded setting.

  Romantic.

  “The old money is at Flagler’s fishing camp on Long Key,” Anthony comments. “Vanderbilts and the like.”

  He needn’t say more. There are some things no amount of money can buy, and it’s apparent that respectability is as impregnable in the United States as it is in Cuba.

  He parks our car, and we are greeted by a skeleton staff that will see to our needs while we are here. We make our way through the house, and one of the caretakers—he introduces himself as Gus—leads us up to the master bedroom and sets down my suitcases near the wooden armoire opposite the bed. I am greeted by pale green walls, large windows offering a view of the ocean and sandy beach.

  “There’s no electricity in these parts, but you can use the kerosene lamps at night. You’re lucky—the house has plumbing, which is rare around here,” Gus says.

  My gaze darts to my husband.

  Anthony leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He removed his jacket when we left Key West, the top down on the car, the air heavy with an impending storm, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. His white shirtsleeves are rolled up to expose his tanned forearms, a sprinkling of dark hair there. His gaze is on me.

  The caretaker leaves the room as quietly as he entered, and we are alone, the great big bed between us.

  Surely, he can’t mean for us . . . Heat rises along the back of my neck.

  “Would you like to go for a swim?” Anthony asks, a smile playing on his lips as though he can read my mind and my desire to do anything to prolong the time before my wedding night. We didn’t spend the night together in Havana after our businesslike marriage. Anthony said a casino hotel was no place for his wife, and I don’t think either one of us was comfortable with taking a room under my parents’ roof. Awkward enough to share such intimacies with a stranger, even more so in the house where I grew up.

  Tonight it is, then.

  “It’s nearly dark,” I say.

  “Not quite, though. There’s probably an hour of daylight left. We have the beach to ourselves, or so I’m told,” Anthony adds, excitement in his gaze that could almost be described as boyish.

  I suppose when you live in New York City, the beach is still a novelty, and on the bright side, it buys me a reprieve from marital relations.

  He leaves me alone, and I change quickly into one of the bathing suits I purchased for my trousseau.

  Anthony waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, clad in his swim trunks, a towel wrapped around his neck.

  Did they stow his luggage in a separate bedroom? Will we share a room while we’re here or maintain separate bedrooms like my parents have throughout my life? Is this the sort of thing one discusses with a spouse, or does it happen organically, through some mutual, unspoken agreement?

  “Ready?” he asks.

  Hardly.

  I follow him to the water.

  * * *

  —

  We walk along the beach, the waves breaking beside us. A breeze comes off the water, alleviating the heat slightly, but the air is stickier than I’m used to, pregnant with humidity. Anthony moves to the spot closest to the water, and something about the movement is reassuring—that act of kindness, that chivalry, the fact that he cares enough to spare me this small indignity.

  He is rougher around the edges than the men—boys, really—I’m used to. While there’s nothing outwardly objectionable to his manners, the way he carries himself, it is impossible to miss the fact that he comes from a different world than the one I inhabited in Cuba.

  What sort of man have I married?

  “It’s beautiful here,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the water.

  It is beautiful in a wild, rugged sort of way, although in truth, I’m not sure anything holds a candle to Cuba.

  Our pale pink home in the Miramar neighborhood in Havana occupies nearly the entire block, trees surrounding the landscape. The house has been in our family for generations, and one day it will be my brother Emilio’s, the place where he raises his children. I used to spend hours swimming in the pool in the backyard, my s
kin growing wrinkled from the water. Whenever I think of home, I see those sturdy walls, the bright Cuban sky.

  “You’ve probably seen your share of beautiful beaches,” Anthony adds.

  “I have.”

  Cuba, for all of her faults and foibles, is unquestionably stunning. Maybe that’s the problem; there’s a double-edged sword to beauty and all the interest—good and bad—it attracts.

  “Will you miss it?”

  “I’m sure I will. There aren’t many beaches in New York, are there?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Not in the city, no. But there are other parts of the state that can be nice.”

  “Where did you grow up?” I’m eager to learn more about his background.

  “Brooklyn.”

  “Was it nice?”

  “Growing up? No, I’m not sure I would call it ‘nice.’ But it made me who I am today.”

  “And now? What’s your life like? Things must be different.”

  “Money doesn’t buy everything.”

  Spoken like someone who has an ample supply of it.

  “Doesn’t it, though?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t buy you a good name.”

  “It bought you a society wife.”

  The gleam in his eye is more affection than avarice. “It did.”

  “Albeit a tarnished one,” I joke.

  “You’re not tarnished to me.”

  The intensity in his voice surprises me.

  “It’s a tradition of sorts in my family, you know,” I say, attempting to lighten his mood.

  “Is it?”

  “The first known Perez ancestor won himself a title and a wife in his bid for respectability.”

  “Was he a disreputable sort?”

  “Allegedly.”

  “What manner of sins was he guilty of?”

  “Women. Piracy.”

  Anthony smiles. “I would have liked him, then.”

  I laugh. Very few people are so accepting of their flaws, but then again, a great deal of power affords you such privileges.

  “And his bride?” Anthony asks.

  “A lady whose family had fallen on desperate times. She boarded a ship and sailed halfway across the world to do her duty.”

  “So it was duty between them?”

  “Legend has it they loved each other, but who can be certain? Who really knows what goes on in a marriage besides the people inside it?”

  “She must have been scared,” he muses, and I have an inkling that we aren’t merely talking about the corsair and his wife.

  “She likely was, but she did her duty anyway. We women are made of stern stuff.”

  I gesture to the necklace around my neck, the family heirloom my father gifted to me on my wedding day.

  “The corsair gave her this.”

  For luck, my father said.

  “May I?” Anthony asks.

  I nod.

  He lifts the necklace, rubbing his fingers against the gold heart, the red stone. He releases it without comment, grazing my skin.

  He doesn’t back away.

  I’m so nervous I can scarcely remember to breathe.

  Our first kiss was at our wedding—simple and chaste, given the audience—and we’re about to experience our second.

  Anthony leans down, erasing the distance between us, his lips brushing against mine, softly, a featherlight caress.

  A tremor fills me.

  I suck in a deep breath, my heart thundering in my chest, and he deepens the kiss.

  The ocean swells around us, the wind whipping my hair around my face. His kiss is brash, confident, seductive.

  Exactly like him.

  I know enough from talking to my cousins and friends to recognize that he wants me, can feel the desire in the tension in his body, the way his hands move over my clothes, gripping the fabric of my bathing suit, clutching me toward him as though he’s desperate for me.

  No one has ever kissed me like this.

  Anthony releases me with a gleam in his eyes.

  I raise my fingers to my mouth, my lips swollen to the touch.

  He smiles. “We’ll do just fine.”

  I wish I were so sure.

  * * *

  —

  Dinner is a feast of locally caught seafood, the conch and snapper the best I’ve ever tasted. I’m too nervous and tired to eat much, but Anthony had a crate of champagne sent down from New York, and he toasts our marriage in an extravagant fashion. After dinner, we separate, and Anthony decamps to the library with a cigar while I go upstairs to prepare for bed.

  I dab perfume at my wrists and neck after I bathe in the house’s round tub and choose the most elegant nightgown from my trousseau.

  The bedroom was transformed by an unseen member of the staff while I bathed, candles lit around the room, white petals scattered about the bed and the floor, matching the snowy bedspread.

  I walk over to the bed and grip the post, nerves dancing in my stomach.

  A novel sits on the nightstand Anthony seems to have claimed for his own—Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat.

  So much for separate rooms.

  I flip through the pages, a bookmark indicating his progress halfway through the book.

  I can’t resist the urge to snoop. A pocket case of the cigars Anthony smokes sits inside a drawer in the nightstand, the tobacco a familiar odor—clearly, in this, too, he prefers Cubans. Beside the cigars are stacks of cash, the amount of it staggering. Back in Cuba, my father kept money in a safe for emergencies. The fact that Anthony sees no need to secure it speaks to both his arrogance and his wealth, and perhaps the security of his position. If he’s as connected to the mob as he appeared to be in Cuba, many must fear him too much to steal from him.

  There’s a handkerchief; I lift it to my nostrils, the scent of Anthony’s cologne hitting me instantly. I glance down. In the back of the drawer—

  Cold black metal stares back at me.

  I slam the drawer shut.

  I shouldn’t be surprised a man like Anthony has a gun, but there’s a difference between all the things that keep you up with worry at night and seeing the reality with your own two eyes.

  The bedroom door opens.

  Anthony has removed his vest in addition to his jacket, unbuttoned the first two buttons of his white shirt.

  I swallow.

  He’s no longer the man I kissed on the beach hours earlier; the sight of the gun, of that part of his life, has brought the old fears crashing through me.

  Can he be a good man, a kind man, and live with violence as such a part of his daily life?

  “You’re beautiful.” Anthony’s voice is a low whisper. “Hell, ‘beautiful’ doesn’t do you justice.”

  My nightgown is sheer white lace, leaving entirely too little to the imagination. And still, modesty aside, my mother counseled me that pleasing my husband would make my marriage more bearable—the gleam in his eyes, the manner in which his gaze rakes me over, assures me I have succeeded.

  “Come here,” Anthony commands.

  I walk toward him on shaky legs, heat spreading throughout my body. Between the gown’s immodest slashes and dips of fabric, the hazy, filmy gauze covering my skin, I’m practically bare before him.

  I stop out of reach. I can’t make myself take that final step.

  “You’re scared.”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He sighs. “I know what they say about me.”

  “It’s not only that.”

  “But it doesn’t help, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Where I’m from, there’s an advantage to people fearing you, to thinking you capable of about anything,” Anthony replies. “With fear comes respec
t; otherwise, the world tears you apart. When I was a kid, I watched my father get shot on the street because he owed the wrong people some money. It wasn’t even a lot of money, but it was enough for them to make an example of him.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “It taught me that in order to be safe, to keep the people I loved safe, to hold on to the things I built, I had to be strong, too. Strong enough that no one could take anything from me again.”

  The world he describes isn’t so different from the one I grew up in; politics in Cuba is a particularly bloodthirsty sport. And still, I very much doubt my father is capable of the things this man has done.

  I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure I’m ready for the answers to the questions running through my mind.

  “You can ask me anything. You’re my wife.”

  The sincerity in his voice surprises me. As does the reverence he injects in the word “wife.”

  “My parents loved each other before my father was killed. Very much. I’m not interested in a bloodless society marriage.”

  “How is this supposed to be a real marriage?” I sputter. “We know nothing of each other.”

  Anthony closes the distance between us and reaches out, trailing his fingers down my arm as though he is attempting to soothe a skittish colt.

  Goose bumps rise over my skin.

  “I want more from you,” he says. “I want everything.”

  “You didn’t—” I suck in a deep breath, gathering my courage. “We haven’t—”

  “Why haven’t I bedded you yet?” he finishes for me.

  My cheeks burn.

  “Not for lack of desire, I assure you,” he replies, his tone wry.

  “Then why?”

  “Because our marriage got off to a shaky start, and I don’t want to risk our future by rushing you into something you’re not ready for. When you end up in my bed, I want it to be because you want to be there. Because you want me.” Anthony leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Good night.”

  My body is a riot of emotions and unfamiliar sensations, the desire his casual caresses have ignited sending off sparks inside me.