“Where will this drive take us?” I ask Eduardo.
“To visit a mutual friend. He wants to meet with you again. He’s interested in your proposition and wishes to discuss the logistics.”
I’d almost given up on the CIA man in the intervening month between our first meeting and now.
“He wants to move forward?”
“He’s definitely interested. I told him we’d meet him for lunch.”
“And you assumed I’d be available?”
“I assumed you’d be bored out of your mind and looking for an adventure.” Eduardo holds open the car door for me. “Are you coming?”
I get into the car, the flowers dangling from my fingers.
* * *
• • •
The wind from the open road blows my hair as we speed down the highway. The weather is a bit cooler than I’d like; while many flock to Palm Beach to escape the colder weather up north, it’s nothing compared to Cuba’s tropical climes. I almost ask Eduardo to put the top up, but the question sticks in my throat as we whip around a curve.
Eduardo drives with the same carefree approach he adopts with everything else in life, and it is both his best and his worst quality. When you are along for the ride, that lassitude opens up a whole new world of possibilities. When you are caught up in whatever wreck his carelessness has caused, it is his tragic flaw. When I was younger, I fancied him a bit; indeed, among our set and contemporaries, I’m fairly certain having a crush on Eduardo Diaz was a rite of passage of sorts. The three years between us gave him an air of sophistication, the closeness between our families a constant comfort. He was always there in the background of my life in Cuba, as much a part of my memories as the sound of the waves off the Malecón, my sisters’ laughter, my brother’s voice.
I stole a kiss once when we were kids playing in the backyard of my house in Miramar and swore him to secrecy later. I never would have heard the end of it had Alejandro found out I’d kissed his best friend. Does Eduardo even remember? The edges of the memory blur. It feels like such a long time ago, as though the moment belongs to a different girl.
“Where are we meeting him?” I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of the wind and the waves near the road.
“A little restaurant up in Jupiter. Nothing fancy. He thought it would be better this way,” Eduardo shouts back.
“How well do you know Mr. Dwyer?”
“Not well at all,” Eduardo admits, his fingers strumming the steering wheel as the little car takes another sharp turn. My stomach lurches with the movement even as I welcome the speed, even as I weigh the odds of waking with a wicked head cold in the morning. Why are the things that are the most fun invariably the worst for you?
“And yet, you trust him.”
“I wouldn’t say I trust him, but we don’t have many options available to us. He’ll probably cast us aside when we’re no longer useful, but at the moment, our interests align. Hopefully, they will continue to do so for long enough for us to get what we want out of the deal.”
“And if we don’t get what we want?”
“I don’t know. We’re working on some other things.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see.”
“So there are secrets between us now?”
He shoots me a sidelong glance. “You tell me. What did you and Senator Preston discuss during your dance?”
I turn away from him, casting my gaze out to sea.
“Nothing of interest.”
He chuckles softly. “Now why don’t I believe that? I saw the way he looked at you. That certainly wasn’t nothing.”
“We spoke of the weather. Of the party, the social season.”
“Sure you did.”
We spend the rest of the drive in silence as I stare out the open window, watching the scenery pass us by. It’s a whole different world when you cross the bridge that separates Palm Beach from the mainland. It’s nice to get off the island, to gain a reprieve from the prying eyes and snickers, not to mention to take a break from my mother. With each day in exile, she grows more despondent, more restless, the walls of our home closing in. I’m not sure she would have agreed to leave Cuba if she’d known we’d be gone this long. At the same time, after Alejandro was murdered, staying became even more impossible. Fidel and his men threw my father in prison and threatened to kill him. Who knows what would have happened to him or the rest of us if we’d stayed?
When we reach the restaurant, Eduardo pulls into the dusty parking lot, sliding the sporty car between an Oldsmobile and a Buick. The rest of the lot is barren, the building’s exterior a far cry from the elegant restaurants on the island. The chance of recognition here is exceedingly low, what’s left of my reputation at the moment safeguarded.
Eduardo walks me to the front door, steadying me when I stumble, my heels slipping on the loose gravel, kicking up dust in my wake.
“This is where I leave you.”
“You’re joking.”
He shakes his head. “I’m merely the messenger. He only wants to meet with you. I’ll wait for you in the car, and when you’re finished, I’ll take you home.”
I’ve met with Mr. Dwyer alone, of course, but somehow, it felt different when we were ensconced in a balcony off a ballroom. This setting is another thing entirely, the sort of place my mother never would allow any of her daughters to patronize, and I hesitate at the entrance, the door battered, the restaurant’s dingy interior visible through the glass hardly encouraging.
Eduardo leans forward, kissing my temple.
“You’ll be fine.”
He holds the door open for me, and I cross the threshold, my gaze sweeping over my surroundings, my dampened palms brushing against my skirts.
I’ve been on edge since the revolution took hold in Havana, since Alejandro’s death, since I began wondering if one day they would come for me, too. We lived under Batista’s rule for so many years in a constant state of conflict that it was easy to pretend as long as we displayed a modicum of sense, as long as we didn’t dare too much, with our father’s influence enough to keep us out of real danger, we would be safe. Alejandro kept me a step or two removed from the rebel movement, shielding me from Batista’s ire. But then Fidel came and everything changed, our last name enough to cause real trouble, to threaten us all, my brother’s death reshaping the way in which I view the world. Now when I walk into a room, I look for the danger first.
The restaurant is practically vacant. At one table sit two elderly gentlemen, newspapers in hand, cups of coffee beside them. On the other end of the restaurant, tucked away in a booth, sits Mr. Dwyer—CIA kingmaker.