“You’re my dream, Talia. New York will be there after law school. We can live there for a few years—I can practice international law, you can become a world-renowned author, and then we can return home in triumph.” His grin broadened as he condensed the many dreams and desires we’d shared into one simple goal that suddenly seemed both real and attainable. “What’s important for now, however, is that we’ll be closer. Not quite ninety miles, but so much better than an entire ocean, don’t you think?”
I released his hands to once again slide my arms around his waist. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I reached up to press a kiss against the sharp, defined line of his jaw, tasting the bitter, citrusy tang of his aftershave. “Dios mío, Nicolito, that’s just made my New Year. You and I, together in Europe.”
“Nico.”
Slowly, I drew back, just far enough to look up into his face, seeing even in the shadows, the glint of humor in those deep brown eyes and the way the corners of his mouth twitched.
“What?”
“Or Nicolas—whichever you prefer, but not Nicolito. I’m not that little boy anymore, Natalia. And you are no longer that little girl. It’s not only the New Year but it’s also time for a new phase of our lives.”
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as he reached into his jacket pocket with one hand as the other drew my left hand from around his waist. I couldn’t even bring myself to look down, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on his face—the beautiful, dear face that I’d watched evolve from boyish softness to determined young man. This had been assumed between us for a very long time—since the days our mothers would tease us for being such an inseparable pair as children, to some time in the last few years, where we’d gradually seen each other in the light of growing adulthood. Where each separation had become more difficult yet made each reunion that much sweeter. Where we’d tentatively explored those new aspects of our relationship—the soft, tender, increasingly heated moments that no longer allowed for teasing from the families and rather, shifted to a quiet anticipation coupled with the occasional warning from everyone from our mothers to not embarrass them, por favor, to the priests and the nuns, admonishing us to be careful and remember that we were God’s children first.
“I spoke with your father earlier today. I believe he was actually hoping that I’d be able to convince you to get married this spring or summer, before I started law school, so that we could be settled and on our way out of the country.” His expression grew somber as he gazed down at me. “Especially with things the way they are.”
It did seem as if you couldn’t pass a radio these days without hearing at least a snatch of Fidel’s crackly pirate broadcasts from the Sierra Maestra or coming across the old people discussing his latest fiery rhetoric and the vicious fighting going on in the outer provinces. Discussions that would fall ominously silent the moment my brother or I walked into a room, the radio stations abruptly changed. But mira, this was Cuba. When had things ever been settled? Political turmoil was almost as much a national sport as béisbol. Someone was always trying to overthrow someone else.
“Do you really think it could be a problem?” I wanted my adventure, true, but I wanted the things I held most dear, my family and my home, to remain the same. To be there at the end of the day.
“I don’t know.”
He lifted his head, glanced around quickly and when he spoke, his voice was even softer than before. “Before, it’s always been a case of favors exchanged and money promised and our lives and businesses could go on as before, but listening to our fathers and my tíos, they honestly feel there is something different about Fidel. Something compelling. So many think he’s some sort of savior.”
I couldn’t deny the truth of his words. From the little I’d seen and heard, el comandante definitely seemed cut from a different cloth—his vision for Cuba clear and unwavering and fervent and definitely contagious among the masses. All of them. For the first time, I felt a hint of fear, twisting low in my stomach.
“Do you want to get married right away, then?”
“Only if you’d want to. And I know you don’t. Not yet.” His smile was so understanding, I felt a twinge of guilt pricking my conscience. “We don’t have to be married for me to take care of you, Natalia—the way I always have. So I told him we could wait—I may want your heart and your promise, but otherwise, there’s no need to rush. I wasn’t wrong to say that, was I?” His hand trembled slightly over mine, hiding what I knew rested on the third finger, as if he was waiting for my assurance.
“You are my most precious gift.” I lifted my right hand to his face, my fingertips tracing the outline of his full lips, up along his cheekbones, the feathery tips of his lower lashes teasing my skin. “I love you so much, my Nicolas.”
He turned his head, his lips brushing against my palm as he murmured, “So that’s a yes?”
“You know it’s been yes since I was three.” As he lifted my other hand to his lips, I finally caught my first glimpse of the ring he’d placed there—a brilliant antique diamond I recognized as having belonged to his grandmother. As multifaceted and beautiful as the future he was promising me.
“I know I shouldn’t ask this.” Both of his hands had moved to frame my face, his fingers tangling in the loose waves of my hair, styled so that it brushed my shoulders, just like Elizabeth Taylor’s in Giant. “It’s completely inappropriate and God knows it’s a sin but you’re so beautiful and I’ve wanted you for so long—”
“Shh …” I put my fingers to his lips. “How could it possibly be a sin for us?”
“But we will have the rest of our lives.” Yet with each word, he drew me closer still, his hands stroking agitated circles low on my back until nothing remained between us beyond layers of fabric and heat and perhaps the merest breath of air.
“We also have tonight. Like you said—a new year and a new phase of our lives, Nicolas. We deserve to celebrate it. Together.”
“Natalia—”
• • •
“Natalie—”
I glanced up from the compact’s small, round mirror to find Mrs. Mercier regarding me with an amused expression. “Darlin’, I doubt any nose could shine quite so much.”
“I—” Had been drifting. Again. A far too frequent occurrence of late. The nightmares were one thing—an expected burden to be endured, but these daydreams were of another ilk altogether. Memories, not often indulged, had been fighting their way to the surface, crowding each other in their eagerness to catch me unawares—leave me shaken. Like now, where I was gripping the compact so tightly, I could feel the metal edge cutting into my gloved hand, and still, the tremors continued, just beneath the skin, leaving behind a prickly, brittle feeling. As if the slightest touch would cause me to shatter.
“You look lovely.” Mrs. Mercier gently snapped the compact closed. “Besides, we’re here.”
Here, of course, being Greg and Constance Barnes’ apartment at which the elevator had arrived during the time I’d ostensibly been powdering my nose. As we stepped from the elevator and into a large, marble-floored foyer, I murmured, “It was very kind of the Barnes to send their car for us—not to mention the invitation. At least where I’m concerned.”
Mrs. Mercier paused on the elevator’s threshold. “They’re an unusual couple, Greg and Constance. Utterly without pretension, which is rare. Doubly so when you take into consideration their backgrounds.”
“Indeed,” I replied, looking away and busying myself with slipping the compact into my black satin evening clutch. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Mrs. Mercier or respect her opinion, but more that in my own experience, lacking in pretension came in two primary flavors—that which was genuine and that which was studied. Usually, the latter was reasonably easy to spot, what with its shiny uniformity, the lack of nuance, but there were always some who were capable of making it appear natural. Until I could ascertain for myself where the Barneses fell, I would do well to remain on guard. The last thing I needed—or would stand for�
�was to feel like someone’s pet project for the holidays.
But then again—why else would I be here? I couldn’t deny that even amidst my growing excitement for the impending evening that one question had hovered around the edges of my mind. Muffled, perhaps, but nevertheless insistent, like a distant drumbeat. Why? Why invite someone like me? To be the poor young lady on whom the wealthy benefactor had taken pity for some mysterious reason? Introducing her to a world beyond all her imaginings?
The longer I stood there, the more the mellow light given off by the antique light fixtures faded, the soft shadows they cast appearing to grow deeper, swallowing the cream-colored walls until I felt smothered, surrounded the way I’d been by that ink dark, midnight water, my lungs burning as I fought to get to shore. To the unimaginable life I now claimed as my own. I no longer belonged here—in places like this. I needed to get out.
Needed to escape—
Needed—
“Ladies, your coats?”
My surroundings swept around me with an almost audible rush and settled themselves back into the warmly lit, luxurious foyer where Mrs. Mercier and a uniformed maid stood poised beside the door to a coat room, both gazing at me with expectant smiles. With the discipline honed over the past several years, I steadied my breathing and schooled my features into a carefully neutral expression as I began working at the three oversized rhinestone buttons securing my coat. As I slipped it off my shoulders, Mrs. Mercier said in the genteel drawl maintained with twice-yearly visits back to New Orleans, “I know I already said it, but truly, that is a stunning ensemble, Natalie.”
I glanced up, unable, not to mention unwilling, to restrain my pleased smile. “Thank you.”
Even though the Pauline Trigére coat and dress were hardly the pretty-yet-practical I’d walked into the consignment store determined to find. Clearly, my subconscious had other ideas. Or perhaps it was simply echoes of my past that had drawn me toward a mannequin modeling the vibrant turquoise wool coat with the rhinestones scattered across the shoulders and bodice draped over a lush velvet dress, its folds the exact color of white sand beaches tinged with the faintest hint of rose. Together, they brought to mind that precise moment when the sun rose above the horizon, brightening sky and water from nighttime darkness and teasing the beach with that same, exact rosy hue, the palm trees casting their delicate shadows while the gentle breezes wove through the fronds, accenting the rush of the incoming surf.
In the store, at that moment, that was as practical as I needed to be.
And yet, I could still stand here and be honestly mystified as to why the memories had seemed so much more vivid and insistent of late. It was difficult to determine whether I was a special brand of masochist or merely a fool.
Now, I could only send up a fervent prayer that the ensemble hadn’t once belonged to one of tonight’s guests—or if it had, that they wouldn’t have the poor taste to say anything. For a fleeting moment I desperately wished I’d stuck to my original plan of the classic anonymity of the little black dress. What could I have been thinking, choosing such a distinctive dress and coat? However, catching a glimpse of myself in the elevator door’s mirrored surface, brushing a fingertip along the sparkling aurora borealis crystals of my earrings, I recanted the thought. Staring into the wavy, slightly distorted reflection was like staring into a portal—a crack in time—and wasn’t that just what I’d wanted? To shed that anonymity with which I’d cloaked myself. To remember who I’d been, if only for a few hours?
Yes, I would have to imagine that special brand of masochist was definitely winning out over mere fool. Suppressing a sigh, I turned away from the girl I’d been and peeled off my gloves, tucking them into a pocket of the coat.
“You know …” Once again, I glanced up to find Mrs. Mercier studying me with a narrow-eyed stare—somewhat akin to the expression she’d wear when weighing the merits of various cuts of meat on delivery day. “I do love seeing your hair down like this. Allows the light to pull out all this lovely auburn. Altogether you look trés elegant and if you’ll forgive my saying so, younger. It’s nice to see you like this, petit.”
I felt a blush rising from the dramatic portrait neckline framing my shoulders as Mrs. Mercier took my coat and handed it off along with her own full-length silver fox to the maid with an absent thank you and proceeded to fuss about me like a mother hen, brushing an errant strand of hair into place among the loose, side-parted waves before she tucked my arm in hers and led the way through the ornate double doors, already standing open, the muted, polite sounds of conversation and tinkling crystal beckoning me into the unknown, yet oh, so familiar.
Rarely had I ever been so terrified.
PEACE THE THEME OF CHRISTMAS, ’64
The New York Times
December 26, 1964
* * *
Six
“Natalie and Marguerite—finally.”
Mrs. Mercier turned an immaculately powdered cheek to accept Mr. Barnes’ welcoming kiss. “What’s this finally, Gregory? If we’re later than you expected, perhaps you should have sent your car earlier.”
“Touché.” He laughed then turned to take my hand in his. “I’m guessing midtown was a problem?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
The colorful retort, delivered in an unexpectedly patrician tone had Mrs. Mercier laughing outright while Greg Barnes merely shook his head with a rueful smile.
“Impeccable timing as always, darling. Saving me from own lack of social graces.”
“With respect to social graces, I’m the one swearing like a sailor, but honestly, Greg, while stating the obvious as a form of chitchat may be de rigueur for you, especially given some of the thickheaded louts you work with, you know the inanity of it drives me thoroughly insane.”
“And why, exactly, do you think I prefer staying home on weekends as opposed to going the theatre and cocktail party route?” While Greg’s tone was martini dry, the look in his eyes as the tall, patrician woman slowly approached was warm and undeniably loving—almost making me feel as if I was intruding on a private moment.
“Point made.” She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Now, going back to your lack of social graces, you haven’t even introduced us yet.”
“You’ve hardly given me the opportunity to say hello, let alone perform introductions, now, have you?”
As he protested, Constance Barnes made some dismissive noise low in her throat while taking my hand from his and enfolding it between both of hers, her grasp as warm as her smile. Actually, that was my first—and somehow, I knew it would be my lasting—impression of her. The all-encompassing sense of warmth, from her smile, to the bright brown eyes that creased at the corners to the way she leaned in, quickly kissing both cheeks, before taking a step back, grasping both hands and holding them out to either side as she looked me up and down. Admittedly, I was glad for the opportunity to do the same, taking in the smooth blonde French twist, the elegant scoop-necked hostess gown of pale blue and chocolate brown satin, the simple engagement ring and wedding band that along with creamy pearl stud earrings were the only jewelry she wore. There were those who would compare the unfussy demeanor Constance Barnes presented in contrast to her lavish surroundings and feel the two didn’t jibe. However, I found it an intriguing contrast, especially considering that really, it wasn’t that unlikely a contrast. No—everything about this woman spoke to the highest of quality, just exhibited with exceptional taste and restraint. This was not someone who felt a need to prove anything.
Despite my earlier promise to stay at a remove, I couldn’t help but warm to the older woman, returning her smile.
“You must be the lovely Natalie my husband has gone on and on about although I must say, I’m not at all certain he came close to doing you justice. Shame on you, Greg,” she chided her husband.
“My apologies, darling. Natalie.” He nodded at both of us in turn while I allowed myself yet another smile. As a child I’d hated being fusse
d over and petted and showed off—trotted before the adults, academic achievements extolled to a chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” and “¡que preciosa!” Perhaps made to recite a little poem or play a ditty on the piano or perform a dance, solemn in sparkling cupcake pink tulle and soft-soled slippers, before being shepherded off with the rest of the children for the remainder of the evening.
Tonight, however, the fussing had a comforting, familiar feel to it, even if I had no real idea why Greg Barnes would be praising me to his wife to the point where she would seem genuinely anxious to meet me.
“Welcome to our home, my dear. I’m so pleased you could join us this evening.”
“Thank you so much for having me, Mrs. Barnes.”
“Constance, please.” She gently drew me to her side and tucked my hand into the crook of her elbow, much like Mrs. Mercier had. With her free hand, she resumed her grasp on the arm crutch that had remained attached by a cuff just below her elbow when she’d taken my hand in both of hers moments before. Odd, how something that should have been so obvious, had in reality been so unobtrusive. Perhaps it had something to do with how her movements, while slow, were still so graceful and regal it had taken a discreet second glance to ascertain that yes, I really had seen it.
“Polio when I was fifteen,” she tossed off matter-of-factly as we fell into step behind Greg and Mrs. Mercier.
Well then, perhaps not as discreet as I had thought. “Oh, I’m—”
“Oh, don’t bother apologizing, dear. You weren’t in the slightest bit obvious. I just prefer to get it out of the way so we can get on to far more interesting things.” Said with a smile that was so genuine and filled with good humor, it soothed the slight flush of embarrassment before it even had opportunity to fully manifest.
“Ultimately I was one of the lucky ones,” she elaborated as we entered yet another stunning, high-ceilinged room. “After all was said and done, all I had to learn to cope with was a mostly useless leg and a future husband.”
Between Here and Gone Page 6
