The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  “Have you secrets I should know about?”

  I shrug, registering how his gaze drifts to my shoulder with the motion.

  Are husbands and wives meant to flirt?

  He smiles. “I’d worried I lost her, you know. When I saw you walking down the aisle toward me on our wedding day, you looked utterly terrified, like you were walking to your death.”

  “Worried you lost who?”

  “The girl I saw in Havana.”

  “This isn’t Havana.”

  “No, but you dazzle just the same.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That is a terrible line.”

  He rises from the table and holds his hand out to me. “Maybe it isn’t a line at all.”

  I place my hand in his, wishing I could silence the doubts in my mind, the questions.

  Why did he have to go all the way to Cuba to gain a wife? Surely, there were American girls who needed husbands and were willing to ignore a sullied background and whispers of ill-gotten gains?

  So why me? Why marry a girl he barely knew? Was it his powerful connections in Cuba, his friendship with Batista, that enticed my family? Or did he offer my father money to marry me?

  We walk through the open doors overlooking the patio, our hands linked, heading to the beach a hundred feet away, within sight of the house.

  “My meetings shouldn’t take too long,” Anthony says. “We could take the boat out afterward if you’d like.”

  “That sounds lovely. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sailor, though.”

  “I’m not,” Anthony replies ruefully. “But surely one of the staff can show us the ropes.”

  “My brother Emilio used to take me on his boat. I loved it.”

  He grins. “Then perhaps you could show me the ropes. Are you close? You and your brother? I didn’t get the opportunity to spend much time with him when I was in Havana.”

  “When we were younger, we were. We played together constantly. Sometimes our cousin Magdalena would join us. We’d spend all day in the backyard, pretending we were pirates, having adventures. They were some of my happiest memories. But Magdalena grew up and moved to Spain. And Emilio—he works too much now, is too serious to spend time with his little sister. As our father has gotten older, he’s given much of the responsibility of the business to Emilio.

  “Emilio wanted to be a doctor. Before this mess with Machado. Our father was convinced he would outgrow the desire, but he never did. Then the choice was taken away from him.”

  “He did his duty, and you did yours.”

  There’s a question in his tone, one I have no desire to answer. How do you answer a question like that without an insult?

  “I asked about you before I approached your father,” Anthony continues. “No one said your affections were tied, but . . . did you leave a lover back in Cuba?”

  In this moment, I wish there had been a sweet boy who pressed gentle kisses to my lips and read me poetry on lazy Havana afternoons. I wish there had been something to acclimate me to this man who sees too much and pushes too hard.

  “No, no one special.”

  “And if there had been?” he asks.

  “Would I have chosen duty or love?”

  Anthony nods.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I suppose I should count myself lucky then that I didn’t have a rival for your affections.”

  “‘Rival’ implies more effort on your part. You swooped in and snapped me up before we’d even been properly introduced.”

  He laughs. “And I prefer this plainspoken version of you to the blushing, simpering debutante that greeted me after the wedding.”

  “I didn’t blush a lot in Cuba,” I admit. “And certainly no simpering.”

  “Then please don’t do so with me. I want the real version of you. Not who you think I want you to be.”

  When he leans toward me this time, I’m ready for him, meeting him halfway as his arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against his body as his lips meet mine.

  His grip tightens on my waist, his mouth slanting over mine, deepening the kiss, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

  “You’re good at that,” I say when he releases me, my heart pounding insistently, my lips sensitive and swollen.

  Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

  “You’ve likely had a great deal of practice,” I add, shamelessly fishing for the truth.

  He doesn’t bother refuting my claim, and I can’t fault his honesty.

  “You don’t lie, do you?” I ask. “Not out of politeness or consideration. Not to spare someone’s feelings.”

  “No.”

  “So if you aren’t a liar, then what is your biggest flaw?”

  His lips curve. “Some would say greed.”

  He’s right in front of me again, his fingers skimming my jawline, and this time, I’m the one who leans into the kiss, whose lips brush against his first. A soft gasp escapes his mouth, and a thrill fills me at the realization that I have caught him unaware.

  There’s power in that; my life as a wife will likely be far easier if I can turn his head, if I can keep his attention.

  Not to mention, I like it.

  This time when we finish kissing, he doesn’t release me, but instead intertwines his fingers with mine.

  “I have to go to my meeting.” The regret in his voice winds its way through my heart. “Will you be fine on your own?”

  “Of course,” I reply. “Will you be meeting your associates here?”

  “No. There’s a house up the road that we’re using for the meeting. I’ll be back soon.”

  With a quick kiss to my cheek, he’s gone, walking back toward the house, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his collared shirt stretching across his frame.

  It takes me far longer than it should after he’s left to collect myself, to turn my attention back to the water steps away from me.

  It’s strange how different beaches can be, how their individual characters can make them so distinct.

  Cuba is beautiful.

  Islamorada is something else entirely.

  The landscape is peppered with heavy brush, rendering my dainty sandals practically useless as the ground scrapes at my feet. Branches snag at the skirt of my dress. There’s an almost sinister quality to the scenery, as though the flora and fauna aren’t afraid to snap back at us interlopers and swallow us whole.

  A swishing sound in the mangroves makes me jump. A dark snake slithers past me, inches away from my exposed feet, its body undulating in the dirt.

  I scream—

  A man emerges from the mangroves at the edge of the property, wearing a pair of ratty overalls with a dirty shirt beneath them. His hair is matted with sweat and sea, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  One of the gardeners, I imagine, his tanned skin roughened from days spent working under the sun.

  I give an embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry I screamed. I must have startled you. There was a snake, and, well . . .” I gesture ruefully toward my ridiculous footwear. “I didn’t exactly pack for these conditions.”

  He doesn’t speak, merely stares back at me.

  I hurry past the spot where the snake crossed in front of me.

  The weight of his gaze follows me as I walk toward the mangroves, heading for the opening to the stretch of beach. In Cuba, I was friendly with the staff—most of them had been with the family since I was a little girl. Our gardener, Carlos, taught me all about flowers, and I helped him plant at the start of each season. If I were back home, I would walk up to the man and introduce myself. But here, the rules are different. I am an outsider, noticeably so. The staff keeps their distance, and not just because I don’t quite fit in, but more likely because I am Anthony Cordero’s wife.

  People are deferential, and it isn’t only because o
f his wealth. They fear my husband.

  When I look back, the man is gone.

  Ten

  Elizabeth

  I wake early and dress quickly, eager to start the day.

  I walk to Sam’s room next door and knock. From my place in the hallway, I can hear the sound of furniture creaking, the rustling of linens, heavy footfalls padding across the floor. The door opens with a creak, and Sam peers through the crevice, his hair mussed, dressed only in his undershirt and a pair of slacks.

  “What time is it?” he asks, his voice husky with sleep.

  “Just after eight.”

  A wince.

  “I’ve always been an early riser,” I chirp, letting my eyes wander as I look my fill. There’s something utterly delicious about a rumpled man, and in his sleepy surliness, Sam doesn’t disappoint.

  “I’d have guessed you debutantes lounge around in bed for hours.”

  “Ex-debutante, remember? Besides, I could never sit still long enough to lounge.” I grin. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a late riser, though.”

  Sam rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ve been on a job for a few weeks now. Sleep’s been hard to come by.”

  “Sin never sleeps?”

  “Something like that.”

  “This man you’ve been hunting has to be pretty dangerous to keep you up at night.”

  “He is.”

  “Well, if he’s as bad as you say, are you sure it’s a good idea to take the morning off? Are you still interested in going with me to the camps today?”

  “I am. I can spare a few hours. Just give me time to get dressed.”

  “I’m going to walk down by the water. I’ll meet you in front of the inn in”—I take in his appearance, the cross expression on his face, and factor the late hour at which we arrived last night—“thirty minutes?”

  “Fine.” Sam closes the door without another word.

  I descend the steps quickly, flashing the man behind the desk who checked us in last night a smile.

  “Storm’s coming,” he calls out as I walk by.

  Sam mentioned something about a storm yesterday. Hopefully, it won’t rain too much before we make it to the camps.

  As soon as I step out of the inn, the sound of the ocean hits me, the unfamiliar landscape lending itself to the sensation that I have traveled to a distant land. I couldn’t be anywhere more distinct from Manhattan if I tried. The beach is narrow, the skinny strip of sand bordered by mangroves and swamp. Debris litters the sand—pieces of wood, an empty glass bottle, parts of crates broken up and adrift on the shore—remnants of civilization in a notably uncivilized place.

  And still, despite the slender island, the strange little beach, it’s not an entirely unpleasant place. The sun is bright, the air still, the sky clear. It’s beautiful in a wild, wanton sort of way that calls to something inside me yearning to be free.

  A girl walks down the sandy path toward the beach. She stops a few feet away from me.

  “I was beginning to think I was the only one out here at the end of the world,” I say in greeting.

  “Not quite the end of the world,” she calls back, walking closer toward me. “Though, perhaps, one of the less-inhabited corners of it.”

  She speaks with an accent that in addition to her glamorous attire furthers the notion that she’s not a local.

  I appraise the girl quickly, taking in the trim dress better suited for a stroll on Fifth Avenue, the ostentatious diamond on her ring finger, the sublime rose-colored shoes. She looks and smells like money, and for a moment, I let the scent waft over me, remembering how good it tasted on my tongue—oysters, and exotic fruits, their flavor sweet and tangy running down my throat, champagne, the odor of perfume from Paris. I almost want to stroke the fabric of her dress, if only to feel something other than this cheap, worn material against my skin.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” I ask.

  “No, I’m here on my honeymoon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She doesn’t respond with the lovesick smile of a newlywed or the smug expression of a woman who’s snared a prime marital catch. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, so I fill the silence myself.

  “I’m Elizabeth.”

  After my family’s disgrace, my old friends proverbially flew south for the winter rather than have their good reputation tarnished. Not that I can entirely blame them—a girl’s good name is everything, or so they tell me.

  She smiles, and I detect a hint of loneliness there, too.

  “Mirta. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Interesting spot for a honeymoon, Mirta.”

  “We married in Havana. We’re on our way to New York City. We’re here for a few days, but my husband thought it was a convenient stopping point.”

  “What a small world. I came from New York. What’s your husband’s name?”

  If there was a single man with a respectable fortune—or a single man with an obscene fortune and a less than respectable reputation—my mother kept tabs on him up until recently.

  “Anthony Cordero,” she answers.

  Shock fills me.

  The name couldn’t be more out of place, the images it conjures up made for the grit and muck of the city, the parts girls like me are only supposed to read about in the newspaper. While a man of Anthony Cordero’s ilk hardly runs in the same tony circles my mother once inhabited, his name is instantly recognizable to most New Yorkers. It also hits uncomfortably close to home.

  “You’re joking.”

  Her chin lifts, and there’s a spark of defiance in those brown eyes. “I’m not. I know what people say. We have gossip in Cuba as well.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Well, well, well, not merely a proper, boring debutante.

  “What’s he like?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

  A flush settles over her cheeks.

  Not boring at all.

  “That good?” I tease.

  The blush deepens.

  I grin. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’ve seen his picture in the paper. He seems handsome enough if you like that sort.”

  “And how did you end up down here? Islamorada is a long way from New York,” she says with the practiced subject change of someone who has spent a fair amount of time in society.

  I smile at her attempt to sidestep my admittedly rude remarks. I like her.

  “Did you come down here with your family?” Her gaze searches my bare ring finger. “A husband?”

  “No, just me.”

  Her jaw drops. “You came down here by yourself?”

  “Why not? I wasn’t going to ask for permission.”

  There’s no mistaking the envy that sweeps across her features.

  I smile. I know this girl. I used to be this girl: pampered, sheltered, hemmed in by society’s rules and expectations. I rebelled, of course, but the tension within her is unmistakably familiar.

  “That kind of freedom must be nice,” she replies.

  “It is.”

  “A little scary, too.”

  “It is,” I admit, unsure why I’m sharing this with her. “I’m engaged to be married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “That might be precipitous. It’s not exactly what you would call a love match.”

  “Is that why you’re down here by yourself?” she asks. “To run away?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I wish you luck.” She glances back over her shoulder before turning around to face me. “I should return to the house. We’re staying up the road. The big white house with the black shutters. If you’re bored, you should come by and visit.”

  “I don’t want to impose on your honeymoon. No one likes a third w
heel.”

  Not to mention, I very much doubt Anthony Cordero would welcome me into his home.

  “My husband has some business to conduct while we’re here,” Mirta replies. “I don’t think he’ll be around very much, and I’d like the company. Besides, you might get lonely after a while by yourself.”

  Despite the risk, the desire for a real friend gets the best of me. “I’d like that, then.”

  Mirta walks away, her dark hair blowing in the breeze, the skirt of her dress kicked up by the wind.

  Once she’s gone, I am alone once more.

  I gaze away, out to the sea, a storm somewhere off on the horizon. I wade into the water, lifting my skirt higher than I’d normally dare, exposing my calves, my knees. A wave tumbles right in front of me, the salt water spraying my face.

  Despite the early hour, the sun beats down, warming my skin, but with the water pooling around my legs, the breeze whipping my hair around me, it isn’t stifling at all; instead, I want to shed my clothes and go farther out to sea.

  I glance around me.

  Now that Mirta has departed, there’s not a soul in sight, and thanks to the earliness of the morning and the remoteness of this stretch of beach, it’s unlikely anyone else will see me. Given his disheveled appearance, Sam probably won’t be ready to make our way to the camps yet.

  The decision is made with speed, the ocean too tempting, my lack of care already a foregone conclusion.

  I spent far too much of my life playing by the rules my parents set for me, expecting to make a good marriage, certain my life would be like my mother’s used to be—filled with parties and laughter and ease. I didn’t strictly follow the path they established, of course, because I’m me, and it seems somewhere along the way I inherited the Preston stubborn streak, but I mostly kept it within the acceptable margins, earning myself a few punishments, countless exasperated sighs, and much hand-wringing.

  But then the crash came.

  And everything changed.

  And I stopped caring, because none of it mattered anymore. I was ruined by the actions of others, so why not do it properly? Why not live on my terms rather than someone else’s if it’s all out of my control anyway?

  I walk toward the shore, lift the cotton dress over my head, and lay it gently on the sandy beach, out of the water’s reach. The frock was pretty enough long ago, when my curves were less extravagant, the floral pattern not as faded. Now it’s several seasons out of whatever passes for fashion these days. Still, it’s one of my best dresses.