The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  “Do you need a room this weekend?” he asks.

  “Actually, I’m looking for my aunt. Alice Jones.”

  “You’re Alice’s niece? I can’t believe it. You must be Helen, then. She told me all about you. I’m Matthew.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. Is she here? She wasn’t expecting me.”

  “She is. And she’ll be so excited to see you. Alice!” he hollers in the direction of the staircase.

  Moments later, a petite woman walks down the stairs.

  Her blond hair is cut below her chin, her dress a shade of blue that reminds me of the color of the shutters. She holds a bundle of linens, her head bent as she fusses with an errant string, her free hand trailing down the banister.

  “There’s no need to yell, Matthew. I’m not so old that my hearing has gone.”

  Alice glances up as her foot hits the bottom step, and she stops in her tracks, her eyes widening at the sight of me. Despite the years since we’ve seen each other, I have enough of the look of my mother for my identity to be clear. While I shared my pregnancy in one of our most recent letters, no doubt the sheer size of my stomach and the realization that I am so close to my due date is alarming. Not to mention John standing beside me.

  Her lips curve into a deep smile. “We have some catching up to do.”

  She opens her arms, and I walk into them, and I’m home.

  * * *

  —

  John and I say a quick good-bye under Alice’s watchful eyes with the promise he’ll return tomorrow to check on me. He walks away, his tall frame ambling out of the inn, the limp in his leg more pronounced now that the day has worn on, and Alice takes me back to her private apartments on the ground floor.

  “You’ve left Tom, then,” she says.

  The sentiment is so matter-of-fact, and I am caught so off guard by the directness of it that I almost laugh despite the dire nature of the whole situation.

  “I have.”

  “About time, I’d say.”

  I gesture toward my stomach. “Though, perhaps not the best time with the baby coming.”

  “I hate to tell you, but there’s no such thing as a ‘right time’ in life. Things happen when they need to happen. The rest sort of falls into place.” Her eyes narrow. “He knock you around?”

  I nod, the familiar shame rushing back to me.

  “Bastard. How much longer do you have?”

  “A couple weeks.”

  “You scared?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Of course you are. Nasty business what happens to women’s bodies. You’ll need a place to stay.”

  I blink, my muddled, tired brain struggling to keep up with her swift topic changes. “Yes. I do.”

  “You don’t have any luggage with you.” Her expression softens. “He didn’t let you take anything with you?”

  Tears well at the kindness in her voice, at the worry, the pity. “I didn’t go back to the cottage. He’d gone out on a fishing trip, and the ferry was leaving. I was scared to go back. Afraid of what he’d do if I did.”

  “So he doesn’t know you’ve left?”

  “I don’t know. He’ll probably figure it out when I don’t return from my shift this evening. If he hasn’t already. That is, if he comes home tonight. Sometimes when he goes out on his fishing trips, he’s gone for days, weeks, at a time. I never know when he’ll be back.”

  “Were there other women as well?”

  “Probably. There certainly could have been, but by the end I didn’t care one way or another.”

  “So you mean to get a divorce, then?”

  “I suppose so. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

  “He knock you around while you were like this? Pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you had any pain? Any bleeding?”

  “No. The baby is moving around. It seems to be fine. But there was this opportunity to leave, and I took it. It seems foolish now. If he comes after me, I—”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Alice says. “You can’t stay here. When Tom realizes you’re gone he’s going to come for you. How long before he looks here?”

  “I thought of that. I—I don’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere he wouldn’t know to find me, at least. I have my tips, and Ruby gave me an advance on my wages, plus a little extra, to be honest, but it’s hardly enough to start over with.” I take a deep breath, trying to ease the panic ripping through me. “I can work if there’s a restaurant in town that needs help. I’m a good waitress. Or I could help out around here. I can clean the place, help serve the guests, I like working with people. I could—”

  “There’s no need to worry about that now. The most important thing is keeping you and that baby safe. I have a friend who owns some fishing cottages. You’d be nearby if you needed something, but Tom won’t be able to find you. People here take care of their own. They’ll help watch my niece. No one is going to tell him anything.”

  * * *

  —

  I’m barely awake when we leave the Sunrise Inn and drive to Alice’s friend’s cottage. She chatters along the way, keeping up a steady stream of talk about the area that I can hardly follow in my tired state.

  The fishing cottage is perfect—one clean room with a bed adorned with crisp white sheets. Alice packed a basket of food from the inn’s dining service, threw some of her loose nightgowns together for me, as well as a few other essentials to tide me over.

  “You must be exhausted,” Alice says when I sink down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to fix you something to eat?”

  I yawn. “I’d rather go to sleep if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

  “Have you heard anything about the storm?” I ask her, my earlier conversation with John coming to mind again. I struggle to grasp what he said to me, but the words slip through my fingers like fine granules of sand. There’s too much rolling around inside me right now: the baby, my fear that Tom will come after us, the uncertainty of the future.

  “It should miss us entirely,” Alice answers.

  She leans down and presses her lips to my head in a move so reminiscent of my mother that a lump forms in my throat.

  “There’s no need to worry. You’re safe now.”

  It’s the last thing I hear before I fall asleep.

  Fifteen

  Mirta

  In the end, our date on the boat is not meant to be. An afternoon thunderstorm hits as I return to the house from the beach, fat drops of rain falling on my head. I run the remaining several hundred yards to the house, arms and legs pumping, calves burning thanks to the uneven terrain beneath me. There’s a flash of a memory—of me racing my brother as a child at our beach house in Varadero, our cousin Magdalena trailing behind us. He always beat me, but I never stopped trying to best him until one day my mother declared it unseemly for a girl my age to engage in such behaviors, and our beach races stopped for good.

  As I near the house, through the blur of the rain, I spy Anthony standing on the front porch.

  My cheeks burn as I approach the house, my bedraggled appearance keeping us from equal footing once more. Despite his upbringing, there’s a sophistication to him—a worldliness—I doubt I could ever cultivate, and in this moment, my hair drenched, locks plastered to my skin, makeup likely mussed and running down my face, I have never felt decidedly less elegant.

  Anthony doesn’t move until I’ve climbed the steps and stopped a few feet away from him, the overhang of the wraparound porch providing some protection against the elements. Wordlessly, he hands me a white towel folded beside him on the railing.

  He doesn’t glance away as I dry myself off, his dark eyes following my ministrations, the lines and curves of my body. The whole thing is t
erribly intimate, and I am struck by the contradictions in the man I married. Last night, he eased me partway into marital communion and left me alone, but today, his bold gaze is a shock to my system like the rain on my skin.

  “You should go inside and change. Get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

  His voice scrapes over me, his jaw clenched. The flashing in his dark eyes oscillates between what looks like desire and anger, and I instinctively take a step back, my body hitting the porch railing.

  “You’re upset.”

  “I sent people out searching for you,” he says.

  “I went for a walk. I suppose the afternoon got away from me.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “It never occurred to me that you would worry.” I try for a smile. “I’m still adjusting to being a wife.”

  Anthony takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair where the faintest touch of gray resides at the temples. “No, I’m sorry. You’re free to come and go as you please, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But I did worry. I suppose you learn to see threats everywhere.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

  Surprise fills me.

  “I’m sure I’m quite safe here,” I tease, struggling to lighten the mood, to soften the intensity in his gaze and to tame the uncertainty churning inside me. “It’s not as though there’s anyone around to do me harm. We’re practically alone here.”

  “In my line of work, it’s hard to take that for granted.” He hesitates. “I’m not an easy man.”

  Anthony wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, pulling me closer to him gently.

  Something tumbles in my chest, his mouth inches from mine.

  “I’m not an easy man,” he continues. “But I am trying. I’m not used to being a husband. Or worrying about a wife. Be patient with me. Please,” he amends.

  “I will.” Hesitantly, I reach between us and stroke my fingertips along the curve of his jaw.

  A groan escapes Anthony, and he fists the damp fabric of my dress. He leans into my touch as my back scrapes against the railing, as his body resettles itself in the cradle of mine.

  “Mirta.”

  My name sounds foreign falling from his lips, as though I have been remade into someone new.

  He leans forward, and I wait expectantly for his kiss, only to be caught off guard when instead his forehead rests against mine.

  “I missed you,” he whispers.

  The emotion in his words staggers me.

  “I was worried about you,” he repeats, the fervency in his voice enough to make me wonder if his life is truly as dangerous as he says. I thought I’d left my fears behind me in Cuba, and for a moment, I consider asking him if I should be worried, but we’re on unfamiliar ground here, the budding intimacy between us too new, and I’m loath to shatter this fragile bond we’re building with questions that can be put off for later.

  My hand drifts higher, curving around his neck as my fingers thread through his hair, the desire in his gaze sending a flash of courage through me.

  The muscles at the back of his neck are tense knots.

  “Your meetings didn’t go well?” I ask, hazarding a guess at his mood.

  “No. They didn’t. There’s trouble back home in New York. I spent too much time in Havana, was away for too long. My enemies thought they could move in on my territory.”

  “You make it sound like things are dire.”

  “It’s a different type of war than the one you’re used to. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s what we tell ourselves. Maybe all war is the same—a fight for power, for resources. On the streets, it’s for territory. Respect. I protect what’s mine. The people who work in my places, the families that live in my neighborhoods.”

  It sounds all too familiar. “And where do I fall in the hierarchy?”

  “You are the most important thing for me to keep safe. You and our future children. My business will not touch you. I promise you that.”

  “Don’t make me promises you can’t keep.”

  My father promised us things back in Cuba—that he was smart to back Machado, that it would keep us protected, safe. Men behave as though the world is theirs to order and control, but life doesn’t always work out like that. Often there’s something around the corner you can’t prepare for or muscle your way out of.

  “You don’t approve of my work, do you?” Anthony asks.

  “Does it matter if I approve, really?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Then, no, I suppose I don’t.”

  He releases me, taking a step back, his gaze on mine.

  “You’ve heard the rumors about me. And yet, you married me anyway.”

  “I did. And yes, the rumors are fairly difficult to miss. Are they all true?”

  “Enough are true.”

  So he is a criminal of sorts. That part doesn’t bother me as much as it should—I’ve seen enough of Havana’s prominent citizens dirty their hands in order to get ahead. I can’t say I’m happy about the American Mafia’s presence in Cuba, either, but my opinion matters little. They’ve made their claim on the island, so it seems better to ally ourselves.

  “I’m scared,” I admit. “When my father fell out of favor with the government, we lived with the threat of violence. I saw the toll it took on those I loved, lived with fear hanging over my head, death all around me. That’s part of why I wanted to leave Cuba, why I wanted to give my family a chance for a better life.”

  “You married me because of my friendship with Batista.”

  “It wasn’t only that. But yes, given the stakes at hand, I had to do what was best for my family. And you? Did you give my father money to marry me?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m not stupid. It wasn’t lost on me that suddenly my father’s worries about money lessened after I accepted your proposal. That there was money for my wedding trousseau and new gowns when we’d been wearing the same old ones for two years. The day he presented your proposal, he told me my family desperately needed this. I assumed there was money involved.”

  “But you didn’t ask him directly?”

  “It wasn’t my place.”

  Perhaps I overstep in discussing this with Anthony, but if he wants the “real” marriage he described earlier, then I want our marriage to be a partnership. I saw how my mother struggled during our family’s troubles, my father shutting her out of all of it completely. Maybe he thought he was protecting her, but the end result of us losing everything was still the same. There is no power to be had in Anthony treating me as anything less than an equal.

  “There was money,” he confesses.

  “A great deal?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe I want to know what I’m worth to you.”

  “Everything.”

  The way he says it—the conviction in his voice—I almost believe him.

  “You sacrificed yourself to save your family. I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself in this marriage, too.”

  “I wanted to be married. To have a family.”

  Even if I envisioned myself having a little more say in my choice of spouse.

  “You wanted to escape,” he says.

  “Maybe I did.”

  All along, I saw myself being marched to this marriage, but truthfully, I wanted what Anthony represents—the potential for a family, a home of my own, security—even if the strings attached to him still give me pause.

  “My business won’t touch you. I promise you that. You are the most precious thing to me.”

  It seems like a serious statement to make for such a short acquaintance, and I don’t trust his words entirely, but they fill me with pleasure, even if I can’t discount the m
isgivings inside me.

  This time, I’m the one who moves, who closes the distance between us. I wrap my arms around his neck once more, pulling his head down toward me, kissing him like he taught me last night, swallowing the sharp inhale of breath that escapes his lips as soon as we touch.

  “I might like being married,” I whisper.

  He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear it. I know I will.”

  A flush spreads over my cheeks, and I shiver, goose bumps rising over my skin.

  Anthony releases me with a sigh. “Why don’t you change out of these wet clothes? I need to talk to Gus to see the latest update on the storm.”

  With another kiss, I leave him and go upstairs, undressing and getting into the bath one of the maids drew for me.

  Outside, rain pounds the windows.

  I slip deeper into the water, staring up at the ceiling, running the washcloth and soap over my body.

  A knock sounds at the door. “Can I come in?” Anthony calls out.

  “Yes.”

  The door opens, and he walks inside the small room.

  Nerves fill me at this new intimacy between us, but Anthony says nothing of my current nude state.

  He sits on the chair near the vanity, a few feet away from the edge of the bathtub. “I spoke with Gus. People are worried about the storm. It could be a bad one. We’re going to bring the porch furniture inside. Start boarding up the windows. We should be able to finish before the storm hits.”

  “Does Gus think we’re in danger?”

  “I don’t know. I figure you have more experience with these storms than I do. The locals seem concerned, so I’m inclined to take it seriously.” He grimaces. “Some honeymoon. When we’re back in New York, when things have settled down, I’ll take you to Europe. Have you been to Paris?”

  “I haven’t.”

  There were those of our acquaintance back in Cuba who traveled there each season, purchasing the latest European fashions, but by the time I was old enough for us to do so, our fortunes were already far too precarious for such a frivolous thing.