The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  “I want to make you happy,” he says, the worry in his eyes suggesting such a thing is not as easy as one would like. “I want to give you the life you deserve.”

  Anthony leans over the edge of the bathtub, kissing my forehead, but there’s little passion in the motion, and I can tell he’s distracted by the weather update. “I’m going to get to work on the storm preparations. Make sure everything is done properly. The housekeeper left dinner out for you whenever you’re ready to head downstairs. Don’t worry about waiting for me to eat. This might take a while.”

  I finish bathing after he leaves and change into one of the few outfits I brought with me from my old life in Havana, a pale pink dress my mother and I bought together years ago at El Encanto. The fabric is soft from so many washings over the years, and there is a loose thread near the hem that I snip off with a pair of petite embroidery scissors from my sewing kit, but it smells like home.

  I place a quick phone call to my family, exchanging a few words with my brother before he passes the phone to our father. They’re unsure if the storm will hit Havana and are readying for potential landfall. Tears fill my eyes as we say good-bye, the sound of my father’s voice bringing a fierce sensation of home and all I am missing.

  I eat alone in the cavernous dining room, my gaze flicking to the seat Anthony occupied this morning. Outside, the sound of rain and men moving furniture around fills the night, the occasional shout or exclamation punctuating their efforts.

  I gather some of the food the housekeeper prepared and left for us in the kitchen and take it with me to the front porch, setting it up on the tables they’ve yet to drag inside. The rain is coming down slanted now, some of it creeping inside the porch, but the overhang provides enough cover to keep the food safe from the elements.

  I’ve learned how unpredictable storms can be—they can come in with a roar and peter out to nothing, or creep in slowly and catch you unaware—but if the weather tonight is any indication, it’s an ominous harbinger of a nasty one indeed.

  I search for Anthony near the front of the house, where some of the men are working on boarding up the windows, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  It takes a few trips to get the food all set out, but the housekeeper likely had the same idea I did and made enough to feed an army.

  My gaze falls on the man I encountered earlier on my walk to the beach. He is standing apart from the crowd preparing for the storm, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “There’s food on the porch if you’re hungry,” I call out to him. He acknowledges my comment with a tip of his hat and a clipped nod before he pushes off from the house and disappears entirely.

  A moment later, Anthony comes into view, his clothes sticking to his skin, his hair slicked back from the rain, sleeves rolled up on his dress shirt. His normally elegant appearance has been replaced by a rougher version of him, sweat and rain on his brow, dirt on his face and clothes. He hardly seems like the millionaire he is reported to be and more like the men with whom he shares a good-natured laugh before his gaze drifts to the porch and me.

  He bounds the stairs in two quick steps.

  The men hang back, as if awaiting his command.

  “You didn’t have to wait up,” Anthony says. “Did you eat?”

  “I did. I—I missed you at dinner. I wasn’t sure how long you would be out here, but I figured you all would be hungry. My father and brother used to help out when a storm was coming, and—”

  My words are cut off by his mouth against mine. Compared to the other kisses he’s given me, this one is practically chaste, but there’s an unmistakable sense of pride in the gesture, in the manner in which his hand tightens on my waist, holding me flush.

  Anthony releases me as quickly as he embraced me.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs.

  He waves the men up to the porch, telling them to get some food, and there’s a knowing gleam in their eyes as they help themselves to the food I set out, but I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed after a kiss like that.

  * * *

  —

  I’m nearly asleep when Anthony comes to bed that evening, his hair wet from the bath, the smell of soap on his skin.

  I reach for him in the dark, relief filling me when his arms wrap around me.

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  “We boarded up most of the downstairs windows, pulled the porch furniture inside. ’Course it was probably all for naught. As soon as we’d finished, the Weather Bureau released an update on the storm. It’s going to miss us entirely. It’ll hit up by Tampa most likely.”

  “I’m sorry you had to do all of that work.”

  “It was worth it for the look in your eyes when you saw me. I won’t ever forget the sight of you standing up on the porch, wearing that dress, waiting for me to come home. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt prouder.”

  My cheeks burn, and I bury my face in the pillow.

  He chuckles. “I take it my wife likes when I get my hands dirty.”

  Admittedly, I’d never even considered such a thing, but the sight of him out there did do something to me.

  I’m too embarrassed to reply.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispers, his lips teasing the whorl of my ear. “I have the same sensation every time I see you.”

  His words are all it takes to coax me to face him once more, to wrap my limbs around him, and to let him show me exactly how he feels as the rain pounds outside.

  Sixteen

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1935

  Elizabeth

  When I wake the next morning, Monday morning—Labor Day—the weather fits the darkness of my mood.

  Last night after the hurricane warning, Sam and I returned to the inn. We didn’t speak of the almost kiss between us, and we retreated to our respective rooms. I was left with the embarrassed sensation that I’d shared too much, let the mask fall for too long. I haven’t a clue where Sam’s thoughts ran, and I spent a good portion of the night sleepless because of it, not to mention my worry over the situation with my brother, the conditions of the camps.

  I dress quickly, bypassing Sam’s room altogether, and walk downstairs, the inn’s lobby empty, the reception desk abandoned. It’s been raining on and off all morning, but there’s a break in the weather, and I desperately need the reprieve, so I head toward the tiny stretch of beach I favored yesterday. As before, it’s quiet and abandoned, and I stare out at the water, the wind whipping around me, kicking up sand in a mighty whirlwind. The waves churn too violently for me to venture into the water, and truthfully, the impulse was far more satisfactory than the reality, so I content myself with watching the waves crest out over the reefs and break along the narrow stretch of shore, something soothing about that violent release of energy. There’s a boat far off in the distance, fighting the waves as though it were little more than a child’s toy.

  What would inspire someone to venture out to sea in this weather?

  “What are you doing out here?” a voice shouts behind me.

  I pivot and watch Sam make his way through a gap in the mangroves, headed toward me, the expression on his face nearly as dark as the sky overhead.

  “Not much of a day for sunning yourself, is it?” I call back.

  “No, it isn’t. What possessed you to come to the beach?”

  I ignore his question. “Is this the hurricane?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least. I spoke with one of my friends at the Weather Bureau up in Jacksonville, and they’re monitoring it, but they think it’s still a couple days out if it hits us at all. The forecast keeps changing. It’s moving slowly.”

  “A couple days?” I glance at the threatening sky. “They seemed worried yesterday at the camp that it was going to hit soon.”

  “These things are hard to predict. Everyone’s doing the best they can, but with this one being
so far out, we still have time.”

  “Will they evacuate the camps?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe if it’s bad enough. It’s too soon to tell.”

  “I thought we would visit another camp today. We still have the one down by the ferry, Camp Three. Unless you have work you need to do. Do you have any leads on the man you’re searching for? I can always go by myself to the camps. Or if you’d like, later on I could help you. Maybe flirt with your quarry. Men have a way of opening up to a woman. It might work.”

  Better to do something, to make myself useful, than to stay here wringing my hands about the situation with my brother.

  “Absolutely not. And I have enough leads, thank you very much. He’s here, and he’s not going anywhere. I told you I’d help you, and I will, but it’s not a good idea to go looking for your brother. Not in weather like this. Those camps can flood easily with how close they are to the water. You don’t want to get caught up in that or add to the chaos when they’re trying to take care of their people. Better to wait until it clears up and then we’ll go.”

  “I thought you said the storm was days away from hitting us.”

  “Honestly, at the moment I don’t know what to believe. You’re right—that sky doesn’t seem like it’s days away. Maybe this is normal down here. An ugly summer storm. Who the hell knows? But it’s not worth risking our safety. Smarter to go inside the inn and wait this thing out with the rest of the guests.”

  “And what about my brother?”

  “I know you’re worried about him, but he’s probably safer than we are if a storm does hit. If there’s a danger to the veterans, I’m sure they’ll use the train to evacuate them. They’d be foolish to risk their safety after everything those men have been through. If we don’t make it up there today, I’ll call up to Jacksonville tomorrow when everyone’s back to work after the holiday weekend and see if any of my contacts can put us in touch with someone at the camps to help track him down.”

  “I’m not good at waiting around for help. I didn’t come here for a vacation; I came to bring my brother home. If I’m gone too long, people will start to notice.”

  “Your mother?”

  “No, not my mother.”

  Sam’s gaze drifts to my bare ring finger, the ring secure in my purse, and back to my face again.

  “You’re worried he’ll come after you?”

  What can I say? I’m engaged to a criminal who stokes fear in the hearts of many?

  “Maybe. I didn’t exactly tell him I was coming down here.”

  “He might be worried about you.”

  I snort. “Not likely.”

  “So you what? Agreed to marry a man for whom you have no affection? Why?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m here helping you when he’s not, so maybe it’s a little my business. I can read between the lines. You’re marrying some guy you aren’t interested in, and you’re hoping your brother can save you from it?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I snap, even though the truth is, that pretty much was my plan.

  “Then talk to me. What are you going to do if you can’t locate your brother? Go back to New York and marry this man?”

  “Who said I’m not interested in him?”

  “You have. Every time we’ve talked.”

  “Because I flirt with you? I told you—you shouldn’t take that personally.”

  “Fine. I won’t take it personally. But, Elizabeth, you need to face the fact that your brother might not be here. He might not even be alive. So what’s next for you?”

  “Why do you keep saying my brother might be gone?”

  “Because you don’t understand what it’s like down here. You keep acting like your brother is the same person you remember from your childhood, but none of these men are.”

  “None of us are,” I shout. “Do you think I’m the same girl I was before the crash? Before we lost everything? Do you think I haven’t changed? I am all that’s left of my family. My father is gone, one of my brothers is gone, and my mother is all but lost to me. Maybe originally, I came here searching for my brother because I wanted him to fix things for me, but now, I need to know he’s safe. He may not come back to New York with me, and no, I don’t know what I’ll do then. But I saw those camps, and I love him. I need to know he’s alive.”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll call Jacksonville and see if my friend at the Weather Bureau knows anything about the plans for the camps.”

  * * *

  —

  Back at the inn, I wait in the sitting room while Sam goes into the front office to use their phone and call up to Jacksonville.

  Outside, the weather has grown more ominous, rain falling down from the sky in thick sheets, gusts of wind blowing outside. The sky seems to be getting darker by the minute.

  “Should we be worried about the storm?” I ask the woman at the front desk.

  “I don’t know. The weather folks say it’s going to miss us, but I don’t like the look of those waves. Better to take precautions than risk it. Hopefully, it’ll pass by us quickly. You all should stay inside and keep away from the windows. This house has withstood a storm or two in its day, and it’ll make it through this one.”

  Her words are accompanied by a clap of thunder, a crash somewhere in the distance.

  Sam returns from his phone call.

  “It’s really getting bad out there,” I warn. “What did you learn?”

  “My friend can’t help us. The camps are a mess today. Enough people on the ground here are worried about the coming storm that they’re sending an evacuation train down to get the veterans out. The Weather Bureau’s version doesn’t line up with what people on the ground who are experienced in these matters believe. Haven’t you noticed that the locals are starting to get nervous?”

  “I have.”

  “We need to be prepared for the possibility that we’re going to get some of the effects of the storm sooner than everyone anticipated.”

  “Should we evacuate?” I ask. “I talked to the woman at the front desk, and she said we should be fine here.”

  “You saw what those camps are like,” Sam answers. “Half those tents couldn’t survive a strong wind. The other half seem like they’re about to drift into the water at a moment’s notice. I’d be evacuating those men if I were in charge, too.

  “The inn seems sturdy enough—built this close to the water, it has to have been designed to withstand the weather down here. And the hurricane still might miss us. Maybe this is the worst it’s going to get. It’s a lot harder moving hundreds of men than it would be for us to take shelter if we need it.”

  “Do you know where they’re taking them?” I ask.

  “My friend thought Miami, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “If they’re headed to Miami, maybe we should make our way up there.”

  “At most, they’ll be gone a day or two. Better we stay here until they’re back. Besides, you don’t even know that your brother will evacuate. He might be down in Key West for the weekend. I know you want to find him. I’ll do everything in my power to help you. You have my word. But you can’t risk your life. We have to be smart about this. I’m not comfortable driving in this weather. The roads are going to start flooding soon. We don’t know the area that well. Better we wait here than risk getting stranded somewhere without good shelter.”

  I stare out the window, the wind and rain blurring everything. The desire to go after my brother is inescapable, but knowing that someone is likely coming to rescue him makes it easier to do the thing I’ve always struggled with most—

  To wait.

  Seventeen

  Mirta

  When I wake the next morning, Anthony is already up and gone, a red rose lying on his pillow beside me.

  I
never would have thought Anthony would be such a romantic.

  I stroke the soft petals, a smile spreading on my face. Last night was lovely, and while our marriage has yet to be fully consummated, I admit the intimacies between us thus far have made me more eager than afraid.

  I rise, a new awareness of my body dawning. My mother told me there was power to be found in the marital bed, that my husband would be kinder to me if I pleased him, less likely to stray if I kept him satisfied. She never described it as anything other than a means to an end, never told me I could like it, that my husband could bring me pleasure.

  I pick one of the prettier dresses from my trousseau, a lacy, frivolous confection that is wholly inappropriate for our current surroundings yet I’m sure Anthony will love.

  When I peer out the window, though, the weather is hardly welcoming. When I went to sleep last night, it was calm and peaceful. Today, the wind rumbles outside the house, palm trees bending in the heavy breeze. A sinking feeling enters my stomach, the scene a familiar one. It looks like a hurricane is about to hit us, and suddenly, all thoughts of pretty dresses flee.

  I hurry downstairs, searching for Anthony. It’s difficult to appreciate how bad a storm can be if you haven’t experienced one for yourself. It’s like revolution—on the surface, it seems scary, but only those who have lived through it fully comprehend its true horrors.

  Anthony stands at the bottom of the stairs, speaking to Gus in low, urgent tones. I’m too far away to make out everything they’re saying, Anthony’s back to me, but I hear enough of their conversation—

  “. . . barometer falling . . .”

  “. . . going to be an ugly one . . .”

  Gus glances over Anthony’s shoulder, and his gaze connects with mine. He tips his hat to me before scurrying out the front door, a grim look on his face.

  Anthony turns, and his solemn expression tells me everything I need to know.