The Last Train to Key West - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,19
in the house where I grew up.
Tonight it is, then.
“It’s nearly dark,” I say.
“Not quite, though. There’s probably an hour of daylight left. We have the beach to ourselves, or so I’m told,” Anthony adds, excitement in his gaze that could almost be described as boyish.
I suppose when you live in New York City, the beach is still a novelty, and on the bright side, it buys me a reprieve from marital relations.
He leaves me alone, and I change quickly into one of the bathing suits I purchased for my trousseau.
Anthony waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, clad in his swim trunks, a towel wrapped around his neck.
Did they stow his luggage in a separate bedroom? Will we share a room while we’re here or maintain separate bedrooms like my parents have throughout my life? Is this the sort of thing one discusses with a spouse, or does it happen organically, through some mutual, unspoken agreement?
“Ready?” he asks.
Hardly.
I follow him to the water.
* * *
—
We walk along the beach, the waves breaking beside us. A breeze comes off the water, alleviating the heat slightly, but the air is stickier than I’m used to, pregnant with humidity. Anthony moves to the spot closest to the water, and something about the movement is reassuring—that act of kindness, that chivalry, the fact that he cares enough to spare me this small indignity.
He is rougher around the edges than the men—boys, really—I’m used to. While there’s nothing outwardly objectionable to his manners, the way he carries himself, it is impossible to miss the fact that he comes from a different world than the one I inhabited in Cuba.
What sort of man have I married?
“It’s beautiful here,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the water.
It is beautiful in a wild, rugged sort of way, although in truth, I’m not sure anything holds a candle to Cuba.
Our pale pink home in the Miramar neighborhood in Havana occupies nearly the entire block, trees surrounding the landscape. The house has been in our family for generations, and one day it will be my brother Emilio’s, the place where he raises his children. I used to spend hours swimming in the pool in the backyard, my skin growing wrinkled from the water. Whenever I think of home, I see those sturdy walls, the bright Cuban sky.
“You’ve probably seen your share of beautiful beaches,” Anthony adds.
“I have.”
Cuba, for all of her faults and foibles, is unquestionably stunning. Maybe that’s the problem; there’s a double-edged sword to beauty and all the interest—good and bad—it attracts.
“Will you miss it?”
“I’m sure I will. There aren’t many beaches in New York, are there?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Not in the city, no. But there are other parts of the state that can be nice.”
“Where did you grow up?” I’m eager to learn more about his background.
“Brooklyn.”
“Was it nice?”
“Growing up? No, I’m not sure I would call it ‘nice.’ But it made me who I am today.”
“And now? What’s your life like? Things must be different.”
“Money doesn’t buy everything.”
Spoken like someone who has an ample supply of it.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I ask.
“It doesn’t buy you a good name.”
“It bought you a society wife.”
The gleam in his eye is more affection than avarice. “It did.”
“Albeit a tarnished one,” I joke.
“You’re not tarnished to me.”
The intensity in his voice surprises me.
“It’s a tradition of sorts in my family, you know,” I say, attempting to lighten his mood.
“Is it?”
“The first known Perez ancestor won himself a title and a wife in his bid for respectability.”
“Was he a disreputable sort?”
“Allegedly.”
“What manner of sins was he guilty of?”
“Women. Piracy.”
Anthony smiles. “I would have liked him, then.”
I laugh. Very few people are so accepting of their flaws, but then again, a great deal of power affords you such privileges.
“And his bride?” Anthony asks.
“A lady whose family had fallen on desperate times. She boarded a ship and sailed halfway across the world to do her duty.”
“So it was duty between them?”
“Legend has it they loved each other, but who can be certain? Who really knows what goes on in a marriage besides the people inside it?”
“She must have been scared,” he muses, and I have an inkling that we aren’t merely talking about the corsair and his wife.
“She likely was, but she did her duty anyway. We women are made of stern stuff.”
I gesture to the necklace around my neck, the family heirloom my father gifted to me on my wedding day.