The Last Train to Key West - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,31
folded beside his plate. Someone has cut an arrangement of flowers and put them in a vase at the center of the table, the china and linens the same creamy color.
Anthony glances up from the paper with a smile.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply.
Where did he sleep last night after he left me alone in the bedroom?
He rises as I walk toward the table, pulling out the chair across from his for me. Before I sit, Anthony leans forward, the scent of his aftershave filling my nostrils, and kisses my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear.
My cheeks heat. “Thank you.”
I sit down in the chair, waiting while he slides it forward, the domesticity of the moment rattling me once more. He must be a dozen or so years older than me, but we have, what—forty more years of this? One day, there will likely be children seated at the table with us. I am truly no longer Mirta Perez, but someone else entirely.
“How did you sleep?” Anthony asks as one of the staff emerges from the kitchen, setting our breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of us.
“Well,” I lie, not courageous enough to admit to the inordinate amount of time I spent thinking about our new relationship. “How about you?”
His lips curve. “As well as could be expected, I suppose. Would you like the paper?” Anthony gestures toward the folded sheet next to his plate.
In Cuba, my knowledge of current affairs and politics came from my father’s table discussions, from the fear and uncertainty that surrounded our days. It seems wise to learn more about the country I am to inhabit.
I scan the headlines, my husband’s gaze on me. The paper talks of violence and death. A man named Frank Morgan has apparently started a crime wave in New York, and I can’t help but wonder how often my husband’s name graces the pages of these papers with similar stories about his involvement in such matters.
I set down the paper.
“I could get used to this, you know,” Anthony says. “Starting my day with you seated across from me at the table.”
Gus, the caretaker, walks into the dining room, saving me from formulating a suitable response.
“I apologize for interrupting your morning,” he says. “I thought you should know—the storm’s getting worse.”
“Are you worried about it?” Anthony asks him.
“Can’t say for sure right now. People are boarding windows. ’Course, it could miss us entirely. Right now it seems like it’ll hit closer to Cuba.”
“We got out of Havana in time, then.” Anthony turns to me. “Do you want to call your family?”
A lump fills my throat. “I’d like that.”
Storms are hardly a novel occurrence in Cuba, and while my family will be prepared, I’ve lived through enough hurricanes to fear them.
“Are we safe here?” Anthony asks Gus. “The Key West newspaper said it’s a few hundred miles away.”
“We might see some winds, rain. Water will be choppy. You won’t want to take the boat out. Hopefully, the worst we’ll get is a day or so of bad weather. I’ll watch the barometer to see if the pressure falls and keep an ear out on the radio. Talk to some people. The fishermen spend their lives on the water. I’d trust their word over that of the Weather Bureau any day. Worst case if it does get bad, we can board up the windows.”
In Cuba, the staff handled our storm preparations, but I remember my father’s worry over the damage the storm could do to the sugar crop, his livelihood frequently threatened by weather and politics.
Gus excuses himself, and we are alone once more.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Anthony asks me.
“I haven’t any.”
“You could walk on the beach again. Better to get in as much good weather as we can.”
He frames the idea as though we are to spend the day apart, and while his suggestion isn’t uncommon—my father certainly spent his days away from my mother, content to occupy his time with work or his social circle—the notion of being married to a stranger, of welcoming a stranger into my bed, is hardly appealing.
“Perhaps we could spend some time together today,” I suggest. “Get to know each other better.”
“I didn’t realize you wanted to know me better—yet.”
“We’re married. We’re to spend our lives together. It seems only natural.”
Even if everything about this situation is entirely unnatural.