The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,123

I am not unaware of the mistakes that have been made or of my need to do better.

“I think my stunt reporting days are behind me.”

Forty-Six

Evangelina

I’m going home.

I can scarcely believe it.

We are in New York for a visit; Carlos has business to conduct with some of the contacts he has made in the United States before we set sail for Havana where we’ll move into the house where Carlos and I spent those fateful days in hiding together.

My life has changed so much in such a short time.

On one of our last days in the city, I walk to the restaurant where I once had my grand reception—Delmonico’s—to see an old friend.

She’s already seated at one of the tables when I join her.

After we greet each other and I sit down, she slides a newspaper across the table at me.

The New York Journal.

“It didn’t make the front page, but they printed it today,” she says. “I went to Recogidas. I spoke with the women. I wrote an article about their stories.”

I meet her gaze, and I know that for the first time, maybe, she truly understands what it was like in that place. What it did to me. How it can make you desperate to survive anything.

“I read it earlier,” I confess. “It’s wonderful, Grace. Truly. I’ve been reading the Journal for months now. This is one of the finest pieces I’ve ever read. You shone a light on that awful place, on their stories. You didn’t speak for them; they spoke for themselves.”

I cried when I read it, her words taking me back to the time I spent in prison. I try not to think too much of those days anymore. I’d much rather look to the future, to the family Carlos and I are going to build together, the life we’ll have.

I’m ready to put Berriz and everything that has happened behind me.

“It didn’t feel like enough—the article,” Grace says. “I suppose it never does. I wish it could do more.”

“We do what we can,” I reply, because if I’ve learned anything in this time of infamy, it’s that no matter how much attention you receive, you are merely one person—and a woman at that—in a world that’s forever changing against your will.

“How was Cuba?” I ask her, because my biggest fear is that we are going home to a country I will no longer recognize.

“The people—it’s clear war has taken its toll on them. We saw refugees fleeing the affected cities, in desperate straits. There was death. Disease.”

It is as I feared, then.

“Let us speak of happier things, for a moment, though,” Grace says as though sensing my distress. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Considering the attention that surrounded every aspect of your life, I’m surprised and impressed that you were able to keep much of it from the press. I imagine Hearst would have liked nothing more than to publish a picture of you in your wedding dress on the front page of the Journal.”

“I fear the gown would have disappointed him. It was not nearly as grand as the one the newspaper bought for me for the reception in Madison Square.”

“It would have been a fitting addition for your book—you’ve come full circle, marrying one of the men who rescued you. It’s something out of a fairy tale.”

“I think we both know by now that the fairy tale is just a pretty story you tell to make people happy. I am happy, though, and that is enough.”

“Will you return home now that the war is over?”

“We will. My husband is an officer in General Lee’s staff. They’re sending the Seventh Army Corps to Cuba to maintain law and order and protect property interests on the island.”

“Does that bother you?” she asks. “The Americans having a military presence there?”

The truth is complicated.

Much of the friendship between my husband and General Lee stems from General Lee’s interest in investing in Cuba now that Americans have such a strong presence on the island. And at the same time, while I wish for autonomy, I can’t ignore how gracious and welcoming the Americans have been to me. I’ve also learned something in all of this—how badly I want to survive.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

“I had heard that your husband enjoyed a friendship with General Lee,” Grace replies. “The former consul presumably has many contacts in Havana. As does Carlos.” She hesitates, and I can see that whatever she is going to say next, this is the real reason