The Last Train to Key West

by Chanel Cleeton

  The instinct is there to reach for him, but I can’t trust it. I can’t trust myself. There is too much between us, my life is too complicated, and more than anything, I am afraid.

  And then he’s gone.

  Thirty-Five

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1935

  Elizabeth

  I wake the next morning to an empty bed, a pair of train tickets set on the nightstand next to me, Sam nowhere to be seen.

  Our train leaves in a few hours, our meager belongings packed in a bag by the door. The notion of being in such a tight space is hardly appealing, nor is the prospect of hours in a train car after what we’ve experienced, but it’s time to face the music and go home.

  Sam returns to the room as I finish dressing.

  “Frank Morgan is dead,” he announces.

  My jaw drops. “What are you talking about?”

  Sam hands me a folded-up newspaper.

  Mobster Frank Morgan Gunned Down in Front of Home

  “How? When?”

  “Last night. No one got a good look at the gunman, or if they did, they aren’t talking. I called the Bureau to try to see if I could get more details, but it’s too early for them to know much.”

  “But he’s dead. He’s really dead?”

  “He is.”

  I sink down to the edge of the bed, my heart pounding.

  “He won’t ever harm you,” Sam says.

  And I don’t have to marry a man I don’t love.

  “What about the debts my father owed him?” I ask. “Will they die with Frank? Or will whoever takes over his organization simply come after us down the road?”

  “Whoever takes over for Frank will have their hands full for some time. There’s a power struggle going on amid New York’s criminal element at the moment, and this was the first shot across the bow.”

  “Do you think that’s why someone killed him?”

  “It’s the most likely explanation. There have been rumors that Anthony Cordero is making moves back in New York. If I had to guess, this is one of his moves.”

  My eyes narrow. “Anthony Cordero?”

  “Yes, he was one of Frank’s biggest threats.”

  “I know who he is. He isn’t in New York. He’s here. On his honeymoon. I met his new wife.”

  “The one he met in Havana?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you meet her? What was she like?” Sam asks. “We haven’t been able to learn much about her.”

  “We met walking on the beach in Islamorada. I liked her. She reminded me of myself actually, before everything fell apart. She invited me over to their house to visit, but with the storm, I never made it.”

  “You got an invitation to Anthony Cordero’s house?”

  “I did.” I shrug. “What can I say? People like me.”

  “I would have paid good money to see the expression on his face when Frank Morgan’s fiancée walked through his front door.”

  “You think he knows who I am?”

  “I’m sure he’s made it his business to know what Frank Morgan is up to, whatever weaknesses he could exploit.”

  “And what does this mean for us?” I ask. “Frank’s gone now. In the beginning, I was, what—a chance for you to get close to him? There’s no need for that anymore. Is this where we part ways?”

  “Is that what you want?” Sam asks. “To part ways?”

  I’m not entirely sure what I want. As horrible as it sounds, Frank Morgan’s death seems like a gift that was dropped in my lap, the solution to a problem I was still working my way around.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest. I was still trying to figure out how to get myself out of this mess with Frank, and it seems like Anthony Cordero took care of that for me.”

  “Then what do you want? Now that you can go back to New York and not worry about your father’s debt, about marrying a man you don’t love. What do you want from your life?”

  “I want the space to figure it out. I would like a job, something I enjoy, that enables me to support myself and to help take care of my mother. Something I’m good at. I’d like friends. Real friends, not ones who pretend to be there for me because it’s fashionable. Interesting friends. And I’d like you.”

  He swallows. “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  * * *

  —

  On the journey from Miami to New York, we sit beside each other on the train, my hand clutched in Sam’s, my head resting on his shoulder. We’ve made each other no promises, and I like him better for it, for the unspoken understanding between us that I am not interested in tying myself to another for the time being.

  I’ve had my fair share of alcoholic drinks along the journey, the rolling of the train cars sending flashes back to that night. Sam is tense beside me, declining my offer to join me drinking, opting instead to keep his back to the wall, his gaze on the other occupants of the car.

  Sam is to return to his job at the Bureau, cracking down on organized crime in New York City, and I hope to establish a new life for myself in the city now that I am really and truly free. For as hard as times are and as much as has been lost, there is a strength that comes from surviving, from enduring, that I draw from now.

  “I had an idea,” I say. “These investigations you do—”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish,” I retort.

  “Whatever you were going to say is a bad idea. A terrible one.”

  “You can’t know that for sure unless you give me a shot.”

  “Fine. What is this brilliant plan?”

  “These criminals you catch—well, they can’t be all that different from most men. I bet they’d open up more to a woman. Men like to brag about their conquests and those sorts of things.”

  “I’m not using you as bait to catch criminals. You’re not a federal agent.”

  “I’m not a federal agent—yet.”

  “Chasing criminals is not the perfect job for you if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  They certainly have female detectives and private investigators. Why shouldn’t I join their ranks? The engagement ring I pawned back in Miami will go a long way to helping out financially, but it’s hardly enough.

  I smile, no point in arguing with him. He’ll learn eventually that it’s easier to agree with me than to bother protesting. I am nothing if not tenacious. After all, I made it all the way down here by myself.

  “Tell me the truth—if you hadn’t been on the train looking for me, if you weren’t working for Frank, would you have noticed me?” I ask Sam, changing tack. “Would you have approached me?”

  “The truth? I noticed you the moment I boarded the train. I could have sat anywhere in the car, but I sat across from you because you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The most interesting, too. And I thought I’d be close by in case that poor boy had heart troubles with the way you were flirting.”

  “I was trying to get you to notice me,” I confess. “You were staring at your folder like it was the most important thing in the world.”

  “I was staring at my folder because I’d realized who you were a few minutes after I realized you were fascinating.”

  “And trouble.”

  He smiles. “It turns out I like a bit of trouble. More than a bit,” he amends.

  “It’s a long trip to New York.”

  “It is. Are you going to practice some of those infamous flirting skills on me?”

  I laugh. “You might be too easy of a conquest—after all, you’re already smitten with me.”

  “Confident, aren’t you?”

  “Always.” I lean forward, my lips brushing his.

  “I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth Preston,” he murmurs against m
y mouth, his words sending a thrill through me.

  The funny thing is, I was just thinking the same thing about him.

  For the first time in a long time, the future is bright.

  Thirty-Six

  Mirta

  I shudder as I scan the cover of Sunday’s edition of the Miami Beach Daily Tribune.

  The headline screams of an estimated death toll of one thousand people, and the photos are more gruesome than the headline. By the images of the hurricane’s mighty impact, it seems impossible to believe we survived. It’s as though it happened to someone else, and I suppose, in a manner it did. We are safely ensconced in the plush surroundings of the Florida East Coast Railway car, headed home to Anthony’s apartment in New York. For the locals, their homes have been utterly destroyed, the island they called home likely uninhabitable for some time.

  “Interesting reading?”

  I glance up at a man dressed in a suit standing over me. His clothes lack the flashiness of Anthony’s, the suit more serviceable than extravagant, the tailoring not quite so fine. After the attack during the hurricane, I’m more cautious than I was, and I glance around the train car for Anthony, who left to fetch me a drink.

  “I prefer the New York papers, myself,” the man adds, his tone friendly, conversational, but for the knowing gleam in his eyes, his focus wholly upon me.

  He slides a newspaper toward me, folded to a story on the front page.

  Mob Boss Frank Morgan Gunned Down

  A picture of the infamous Mr. Morgan stares back at me, his expression unsmiling. He appears considerably older than Anthony, his eyes dark and cold. I recognize the name instantly, of course. A thing like that tends to stick with you when a man tries to have you killed.

  I glance up at the man, handing him the newspaper. “Who are you?”

  “My apologies. I should have introduced myself earlier.” He pulls a badge out of his jacket pocket. “Sam Watson. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  I swallow, lifting my chin a notch, injecting a thread of steel in my voice. I am my mother, I am my aunts, all of the women of my acquaintance who can set a man down with a shift in the tone of their voice.

  “And what are you investigating, Mr. Watson?”

  “Mr. Morgan had many enemies.”

  I glance down at the headline once more, heart pounding.

  “That probably comes with the territory in his line of work,” I reply, careful to keep my voice neutral.

  “I bet you’re right. Morgan wanted to carve out more of New York for his own territory, but someone stood in his way. Can you guess who that someone was, Mrs. Cordero?”

  “Are you bothering my wife, Agent?”

  Anthony stands behind the agent, his dark eyes flashing with anger, an unmistakable threat contained in the words “my wife.”

  “He wasn’t,” I say, rising from my seat. I move beside my husband, linking my arm with his. Anthony doesn’t seem the sort of man given to fits of temper, but there is entirely too much male aggression in the car for my liking.

  Agent Watson’s gaze darts from me to Anthony and back again.

  “Congratulations on your marriage, Mr. Cordero. I confess we were surprised at the Bureau to hear you’d decided to marry, but seeing how lovely she is, I can’t say I blame you.”

  Anthony stiffens beside me, his hand resting protectively on my waist. “Is that all?”

  It takes a great deal of restraint to refrain from jabbing Anthony in the side. Male ego notwithstanding, it seems foolish to goad a federal agent investigating a murder you’re likely responsible for.

  Agent Watson smiles. “No, it isn’t, actually. There will be a void in New York now that Morgan’s gone. Makes a man wonder who will step in to fill it.”

  “I confess, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “I heard rumors about more than your marriage. There were those in the Bureau who speculated you were going legitimate. That you’d scheduled a meeting with some of Mr. Morgan’s representatives to smooth over the transition. Strange that he should turn up dead shortly after this proposed meeting was scheduled.”

  “Life is full of unusual coincidences,” Anthony replies. “Not that I know anything about any meeting, of course. I came down here on my honeymoon. Nothing more.”

  “Of course,” Agent Watson replies, his tone of voice as smooth as Anthony’s. “You can’t predict what men will do when they’re greedy and reckless. But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you? You’re a family man now. I bet you’d do anything to keep that lovely wife of yours safe.”

  “I would.”

  Something passes between them, an unspoken conversation occurring between the pauses and the words they say aloud.

  Whatever it is, Agent Watson nods. “Best of luck to you both.”

  He snaps up the newspaper, folding it under his arm and leaving us alone.

  “I’m sorry,” Anthony whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “He never should have approached you.”

  “It’s fine. It surprised me—that’s all.”

  I move away from Anthony, returning to my seat. He sits next to me, shifting so that his back is toward the rest of the train, his gaze on me.

  “Are you going to ask me if I’m responsible?” he asks, his voice low.

  “No. I’m not.”

  I’ve learned enough about the man I’ve married to have the answer to my own question without having to ask it. And for better or worse, I’ve learned enough about myself to know that whatever answer he would give me is not as important as the reason behind his actions.

  “You’re upset,” Anthony says.

  “No. I wish we didn’t have to worry about such things, wish they weren’t part of our lives, but I understand why you did what you did. I know a thing or two about protecting the people you love. After all, I can’t say I didn’t do the same thing back in Islamorada. Or that I regret it.”

  It’s the first time the word “love” has come up between us, but in this, it’s another question I think I know the answer to.

  Anthony takes my hand, the diamond glinting in the afternoon sun coming through the windows of the train car. “I meant what I said when we married. I’m going to protect you. That side of my life is over. No one is coming after us now, and if they do, I’ll handle it.”

  What sort of man have I married?

  Now I know.

  I lean forward and kiss him, my lips curving at his sharp inhale as our mouths touch, a thrill running through me as his arms move to my waist, his palms pressing into my back, pulling me closer to him.

  The motion of the train departing the station jolts us apart, and he wraps his arm around me once more, holding me close against his side as we journey north to New York City—as we head home.

  I sleep for several hours, using Anthony’s shoulder as my pillow. When I wake, it is to the sight of him watching me, his expression softer than any I have seen him wear before.

  Perhaps we will be safe now that Frank Morgan is out of the picture. Or maybe this safety is little more than an illusion and there will always be another threat lurking around the corner. Who can say for certain? If I have learned anything in this life, it is that you cannot prepare for the unexpected that sneaks up on you and turns your world upside down.

  My husband is happy. My family is safe in Cuba, the revolution over, the storm having missed them entirely. We are alive. I am falling in love.

  In this moment, that seems a great many things to be grateful for indeed.

  That evening, we make our way to the dining car. Anthony orders us a bottle of champagne, and we dine on a gourmet meal, the conversation around us filled with other passengers discussing the hurricane, guessing at what it must have been like to survive such an ordeal.

  Agent Watson sits alone at a table, a drink in front of him, his gaze on the
entrance to the dining car, his body tense as though he is anticipating a potential threat to emerge at any moment.

  There’s a commotion, a low buzz that has me turning my head to see what has caught everyone’s attention.

  A woman walks into the train car, her red hair gleaming, her beauty eye-catching.

  I recognize her instantly from that day on the beach.

  Elizabeth.

  She walks toward Agent Watson’s table, a smile on her lips. There’s no question that she’s aware of the attention she’s drawn or that she enjoys it.

  Anthony watches her sit across from Agent Watson, a sharp laugh escaping from his mouth.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think we have anything to worry about with Agent Watson,” he answers.

  At the moment, the man hardly seems threatening, the obvious affection for the redhead shining in his eyes.

  “I met her before the hurricane hit. She said she’d come down from New York by herself.”

  “She was Frank Morgan’s fiancée,” Anthony drawls.

  I gape at him.

  He shrugs. “I make it my business to know everything about my enemies. She was a society girl whose father made a bad deal with Morgan. Can’t guess how she got involved with a federal agent, but by the expression on Watson’s face, I’d wager he’s not too broken up about Morgan’s death.”

  No, he doesn’t appear upset at all. He looks like a man in love, and Elizabeth hardly seems to be in mourning.

  She’s incandescent.

  Our gazes meet across the train car, and she inclines her head in a silent nod of recognition.

  She smiles.

  The train rumbles on, carrying us north, out of Florida, carrying us home.

  Thirty-Seven

  APRIL 1936

  Helen

  When the winds cease, and the waters recede, the sand settling back to some semblance of what it once was, palms scattered about the ground, roofs torn off homes—mansions and shacks alike, Mr. Flagler’s magical railroad in twisted metal pieces, we are left with the storm’s aftermath.