Our Last Days in Barcelona - Hardcover

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Originally from Florida, Chanel Cleeton grew up on stories of her family's exodus from Cuba following the events of the Cuban Revolution. Her passion for politics and history continued during her years spent studying in England, where she earned a bachelor's degree in International Relations from Richmond, The American International University in London, and a master's degree in Global Politics from the London School of Economics and Political Science. Chanel also received her Juris Doctor from the University of South Carolina School of Law.

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Chapter One

Isabel

1964

Palm Beach

It's a crowded party, a veritable who's who of Palm Beach society ready to close out the social season, but I don't care about any of that. I cut through the crowd with a single purpose:

To find Senator Nicholas Preston.

He's standing on the fringe alone, a drink of something dark and heavy in his hands. I was prepared to finagle some privacy between us, to separate him from his coterie of friends and political mates, but to find him alone like this is a blessed opportunity I can't miss. I walk toward him, and as I do, our gazes connect across the room. His eyes widen, and he takes a step forward, and he freezes, his expression changing, as though he saw an apparition only to realize it wasn't real after all.

It isn't the first time I've been told I resemble my sister Beatriz.

I close the distance between us on slightly shaky legs, filled with the unmistakable sensation that I'm inserting myself in a drama that's already started. I stop right in front of him, offering a silent prayer that we haven't just become an object of fascination for the entire room.

"I'm sorry, I know we've seen each other around, but I realize we've never been formally introduced. My sister Beatriz—"

"—I know who you are." He interjects, none of the legendary Preston charm I've heard about on visible display. He looks a bit terrified, and he clears his throat, his gaze drifting down to the glass in his hand as though he'd like to take a swig for courage.

I've never cared for him. What little I knew of him was that he was engaged to another woman and somehow Beatriz became his mistress. I never liked his position on Cuba much, either—his rumored closeness to the late President Kennedy who seemingly abandoned us after the Bay of Pigs. But looking at him now, it's impossible to miss how he's changed since I last saw him. His tuxedo isn't as impeccably tailored as I remember, his body leaner than it used to be, his skin paler than it was, his eyes devoid of that twinkle that used to appear when he'd cast his gaze on Beatriz.

He looks like a man who's lost a great deal, and being no stranger to loss myself, it's almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.

Almost.

"Perhaps if we could go somewhere in private," I reply, more out of consideration for his reputation than mine. As a married woman who rarely engages with society these days, I hardly attract the sort of attention others do. But at present, Nicholas Preston is a single, wealthy United States senator with political aspirations for more, and everyone's eyes are perpetually on him.

He nods, and I follow him from the room, down a hallway, and into a small library just off the main wing of the house. He closes the door behind us and walks over to an elegant desk, leaning against the edge of the wood.

"Is Beatriz all right?" he asks without preamble.

"I don't know. She's in Spain. Our sister Elisa used to speak with her nearly daily, but we haven't heard anything from her in weeks."

He says nothing, but there's the barest flinch at the news that Beatriz is gone, and he looks like a man bracing himself for another blow.

"Did you know she was in Spain?" I ask. "Have you heard from her? Did she leave you? Elisa thinks she has, but Beatriz refuses to talk about it. Are you—?"

"Wait." He holds up a hand. "Stop for a moment. Please."

"I'm worried. We're all worried. It's not like Beatriz to just disappear like this."

I've been worried about Beatriz for a long time now, even as she's made it clear that she wants to make her own way in the world, even as she's thrown herself into Cuban politics in exile, her determination to see Fidel Castro removed from power and vengeance won for our brother Alejandro all-consuming.

"Doesn't your family have a cousin in Spain?" he asks. "Has she checked on Beatriz?"

Sometimes it's easy to forget that he and Beatriz shared a life together once, that he was one of the most important people in my sister's world, if not the most important person. As much as I dislike him on principle for the tears my sister shed over him, the fact that Beatriz loved him coupled with the evidence before me that he loved her as well is enough to make me rethink my ire.

"She does, but I think Rosa and her husband are traveling out of the country on diplomatic business. They're unreachable. I hoped you might have heard from Beatriz considering how close the two of you are."

"I haven't."

"Are the rumors true—have you really ended things?"

"Yes, they're true. Beatriz left me."

"Did something happen?"

"Isn't that a bit of a personal question?"

"Not when it concerns my sister. All I care about it is Beatriz's safety and well-being."

"And you think I don't? I love Beatriz. I always will. She knows that. I asked her to marry me before she left."

The last part comes out with an air of frustration, the sound of a man who has been turning something around and around in his mind, unable to reconcile himself with the unavoidable conclusion he reaches each time.

Shock fills me.

Our stature in America is nothing like it was in Cuba, and for someone with Nicholas Preston's political ambitions and position in society to throw all of that away on a wife who would never be more than a massive political liability, a wife who had engaged in espionage—

I'd always assumed he viewed Beatriz as a dalliance, worried as only an older sister is wont to do that he was taking advantage of her, but now—

"I would have given up my career, everything to be with her. I told her that."

"And she still left?" I ask.

What of love, Beatriz?

"She did."

"Beatriz—" I struggle to find the right words to describe my brilliant, passionate, complicated sister.

"Beatriz is unlike anyone else. The qualities that made it hard for us to be together were also the things that made me fall in love with her," he interjects. "I'm not sure what that says about me. Maybe I'm a masochist."

"Or you both found each other in difficult circumstances. What happened in Cuba, the losses our family suffered, the death of our brother, it left a mark on all of us. Beatriz perhaps most of all considering how close she and Alejandro were. But that's why I worry about her so much. She's chasing ghosts and fighting old battles that cannot be won, and I've already lost one sibling to this madness. I can't lose another."

"You think she went to Spain because she's still working with the CIA."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

An oath falls from Nicholas Preston's lips.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know why she went to Spain. I haven't heard from her since I asked her to marry me and she ended our relationship. But given the way we left things, and her determination to keep working with the CIA, the current situation with Franco—" He frowns. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if she's in Spain for political reasons."

I knew it was a long shot coming here, but with Beatriz an ocean away, Nicholas Preston was my best hope for a lead on my sister.

"What will...