The Lost Story of Eva Fuentes - 12

London

2024

Margo and Luke approached Natalia Evans’s flat. It was in a luxurious building in Knightsbridge, helmed by an impeccably dressed doorman, who led them to a phalanx of elevators. The building’s interior was as impressive as its exterior, and based on its location, Margo would bet everything that it had a stunning view of Hyde Park.

With the flick of a security key fob, they were whisked up to the tenth floor.

Margo stood beside Luke as he rang the flat’s buzzer. You wouldn’t tell by looking at him, but Luke was taking in all the same details she was, creating his own profile in his mind of Natalia Evans, who by the evidence spread before them was a very wealthy woman.

The door to the flat opened.

The woman staring back at them was major style goals.

Her dark hair was swept back in a tight bun, and enormous emeralds dangled from her ears. She could have been forty or sixty; it was impossible to tell. She wore a classic black dress that looked like it came off the runway and fit her flawlessly.

Margo took the lead. “Natalia Evans? I’m Margo Reynolds. We spoke on the phone. This is my associate, Luke.”

The woman nodded. “Of course. Come in, please.”

She led them through the flat to a large living room that did indeed have an exquisite view of Hyde Park. Natalia sat on a pale green couch, gesturing for Luke and Margo to sit on the empty chairs facing her.

“How can I help you?” Natalia asked. “You said something about a book called A Time for Forgetting ?”

“Yes. We’ve been hired to find it.”

She didn’t explain that she and Luke had been hired by two separate people, figuring in this case the simplest explanation was the best one. She didn’t say the rest of it, either, didn’t explain about Mr. Thornton’s murder or their fear that someone else was looking for the book. Given the potential dangers surrounding A Time for Forgetting , it seemed best not to rope someone else into it. Mr. Thornton’s death had made the newspaper, but if Natalia had seen it or made the connection, she didn’t say anything.

“It was written by a Cuban author and published by an American publisher at the beginning of the twentieth century,” Margo added. “We believe it may have been lost sometime during the aftermath of the revolution.”

Natalia nodded. “That’s not surprising, considering how difficult of a time it was. The revolution devastated so many people.

“My parents were born in Cuba. They left in 1959, months after Fidel took power. They came to London because my father did business with a British company in Havana at the time, and they were willing to hire him, to help my parents start over. I was born in London a few years later.

“When my parents were forced to flee Cuba, they weren’t allowed to take their personal possessions with them. It was devastating for them. Anything sentimental—jewelry that had been passed down, photographs, the mantilla they used at their wedding—they were forced to leave in Havana. The list goes on. Everything—money, property was seized by Fidel. All the artwork, the antiques, everything was taken by Fidel’s government after they left.

“My parents—my mother, especially—kept meticulous records. It was important to her to preserve this part of our history, to try to recoup the things that were stolen. She always believed that Fidel would die, and his actions would be undone. As though his death would erase all the harm that had been done to them and somehow things could return to the way they were, as though they could step into the lives they left behind. It was their greatest wish, their most ardent dream.

“My father died seven years ago, my mother two years later. Sadly, neither one of them were able to see the Free Cuba that they dreamed of, were never able to return to their homeland. My father had made enemies in the regime, and they never felt safe to go back. None of the items that were taken from them were ever recovered. I promised them I would do what I could, but obviously, it has been a very long time, and items have changed hands under less than official circumstances.”

“Is that what inspired you to start the website?” Margo asked.

Natalia nodded. “I used the records they had kept of the items that were taken from them as my starting point. I started reaching out to family, family friends, and I added to the list. From there, it spread. Cubans are passionate about our history, about our losses. It’s a close community. It also became a way of trying to track some of these items. Occasionally, someone would contact me to let me know that they had seen a painting that had been taken from an exiled family. I can’t guarantee the provenance of the items—I’m not in the legal or law enforcement business. This is solely a hobby, and one that I do out of my own personal connection. I’m not collecting supporting documents or anything like that.”

“Do you know what happened to the items to begin with?” Margo asked.

There was something about the passion in Natalia’s voice. It reminded Margo of her search for items for her clients, although she could see that it was deeply personal for Natalia.

“Distributed among Fidel’s favorites or kept by Fidel himself depending on how valuable they were,” Natalia answered. “Occasionally, we would hear news of things that had been spotted. A painting came up for auction in Paris a couple years ago and a family friend was able to get it back. There were a few things that were given to friends for safekeeping; after all, no one imagined the regime would last as long as it did. But then eventually, those friends left, and items were passed on for safeguarding as best they could be, hidden in Cuba, or some attempted to smuggle them out of the country.”

“And A Time for Forgetting ? Have you heard of the book or come across it in your connections?”

“I’m sorry, no. I wish I could be more help to you. I looked through my records and couldn’t find any reference to it.” Natalia glanced from Margo to Luke and back again. “Who hired you to find the book? I assume it belonged to a Cuban family based on what you said before?”

Margo hesitated. “Our client would prefer to remain anonymous. It’s a personal matter.”

Luke made no move to disclose more details, and since her client was, in fact, anonymous, the only other person whose information was available was his client, and she figured it was his story to tell, not hers.

“I understand,” Natalia replied. “I’ll contact some of the people I routinely work with, though, and if I find any information, I can send it to you.”

“Thank you. That would be very helpful.” Margo hesitated. “Be careful if you do ask about the book. I’d—I’d only talk to people you know and trust well.”

Surprise flashed across Natalia’s face.

“There’s—do you know a bookseller by the name of Thornton?” Margo asked. “He has a bookshop in Notting Hill.”

“No, I’m not familiar with him.”

“He gave me a flash drive with his notes that had a mention of your website. He was helping me find A Time for Forgetting .” Tears clogged her throat. “He—he was killed yesterday. In his bookshop.”

“Oh, how horrible.” Natalia leaned forward. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. He was a great man. We’re worried he was killed because he was searching for the book. We don’t want to see anyone else hurt because of it.”

“You’re quiet,” Margo commented as they exited Natalia’s building, casting a sidelong look at Luke.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“The fact that I don’t want to leave you here in London by yourself when I go to Edinburgh to see my client. Not with everything going on.”

“I’ll be alright.” She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts, and then—“I could go with you to see your client, you know.”

He sighed. “I was afraid you were going to suggest that. What happened to firing your client?”

“I didn’t say I was looking for the book for my client anymore. I just want to see where this ends up—besides, you said you didn’t want to leave me alone in London with everything that’s going on. I told Bea to get out of town for a bit. Maybe I should, too.”

“Why does this matter to you? You don’t have to put yourself in danger.”

“Because it’s my job. Because I’m good at it and I’m proud of the business I’ve built. Because it feels like it’s my chance to do something that matters, a way for me to help people, however small. I know you don’t understand—”

“That’s not true,” Luke replied. “I do understand. It was one of the things I always admired most about you—how determined you were. How passionate you were about your business. I remember you staying up late at night with this gleam in your eye when you were on the hunt for rare items. I loved hearing you talk about it. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I worried about you, too.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want something to happen to you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me anymore. We’re not married.”

“I know. I guess it’s just a hard habit to break.”

“What if we worked together?” she proposed to Luke. “What if we helped each other? What if we were a team again? Just for this.”

Heart pounding, she held out her hand to him.

He hesitated, and she could see him turning over the idea in his mind, and then—just when she thought he was going to leave her hanging—he took her outstretched hand, his palm sliding against hers.

“Partners?” Margo asked.

He nodded. “Partners.”