The Lost Story of Eva Fuentes - 6

Boston

1900

At the end of June, five American military ships ferried Eva and her fellow teachers—approximately thirteen hundred in total—from Cuba to Boston. Perhaps it was logistics that drove the decision to utilize the warships; after all, it was an enormous number of teachers, half of all the educators in Cuba. Or maybe it had been a diplomatic decision, the vessels sending an unmistakable message of the power and might the Americans possessed. Regardless of what had led to the choice, seeing those ships conjured unpleasant memories of when a military presence had been a constant in her life, the Spanish navy determined to bring Cuba to heel, the Americans fighting their own war against Spain in the Cuban theater. From the beginning, the ships set the tenor of the journey lest Eva forget it.

She was going to Harvard to represent her country, her people.

Anything else was secondary.

The journey on the Sedgwick mostly went smoothly, her fears of seasickness swiftly allayed. When Eva was growing up, her mother had told her stories of a grandfather who was a pirate, who had made his way in Cuba sailing the high seas. Perhaps some of that injected itself in her veins, given her this penchant for adventure that she had never seen coming. She was determined to memorialize every moment of the journey, jotting down any details that she could think of to use in her writing. Every single sensation from the rocking of the boat to the sight of the horizon off in the distance was catalogued and remembered as inspiration for a future book or perhaps even this one. Maybe she would send her characters off on a grand adventure like the one she was undertaking. She kept a notebook where she jotted down her observations—like how her hair blew when she stood on deck or the color of the sea at the deepest parts of the ocean, land out of sight.

And then, somewhere between Havana and Cambridge, the strangest thing happened—Eva found herself reaching for her notebook less and less, and instead spending her time on the deck feeling the sun on her face and listening to the crashing roar of the waves. She was becoming someone else, shedding the skin of the woman she was in Havana—a teacher, an orphan, a woman who worked tirelessly to carve a space for herself in an often hostile world—and instead taking pleasure in things she’d never experienced, enjoying moments she’d previously overlooked.

They’d been in Boston for two days since their ship landed on July 2. Their arrival at Harvard was greeted with such fanfare that Eva could do little more than smile and nod at all the goodwill that was thrown their way.

“Nervous?” her new roommate Dolores whispered in her ear.

The two women stood beside each other dressed in their finest. Eva had selected a white shirtwaist and navy skirt for the occasion, pairing it with a navy blue hat that sat atop her updo. She’d bought the outfit a month ago, right after she had met with Mr. Garcia and agreed to attend the summer school.

Eva had taken a liking to Dolores Aguilar nearly from the first. She taught at a school in one of the suburbs of Havana, and she was as outgoing as Eva was quiet, which made navigating this entire business far easier. Eva had no problem following Dolores’s lead as they met more people than Eva could possibly keep track of.

“It feels like everyone is staring at us,” Eva whispered, careful to keep the smile affixed on her face.

A chaperone stood off to the side, her presence designed to guard the women’s “virtue.” That the men had no such chaperonage was more than a little insulting, but hardly surprising, considering the concerns that had been voiced within Cuba about allowing the women to partake in such an extensive journey away from home. Eva didn’t have family members to object on her behalf, and she’d been on her own for so long that the conversations were removed from the realities of her life. The men were to reside in Harvard’s dorms, while the women were to stay in private residences surrounding Harvard Yard.

For the male teachers, there was the singularity of coming to the United States to study, of attending a university with as august a reputation as Harvard. The female teachers carried that same weight—the pressure of representing an entire island—but also the added novelty and challenge of coming into the sanctum of male-dominated academia. The attention and stares were likely experienced even more by the hundreds of teachers on the voyage whose skin was shades darker than Eva’s own. There was a type of student who appeared to frequent Harvard—white and male—but thanks to her and the other Cuban teachers, Harvard was changing even if just for the summer. How that would be accepted remained to be seen.

Some of those Harvard men looked at the women passing by as though they had three heads. There were plenty of elbows thrown from one fellow to another, some chuckles and good-natured teasing reaching Eva’s ears.

Not all the Harvard men—but enough—seemed to have more than American history on their minds.

A few of the teachers had complained about their lodging, but the room Eva shared with Dolores was more than comfortable, certainly nicer than her Spartan apartment in Havana. Its proximity to the campus made it an easy walk, despite how surprised she had been by the heat and humidity that plagued Boston in the summer. She’d imagined that heading north would bring a cooler climate, but she missed the breeze she’d grown used to off the water back home. And still—the novelty of their surroundings made her wonder what the trees would look like when they changed colors in the fall, how the streets would be transformed when they were covered in white snow.

A military man stood in front of a beautiful tree giving a speech to the assembled audience, his uniform setting off a riot of emotions within her. She’d lived in Havana during the war, and while she was saved from some of the horrors that her countrymen and women in the countryside faced, Eva had seen enough military uniforms to last a lifetime.

Eva glanced around at her colleagues, wondering just what they made of the man’s speech. Most of them didn’t speak English, and many who did only understood a few words. One of the opportunities at the summer school was the chance to take English classes; the teachers were to be divided up by fluency. It was a daunting goal to learn a language as convoluted as English in just six short weeks, although she imagined the immersion would help and she was grateful to her uncle for teaching her when she was younger. She found that it had been easier to pick up his instruction when she was a child, and she had made greater progress back then when everything was new than she did now.

Today’s program was a welcome and a celebration of sorts—the Americans’ Independence Day, July 4. Their pride and patriotism were on full display with the American flags fluttering around them—ones they’d graciously interspersed with the Cuban flag as a welcome to their guests.

Eva hadn’t known what to expect when they arrived in Cambridge, and in her wildest imaginings she wouldn’t have predicted the new Cuban flag everywhere she looked. The flag that so many had died for meant something. It was their hope for the future, for a free and independent Cuba.

The welcome reception was the first chance to make a good impression, and she was determined to represent her country well, the Cuban flag filling her with an overwhelming sense of pride. Tomorrow, Harvard’s president Charles Eliot was to address them in a welcome speech at Sanders Theatre. The schedule they were to follow for the summer was packed with activities, and Eva had spoken more in the past two days than she had in the entire preceding week. She was so used to being alone when she was done teaching that she still hadn’t fully acclimated to the change or to her newfound “celebrity” status.

When the speech and pageantry ended, the teachers marched through Harvard Yard to Cambridge Common, their Cuban contingent on display. Eva ducked her head, more than a little overwhelmed by the attention their group was drawing. It was unsurprising, considering this had been touted as the pinnacle of Cuban-American diplomacy, and she figured the good people of Boston deserved to get their money’s worth since they had financed this whole endeavor through personal donations totaling more than seventy thousand American dollars. The sum was so vast that it made Eva a little dizzy when she thought about it.

What did the citizens of Boston make of the Cuban teachers descending on their city? Would their goodwill help Cuba in its fight for independence?

The first week at Harvard passed in a whirlwind of classes, field trips, and social events that left her falling into her bed beside Dolores’s utterly exhausted. The organizers had scheduled them with military-like precision, and it became obvious that they were meant to make the most of every moment of the cultural exchange. Their mornings were spent in academic classes, their afternoons dedicated to organized tours of various sites around Boston and Cambridge.

Eva was more than a little impressed by the obvious amount of thought and care that had gone into the summer school. Would this be the first of many such cultural exchanges between the two countries? Nothing of its kind had been attempted before, and it certainly set a high standard for other endeavors to follow.

The time Eva had envisioned working on her book was instead filled with lunches and dinners, and at night, when she thought she would be eager to sit down at the little desk in her room and continue the story she’d been writing, she instead found herself lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, talking to Dolores until one of them fell asleep.

She felt guilty for not missing her characters more, for being able to take such a break from them when they had been her constant companions for so many years. It was silly, of course—they weren’t real —but in a way they had been real to her. She had somewhat abandoned them; when she had needed those voices and stories in her head to keep going, she’d made them part of her daily life, but now that she was caught up in life at Harvard, it was too easy to push them aside.

There were many distractions to be had in Boston.

Twice weekly there were dances to be held at the Hemenway Gymnasium at Harvard. Eva had only one dress that seemed suitable for the occasion—a pale peach gown that had been given to her by the mother of one of her students as thanks for teaching the young girl.

“I intend to dance all night,” Dolores proclaimed as they entered the gymnasium.

Eva scanned the crowd, surprised to see so many people standing around watching them, notebooks in hand. She should have expected that the press would be here, since they’d covered all their activities since Eva first arrived in Boston nine days ago, but it was such a stark contrast from her life in Cuba that she hadn’t acclimated to the change.

Eva turned her attention away from the journalists and back to her roommate, who seemed oblivious and unconcerned by the attention they were drawing.

Eva grinned. “All night? No breaks?”

“Absolutely none. I want my feet to ache at midnight,” Dolores proclaimed.

Dolores possessed a passion for music, one Eva discovered almost immediately. Their host had a piano in the sitting room of her house, and she’d invited Dolores to play it when she wanted. Eva had never really thought of the other ways in which stories were told, but she quickly realized that Dolores spoke with her music the same way that Eva put pen to paper.

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to have a hard time achieving your goal,” Eva commented, gesturing toward the assembled crowd of gentlemen looking their way. Between the men of Harvard and the Cuban teachers who had made the journey with them, there was no shortage of available partners.

“And what about you?” Dolores asked. “Will you dance as well?” She tossed a dazzling smile toward the assembled crowd. A few of the men looked a bit staggered by it.

Eva laughed, linking her arm through her roommate’s. “Ah, but you have not seen me dance. A smile might get me a dance partner, but I promise you, it would not keep him. I am an atrocious dancer.”

Dolores grinned. “I am not surprised at all. I imagine you overthink it.”

“ ‘Overthink it’?”

“Yes—I can easily envision you worrying about making a wrong step or stomping on a poor man’s foot.”

“I hardly consider injuring the noble men of Harvard by crushing their toes to be good diplomacy.”

Dolores tugged on her arm, pulling her toward the dance floor. “Must we be diplomats the entire time we’re here? I didn’t come all the way from Havana to spend my time in the classroom. I want to dance. I want to enjoy this night. Maybe teach a few of them the danzón.”

“And you should.” Eva nodded toward one of the teachers from their contingent standing near a refreshment table. “Considering the glances being cast your way, I don’t think you’re going to be waiting long for a dance partner.”

Eva gently extricated her arm.

Dolores sighed. “You’re not going to dance, are you?”

“I’m afraid not. I do plan on getting one of those little cakes over there, though.”

As far as Eva was concerned, cake surpassed dancing any day of the week.

Eva walked over toward the dessert table, weaving her way through the crowded room. Spirits were high tonight, and while she hadn’t been looking forward to the dance, it was clear that everyone else was having a wonderful time.

From the beginning of their journey, her colleagues had expressed many of the same concerns she had feared—that the summer school was an effort to impose the Americans’ ideas onto Cuban schools—but the more time they spent at Harvard, the more it became obvious that there was a real camaraderie developing between the Cuban and the American educators. Judging by the mood at the dance—and based on the lingering looks being cast across the room—more than one romance was blossoming within the group.

Eva’s fingers itched to write about the scene before her, to jot down her observations. There was a romance in her book, a love developing between two characters. The romance was becoming increasingly difficult to write.

She’d read love stories before. Romantic novels where the hero swept the heroine off her feet. She thought she could write about the same emotions in her characters, could slip into their skin and bring their feelings to life, but every single time she sat down at her desk and began to write the love story, she hadn’t the faintest idea where to start. Her hero was…missing something. Something she couldn’t quite identify, but some essential quality that she knew would make readers fall in love with him as she wished they would. Not only did he feel like someone she couldn’t fathom falling in love with, even worse—she wasn’t sure she liked him all that much. And if she didn’t enjoy his company, how on earth did she think she was going to convince readers to spend hours alongside him?

The trouble was that her experience with men was limited at best. The years when she might have been meeting suitors and falling in love had been defined by the war—first Cuba’s fight for independence from Spain, and then after the explosion of the USS Maine in the Havana Harbor, the Americans’ short-lived war with Spain inside of Cuba. Many of the men she might have met and fallen in love with were off fighting for their country, and even if they hadn’t been, her days had revolved around surviving. At the end of the night when her head hit the pillow, there was no time for daydreaming or romance. Simply an overwhelming sense of relief that she was alive when so many others weren’t. And then after the war—once Spain was vanquished by the Americans and Cuba was left in this strange sort of stasis—well, it was as though the desire for romance had been hollowed out of her completely. She was no longer the person she had been before, but she didn’t know who she was after, either. Everything was unrecognizable—not just her country, but herself, too.

Eva had begun writing during the war, and she discovered that once she started, she could not stop.

Perhaps Dolores was right. Maybe she should have danced, been willing to sacrifice some American’s toes to the important cause of research for her unfinished manuscript.

Eva plucked a dessert from the table, a little confection that was all wispy sugar and delight. It was too sweet on her tongue despite her longing for it, her appetite changed by the war, too.

How would she write this scene if she were a character in her novel? Perhaps a dashing man would approach her despite her avowed status as a wallflower and ask her to dance. She would be reticent, of course, but ultimately would acquiesce and they would dance the night away.

Dolores whirled by on the arm of one of the Cuban teachers. Eva recognized him from the trip from Havana. They had been on the Sedgwick together. He had a booming laugh and a propensity for telling stories that had drawn a crowd. Dolores caught Eva’s eye and gave her a wide smile before she was whirled away, the skirt of her dress twirling around her in a cloud.

For a moment, Eva closed her eyes, drinking in the moment, the sheer pleasure of it, of seeing happiness on a friend’s face, of the feeling that perhaps they had come out the other side of the war, such novelties as a dance at a school like Harvard inconceivable just two years ago.

After everything they had been through, the indignities and horrors they had suffered at the hands of the Spanish, maybe this was the future they had all dreamed of in Cuba, coming to them in stages rather than all at once. Maybe they had a chance at a life filled with simple pleasures, prosaic worries rather than the all-consuming sense of defeat that used to greet her.

Suddenly, the emotions filling her became overwhelming. Eva headed toward the gymnasium door, searching for fresh air, for a respite from the prying eyes of the reporters standing at the edge of the ballroom, pens at the ready.

What would they write about her?

She could feel the weight of curious glances being cast her way, but she ducked her head until she’d made her way outside and could take a deep breath and then another.

Eva leaned back against the building, staring up at the dark sky, feeling like she had returned to herself again. Sometimes it was as hard to process the good as it was to process the bad. It all existed together, interlaced in a tapestry of memories and emotions that she still struggled to untangle.

“Hello.”

Eva lurched forward.

A man stood near the door she had just exited from the gymnasium. He was partially cast in shadow, his features obscured by the night.

He took a step forward, and then another, moving into the light.

He wore a summer suit, the fit just a little big on his lanky frame, as though the garment hadn’t come to him from a tailor like so many of the wealthy Americans she saw walking around the campus but rather he’d acquired it by other means. His dark hair was mussed. A cigarette dangled from his fingers. He was handsome, although not overtly so, not the sort of handsome that would make a girl feel twisted up in his presence, but rather like a puzzle you had to work your way through to step back and fully appreciate.

Much as she’d allowed herself to indulge in the moment of watching her friend enjoy herself on the dance floor, Eva also lingered in this moment—admiring his sharp cheekbones, deep green eyes, and long, lean bone structure, cataloguing his features as an artist might, wondering which parts she would incorporate when she worked on her novel again. Her uncle had brought her a copy of Wuthering Heights once, knowing her desire to be a writer and offering some inspiration, and this man standing before her looked exactly like the image of Heathcliff that she’d conjured in her mind while she’d devoured the novel.

The man’s eyes widened slightly, as though he was perhaps caught off guard by the frankness in her perusal, their roles temporarily reversed, considering how much time she’d spent with everyone staring at her .

“I’m sorry—I didn’t see you out here,” Eva said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She wanted to say something else, to clarify that she wasn’t staring at him out of romantic interest, but rather professional curiosity, but how did one explain such a thing without causing offense? Besides, the words were stuck inside her. Speaking English on its own made her nervous, but add the presence of a man and—

“No need to apologize,” he replied. “I just came out here looking for a break from the festivities. I suppose you were searching for the same.”

She nodded, acutely aware of the manner in which she had just burst out here. To be caught staring so unabashedly and to have bolted from the dance no doubt cast her in a most unladylike light. Hardly the paragon she’d hoped to represent for the media who studied her and the other teachers so.

“I’m James.” He put the cigarette out. “James Webber.”

“Eva Fuentes.”

“Eva.” He said it slowly, as though he were attempting to commit it to memory, savoring it, lingering over it much as she’d done when she first saw him. His lips curved into a wide smile, the effect softening his face somewhat. “Welcome to Harvard.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, searching for the right words to convey how overwhelmed she was without giving offense. “I’ve certainly never received such a warm welcome anywhere.”

He laughed. “We’re a welcoming bunch. There’s certainly been a tremendous amount of fanfare surrounding your visit. I’ll admit there’s much curiosity about Cuba considering you’ve dominated our newspapers for so long. I suppose we all feel invested in your future. It’s like when you meet a person who you’ve heard about for years for the first time.”

During the wars for independence, some of her countrymen had believed that America was the answer to their attempts to free themselves from Spanish domination, that with the help of their powerful neighbor, they could finally be rid of the Spanish. Many Cubans had taken this position to American cities, establishing powerful relationships with the newspapers and courting support from various groups. Those who had been exiled by the Spanish, like her uncle, used their time in America to advocate for Cuban independence. It was undeniable that they had been successful in achieving the aim of garnering America’s interest. Now it remained to be seen whether that influence would benefit Cuba. There had been concerns that with Spain gone, Americans would turn their eyes to Cuba and her resources and seek to establish dominion over the island.

“What do you think of our fair city so far?” James asked her.

“It’s beautiful.”

In the little free time she had, Eva enjoyed exploring the campus with Dolores, walking through the pretty streets. It was so different from Havana, but lovely in its own right, and it made her wonder what it would be like to travel, to see other places. How much of the world was out there, the books she read the only way she would ever experience it?

“Do you miss Cuba? Where are you from? The city or the countryside?”

“Havana. I thought I might miss it since I’ve never left the island before. But truthfully, there’s too much happening here for me to miss it. Each day we are met with new activities, new people to speak with, new things to learn.” The words came to her more slowly in English than in Spanish, the care and consideration she had to put into each word a little frustrating for someone whose life was defined by words, who had perhaps taken for granted the way that they never failed her when she needed them. There was a courage, a bravery that came with expressing yourself while not knowing what mistakes you might be making or how your efforts were being received by the other person. “When this opportunity was first presented to me, I didn’t appreciate how grand it would be. Harvard has certainly gone to great lengths for us. Not to mention the people of Boston. I never thought we’d receive such a welcome.”

“It must be overwhelming at times feeling as though you are under a microscope, the press following you around everywhere you go.”

Surprise filled her. Was it so obvious? Did she wear her feelings so clearly etched on her face?

“It is,” she admitted. “I keep telling myself that I need to pretend that the reporters aren’t there, to enjoy the experience and make the most of it without worrying about what others think. It doesn’t come naturally to me, though.”

Some of the teachers navigated the attention with the panache of a seasoned politician.

“Where do you teach in Cuba?” James asked her, leaning against the brick wall behind him as though he was settling in for a long chat.

The movement brought them a little closer to eye level, the slouch still doing little to lessen the impact of his tall, lean frame. He must be a few inches over six feet, and suddenly, she felt diminutive in his presence.

There was an intimacy to his posture, too, the relaxation in his body giving the impression that they were longtime friends rather than the barest of acquaintances.

She liked the comfort, the sensation that they were removing the formalities between them. So much of her time here was governed by the responsibility to represent her profession, her country, and herself that it was good to merely be Eva for once.

“I teach at a small school for girls in Havana,” she replied, the words coming to her in Spanish first, before the English slipped out.

In Boston, she dreamed in both languages. It had surprised her at first when she woke up the seventh day in the city and realized that, for the first time in her life, her dreams had been in English, not Spanish. No doubt a product of now living so many of her days in English.

He smiled. “Your students must enjoy your classes a great deal. Your face lit up when you answered my question.”

She flushed. “I am fortunate, yes, to enjoy what I do.”

“And dancing? Do you enjoy that?” he asked, gesturing toward the gymnasium behind them.

“Not particularly,” she admitted. “I haven’t had much time for dancing. Or much practice. We weren’t exactly waltzing our way through the war.”

“What was the war like?” he asked her, his expression sobering slightly as though he sensed the unspoken sentiment contained there.

“You didn’t fight?”

She knew many Americans volunteered to join the military after the explosion of the USS Maine .

“No. I didn’t. I followed the war closely, though. We were all consumed by it.”

Eva closed her eyes for a moment, and she wasn’t in Massachusetts anymore, but back home, and it hit her, a pang of homesickness so sharp and sleek that it pierced her.

“I fared better than many did,” she replied once her eyes had opened. “It was a terrible thing.”

How did you explain that while war had raged in Cuba, while so many had suffered, she’d still taught her students, and cared for her mother as she became ill, and laundered the clothes when she could, and cooked when there was food to be had, and she had tried to—had to—go about her daily life even though the world as she knew it was at imminent threat of collapse? And still—things could have been much worse. The plight of the reconcentrados who had been rounded up in hellish camps controlled by the Spanish had certainly highlighted that. When the war ended, they had no homes to return to—the countryside had been razed by the Spanish to squash all support for the revolutionaries. Havana and the cities hadn’t seen as much destruction even if the effects of the war lingered after Spain had been driven from Cuba’s shores.

James didn’t say anything in response, and she was grateful for the silence between them, for the fact that he seemed to respect the wall she had erected around the subject. She wasn’t here for her pain to be entertainment for the Americans. There were boundaries she had to maintain around herself. If this was to be a performance, then at least it had to be a performance on her terms.

“And what do you do?” she asked, more than a little embarrassed by how much she had revealed in such a short time to a man who was a stranger.

He glanced down at the ground for a moment, his hair falling forward over his forehead. He straightened, pushing the errant lock of hair back. “I’m a writer.”

“Truly? What do you write?”

He laughed. “That’s a great question and one I’m still trying to answer myself. I’ll admit inspiration doesn’t strike nearly as often as I’d like. I’m working on something right now, but—” He shrugged. “It’s causing more frustration than anything else.”

It was a natural point in the conversation for her to offer that she, too, was a writer, to talk about the book she was working on, to tell him that she knew exactly what he meant, but she’d already offered too much about herself in the conversation, bared too much of her soul.

There was something about James that made him easy to talk to. Perhaps it was the way in which so many of the young men of her acquaintance filled conversational silences with their own thoughts and opinions. For someone to whom gregariousness didn’t come easily, it was difficult to carry a back-and-forth when you didn’t have the sort of personality that led you to thrust yourself into pauses.

“What made you decide that you wanted to write?” she asked him, curious of what it was like for another writer. She’d never met anyone else who wrote. As much as she enjoyed the privacy of writing, sometimes she wished she had someone she could share ideas with. Teaching was at least a profession where she had the support of others. But writing was such a solitary endeavor.

Did he feel the same way?

Her words had been honed by the war, forged in loss. What had shaped his?

“I suppose I had something to say,” James answered. “It’s impossible to miss the influence that the written word has these days—they called our war with Spain the journalists’ war for a reason. We’re entering a new world now where society is transforming, where you aren’t so defined by the circumstances of your birth, where anything feels possible. I want to be part of that.”

Strange how they could inhabit the same world, and yet occupy such different spaces in it. She saw the sentiments he had just voiced echoed all around her; she just couldn’t countenance them. Yes, Spain was gone, and yes, Cuba was “free,” and there was a sort of tentative feeling inside her that maybe things would be better, that perhaps the worst had passed, but she didn’t know how to trust the feeling, didn’t know how to believe that she stood on firm ground. James wrote to be heard, because there was a place for him in this world. Eva wrote to process all that had happened, to speak because it was the only place where she could. The blank page listened when surely no one else would. She wrote not knowing if anyone would ever read her writing, if her words even mattered. She envied him the confidence that his words might make a difference.

“Why did you come to Harvard?” he asked her, changing the subject and turning his attention back to her once more.

“To represent my country. I taught during the war, but the fighting didn’t touch my life the same way it did for so many others in Cuba. This was my chance to do something, however small.”

He was silent for a moment, considering, his gaze intent on her.

She could feel her cheeks heating, and she ducked her head, his scrutiny slightly unnerving.

“There are many ways to love your country,” James replied. “You shouldn’t think that what you’re doing here doesn’t matter. It does.”

It was funny how a few words strung together could feel like an embrace.

“Thank you.” Eva glanced back at the door to the gymnasium. “I should get back to the party—I really only meant to take a few minutes of fresh air.”

How long had she been standing out here talking to him? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? Was her chaperone looking for her even now?

Something that might have been regret flashed in James’s eyes. “I hope our paths will cross again in the future.”

“I would like that,” Eva murmured, her cheeks slightly flushed from the admission, and the certainty that somehow took root inside her that she would see him again, and soon.

Once again, adventure had found her.