The Ambassador's Wife

By Leslie Johnson

Sophie Robinson enjoys living the good life. 

She's the wife of the rich and powerful American Ambassador to Cuba. A party at the Canadian ambassador's house makes her realize her marriage sucks. Actually, it's sucked for a very long time.

Her life looks perfect... on the outside. Still, she feels trapped. Neglected. Everyone's second thought. Her husband ignores her and she can't speak the language. Plus, someone is watching her every move.

Then the most handsome man she's seen spills a glass of water down her dress. He's too young. She's married...

What could go wrong?

If you love exotic, hot, interracial romance, read The Ambassador's Wife today.

This full novel with a happily ever after and NO cliffhangers was originally published as the The Ambassador's Wife Series 1-3, but has been re-released in this updated format to better tell a fuller, richer story

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atrevida Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386883678

Book preview

One

Sophie Robinson

A red 1950s Plymouth taxi pulled up to the corner.

A donde va? the female driver said.

I stood stock still, realizing I didn’t know where I wanted to go. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be with my husband at the Canadian Embassy in Havana one second longer..

Oye! she said, waving at me. You in?

I lifted my long evening gown, and climbed in the back.

Can we just drive around a bit?

She turned on the meter and headed down 5th Avenue toward Old Havana. One of those nights, eh? she said. Or, are you Cinderella and I’m your fairy godmother? She laughed.

I instantly liked her, a woman in a man’s world. Her hair was a fiery red that almost matched the red of her taxi, and—I suspected—matched her own fiery personality.

You sound American, I said, happy to hear a familiar sound among the sea of noises that reminded me every day that I was a foreigner.

I am, or was. Hell, I don’t even know anymore. But I’m here. Livin’ la vida loca, she sang robustly. She looked at me via the rearview mirror. Having one of those nights, eh?

I exhaled sharply. Try one of those months… years… could be lives.

The cab driver let out a long, low whistle. I hear ya, mami. Don’t tell me, it’s a man.

I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror, hoping to make eye contact again with this cab-driver.

How did you know? I asked the mirror.

I know because I live there, too. It’s in the eyes. Your man doesn’t make you happy. Am I right?

I was flabbergasted, and I had no clue where or how to begin to answer her question. The years and years of unhappiness I’d bottled up were about to come bubbling to and over the surface. I’d been feeling this pressure for a while now, and I wasn’t sure it would be corked much longer.

Let me see if I can get your story straight, the driver continued. You put your life on hold. Kids, dreams, career, your own desires to follow him, to allow him to spread his wings and fulfill his dreams. Hell, you were taught to do that. It’s the job of the American wife… especially one with money, right? You should stand by your man, afford him all the opportunities, and if the road leads to Cuba… well, vaya con dios, go with god, right?

The cab driver glanced into the rearview mirror in time to see my jaw drop in wonder.

I know, the driver continued, the question unasked, because it’s my story too. It’s the same story with the same look in the eyes. I can always tell. These men—it doesn’t matter who they are or where they’re from—Cuba, America, Timbuktu. They cheat, and then they pretend they don’t… after all we’ve given to them and for them. Yet look at us. We stay.

My phone chirped and a text message lit the screen. I was only mildly irritated that this exchange was interrupted. While this cab driver was nailing every emotion I’d been experiencing for over a decade, it was a little disconcerting to hear about yourself so intimately from a perfect stranger.

Where are you? the text message blared.

It was my best friend Claudia. I quickly responded with an inexact location, to which I received another text giving me instructions to meet Claudia at a nearby bar and discuss my unannounced exit from the party.

I leaned forward to speak to the taxi driver.

Can you take me to Hotel Nacional? I think I’m going to meet a friend.

The reflection of the driver’s eyes in the mirror seemed to dance.

Ohhhh, a ‘friend’ is it? the driver said with intrigue. That’s one way to handle your emotions and your cheating man. I just never could do it myself.

I laughed lightly. I’m not meeting a man.

Hey, it’s a new age. Maybe try a woman, who am I to judge? The cab driver laughed heartily.

The driver pulled up in front of Hotel Nacional. She told me the total, and as I was paying, she grasped my hand and made eye contact.

You are a beautiful woman. Don’t let a man ever make you feel otherwise, she said. But don’t count on a man to make you feel it regularly either. Find it within. She handed me a card. And call me when you need a cab. Don’t trust these other penedejos.

Dee Redmond, I read from the card.

That’s me.

Well, Dee, I certainly enjoyed meeting you. I’m sure I’ll be calling.

I inserted myself at the bar, finding two bar stools beside each other but flanked by Cuban men and a sparse smattering of women. I ordered a martini dry and glanced around, allowing myself to peek outside. There, men and women with sun-kissed skin relaxed in grand rattan chairs as peacocks wove their way through the wealthy locals and tourists. The jazz band played at just the right volume for the locale.

I always hated going into a classy bar and walking away with a headache from straining to hear the conversation, not to mention the raw scratchiness of my throat from having to raise my voice. This place was perfect, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I expected no less from Claudia; my single friend knew all the best spots in Havana for all times of the day.

Then, as if my thoughts had conjured her, Claudia arrived and slid into the chair beside me. She panted to catch her breath.

Did you run here? I asked.

Very funny, Claudia replied. I guess I practically did, though. The minute I realized you’d bailed and I texted you, I was out the door trying to find you, a taxi or whichever came first.

The bartender brought my drink and Claudia indicated he could make that two. She eyed the man on the other side of her, smiled, and said something I couldn’t make out. The man laughed and brushed Claudia’s bare shoulder lightly.

Always on the prowl? I asked discreetly.

You betcha, Claudia responded. Life is getting shorter for me, and Cuban men are getting married… not that that little detail stops them from cheating. But… she shrugged her shoulders, well, I’d rather be their one and only.

This subject keeps coming up tonight, I mused.

Oh, really?

I proceeded to tell Claudia about Dee, the cab driver.

Best cab ride I’ve ever experienced in Havana, I admitted. First, because I didn’t almost lose bladder control with the horrendous driving, but secondly, because she was so incredibly interesting. I’m thinking I’ll have to call her again and just hang out; have lunch or something."

Poor Sophie, Claudia said.

Why ‘poor Sophie?’

She’s so lonely she’s befriending a random cab driver, came the reply, but we both knew there was a shred of truth in it. Claudia is the only one I’ve confided in while Harold and I have been in Cuba. Even my friends and family back home know nothing of my loneliness or the rumors of my husband being spotted coming out of a Havana brothel, the angst I’ve dealt with on a daily basis because of Harold’s distaste for Cuba.

All of this is just a stepping stone for him, a way to further his career. His goal is to be commissioned to Europe, but he accepted the position in Cuba hoping to work his way up. In the meantime, however, he does little to hide—from me anyway—his aversion to this country, its people, its food, and its culture.

So, why’d you bolt? Claudia asked after a few more flirty comments with the good-looking dark-skinned man beside her.

I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I might actually, literally go insane if I had to hear about American relations or anything else, especially from Harold.

What’s he done now?

Claudia knew the whole story—every detail—and her patience for the great Ambassador was thin at best.

I shrugged in response. It’s more about what he hasn’t done, I guess. He’s married to his job, which he hates all facets of. Do you know how miserable that can be? I feel like I’m always having to be the one who makes an effort to… I don’t know, just live, just be here… in Cuba… in the marriage… whatever. It’s exhausting. I sighed, exasperated and sad, then drained the rest of my martini.

And don’t even get me started on the desert our sex life has become, I mentioned.

Yeah, I don’t know how you do that, Claudia said. I knew she was listening, but I also saw her eyeing a dashing waiter dodging the peacocks as he wove his way through the rattan chairs and tables. Then, Claudia snapped her fingers with inspiration.

I know exactly what you need, Claudia said. Well, more like who you need.

I put up my hands in protest and shook my head against the idea.

Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t think taking a lover is for me, I said.

What is this ‘taking a lover’ thing? Claudia said. I’m not trying to set you up with some long affair… unless that’s what you want. No, I just know this guy who would be perfect for you to meet. If it ends up in a night of wild, passionate sex, then who am I to stop the gods from making that happen. I am but the mere matchmaker.

Ssshhh, I scolded. Lower your voice. I have no idea who’s here and who may recognize me. I can do without the rumor or paper mill running with this scandal.

Claudia glanced around and nodded. Alright, but what I’m saying is, I merely introduce you. Set you up. He’s very discreet, loves all things American—including older women—and he’s muy, muy guapo. Very, very handsome.

Another deep exhale escaped me, and I realized how often I’d been sighing this night alone. If tonight was any indication of my level of vexation at my life, I may truly need to take more drastic measures.

It’s easy for you to think about, I indicated to Claudia. I mean, you’re single and not worried about the public eye.

But both of us knew what word had remained unspoken, and that was a clear, definitive ‘no’.

Two

Sophie

I had to smooth extra concealer underneath my dark-circled green eyes the next morning. I had not slept much or well, and rather than getting up and facing reality, I had complained of a headache and cramps and wallowed in the bed for most of the day. Harold, of course, had little to say as usual, but soon we had to get ready for a dinner party at a big house in Vedado.

I didn’t want to go, was not in the mood to bullshit with a bunch of politicians and their wives, but it was my duty, and I had to make a few apologies for bolting the night before. Harold had at least said that much to me—how rude it was that I just ran off without a word to anyone.

I know you don’t have to check in with me all the time, but the host should have at least gotten a ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye,’ don’t you think? he scolded when he checked on me at noon.

I apologized as I usually do, because it was easier. I had learned in our seventeen years together that he was less interested in hearing my rationale than in hearing my apology.

That, and I needed him to get out of our room. I had little desire to see or hear from him on a good day. But the way he sat on the bed only served to irritate me further, which then made me feel guilty for being irritated, which enraged me because I felt I had every right to be irritated, and… the vicious cycle kept entangling me.

I spent all night and the better part of the day reliving and wrestling with Claudia’s offer. I did admire my friend’s confidence and drive, but I was not under any impression that I possessed half the confidence of Claudia, though I’d give my eye teeth to possess even an ounce of her self-assurance, her brazen belief in herself.

I looked on my dressing table at the familiar black and white picture from my wedding day. It had sat in our bedroom for fifteen years, and yet at this moment, it seemed a foreign object. Who were the people in this picture? This man whose smile never really reached his eyes? This woman who obviously looked to this man to provide for her a future only she could see?

Looking in the mirror, I compared my image to the one in the wedding photo, and I wondered if I had the confidence and the patience to continue in a loveless marriage, a union that had served no one but the handsome man in the picture whose eyes didn’t smile.

Harold called up the stairs, Alex was here and it was time to go. I rushed to put on my dress, struggling to zip myself up in the back.

Harold lightly guided me to the car where Alex stood holding the door. I loved it when Alex drove us. He was a good looking Cuban mulatto who stood tall and relatively silent. I knew he had a crush on one of our guards, Ann, whom I liked personally and thought very highly of. Since I’d discovered his crush, I’d been enjoying playing the matchmaker between the two, arranging ways for them to run into each other, and sending them on errands together when I could. I figured there needed to be some sort of love in this house, or else it might whither up and die.

Now thirty-five, Ann had become a Marine after a failed marriage in which her dreams of living a happy life with a husband, kids, and the whole white-picket-fence type of life had been dashed. I thought that Alex and Ann made a beautiful couple. His mixed skin tone with her ebony would make for beautiful children too, and I honestly envied them the possibilities of a romance, a life with joy, and a family.

Harold and I had chosen not to have children, once again putting his career first. There had been a time when I’d resented our choice, but now, seeing where we are and how we are with each other, I’m grateful beyond words that kids weren’t brought into the mix. Of course, there had been times when I felt my womb contract when I thought of all I missed out on—the mothering; having someone always with you—but those weren’t reasons enough to bring a child into the world. And I knew that just like everything else within our marriage, I’d end up doing it alone. I didn’t feel cut out for that.

As we drove, I made small talk with Alex while Harold stared out the window, uninvolved and internally focused. Alex told me he’d taken Ann to a local bar with a live band a few evenings ago, and I felt a pang of jealousy as he shared what all they’d done and the fun they had. It was just enough to fill the drive time and allow me a chance to live vicariously in a relationship that was just beginning to bloom with excitement and promise.

As Alex helped me exit the car, he kindly told me to enjoy myself this evening and then gave me a curious little wink. What does he know? I was certain it was impossible that he could mean anything more than just what he said.

Once inside the house, I was the perfect ambassador’s wife; smiling and air-kissing everyone I should. I apologized to the ones I’d ditched the evening before, feigning the early stages of a migraine and my mad dash to catch it before it became full blown. Finally seating myself at the table, I pulled my chair up just as the waiter came to fill my water glass. Thinking he was finished, I reached for it only to have the poor man pour water right into my lap.

Oh! Lo siento! the waiter began apologizing. I’m sorry. So sorry, he said and began daubing at my lap with his white cloth. His movements were suddenly arrested as he must have realized the precarious position he was in.

It’s fine. No worries, I kept saying but he dropped the linen and began backing away to the soundtrack of his incessant apologies. I tried to stop him, to ensure him he wasn’t in trouble, smiling as graciously as I possibly could.

Then our eyes met, my breath caught in my throat and the words simply wouldn’t come out. He was beautiful, with milk chocolate skin stretched over tight muscles that filled out his uniform perfectly. His brown eyes begged forgiveness, and I wanted to run to him, take his face in my hands and show him just how much he was forgiven.

Our eyes met and attraction sizzled through me. For a moment I could imagine him begging me for something else...

He bowed once, twice, three times before finally standing erect and exiting the room with such speed I was afraid he’d trip.

My heart fluttered at the thought, and my mind flashed back to my conversation with Claudia. I could barely eat; I kept hoping the waiter would continue to serve me the rest of the night, but his embarrassment must have gotten the best of him as another waiter had taken his place. I never saw him back at the table. I picked around at my food, but my thoughts kept wandering back to the waiter. That was obviously where my appetite was.

I excused myself to find a bathroom, and on my way, I passed by the bar and noted the waiter manning the bar. It was my waiter—the one with the chocolate eyes.

So that’s where you got to, I mumbled to myself as I slipped into the toilet to check my makeup and the water stain on my dress. My stomach was a jumble of butterflies that seemed to travel back and forth between my abdomen and brain. I couldn’t quite calm my heart, my stomach or my mind.

Claudia’s words and her offer had been flittering around in my head all day, but there was something a little too sordid in a blind date. I’d felt a thrill at the thought, but the reality of being set up also made me a little nauseous. The initial weirdness, the pressure you feel to like your date because you don’t want to hurt the matchmaker’s feelings. Ugh! It was all too much, and I was too old for all that.

This, though, my taking control of the situation myself, was totally different. I could approach the waiter. The worst he could do was laugh me off and then I’d never have to face him again. Over and out in less than five minutes at the worst. On a blind date, the agony would last at least an hour.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and told myself I could do it; it was time. Jerking my shoulders back to accentuate my breasts, I walked out of the bathroom and straight to the bar.

What I can get you? the waiter asked in broken English, having trouble meeting my eyes.

His broken English gave me the confidence to use my equally broken Spanish, and so I replied, Yo quiero un Cuba Libre, con mas ron y tu numero. I want a Cuba Libre, with extra rum and your phone number.

Three

Jose Gomez

It was my first job serving at a private party, and my nerves had gotten the best of me at this fancy house. I was torn between hatred and admiration for people like this. On one hand, I hated how they most likely got this way in my country, the pockets they lined, the laws they broke and the people they hurt in the process. Then again I admired them, for going after what they wanted. I wanted to be like them… only in America.

There was a part of me, though, that wished I’d simply accepted a second shift at the restaurant where I’m much more comfortable learning English from some of the tourists and being myself—or as much of myself as is allowed while I’m waiting on rich Americans and Europeans.

The money for this job was better, though, and I know that if I ever want to get out of Cuba before I hit thirty, I’m gonna have to make a lot more money than usual.

Thirty. Geez, that’s so far away. I don’t think I’ll survive living with my papa that long. Hell, at the rate we’re going, we’ll kill each other before I hit the ripe old age of twenty. There are only so many more times he can tell me what a disappointment me and my generation are—we disrespectful kids who are too enamored with all things American—we traitors of the old world.

How can he expect anything else of me? His extreme socialist dreams are debilitating in the modern world, but when I tell him that I want more than a job working at the docks inspecting cargo for a life, it’s as if I’ve ripped his heart out and spit on it.

I won’t lose sight. I, for one, will be happy and will not settle for this mythical equality we were always promised. I will make my own destiny and make my dreams come true.

I couldn’t help but frown as all these thoughts went through my head. I was wiping the counter furiously, working off some steam when I looked up and saw the American lady walking towards the ladies’ room.

Shit, I mumbled to myself. Her eyes locked on mine for a second, and I got nervous that she would report me. I hadn’t meant to spill the damn water on her. It was a complete accident, and then, she was so beautiful. I just couldn’t face going back in there knowing I’d messed up her expensive dress.

I realized I was staring at the bathroom door and holding my breath when it finally opened and she came out. I busied myself drying some glasses so that I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with her as she approached.

Yo quiero un Cuba Libre, con mas ron y tu numero, she purred.

I wanted to laugh, not because it wasn’t absolutely sonorous the way she said it and the promise her request held for me. I nearly laughed because I was reminded of the gaps in our worlds. As I mixed the lady’s Cuba Libre with extra rum, I smiled at how quickly these gringas forgot where they were. Here she was asking for my number and yet most Cubans didn’t have a phone. The only phone I had was a prepaid one my uncle sent me from Miami, and there was no more time on it. It served as nothing more than a paperweight at the moment.

No time on phone, I answered the lady and her beautiful green eyes filled with disappointment and then doubt. Even so, she was stunning. Her hazelnut colored hair fell softly on her shoulders; hair many Cuban women would kill for. And the way it contrasted against the paleness of her skin made me suddenly crave café con crema. I’d bet she tasted just as strong and sweet.

Sophie opened her handbag, fished out twenty chavitos, and slid the money across the bar.

Take this and put some time on the phone, papi, she said in a low, sultry voice. I really want to call you.

The sound of her voice awakened my blood, and I could feel it coursing quickly from my head, to my heart, and then lower. Women flirt with me all the time at the restaurant. Often tourists would leave their hotels and room numbers written on the check when they leave, but