That Birthday in Barbados Page 5
The woman closes her eyes, leans her head back and I force my gaze to the window where the cyclist is now gone, riding off to spend a couple of hours challenging his body, his healthy body, as I once had.
A nurse walks into the room, asks if she can do anything for anyone. I feel the response rising up out of me, like a tsunami wave cresting from the ocean floor. There is nothing I can do to stop it. “Yes,” I say, the word emerging loud and adamant. “Take this out, please.”
She walks over with a look on her face that says she has heard this before. “Now, Mr. Walker. You’re not finished yet. It won’t be too much longer.”
“I am finished,” I say.
She smiles an indulgent smile, turns and walks away. “It’ll be over soon.”
Rage flows over me in a red wave. I stare at the needle in my arm, and I know I’m done. I lift the tape that secures it above my vein, ignoring the instant pinch and yank it from my arm. I stand and leave the flowing tube of poison dripping onto the chair seat.
The woman next to me opens her eyes then, looks at me with approval, and I leave the room with a roar of anger choking in my throat.
Chapter Seven
“I’m not 40, I’m 18 with 22 years of experience.”
― Unknown
Catherine
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST buffet is everything it has been billed to be. It’s set up in the beachfront Bajan Blue restaurant. As the hostess leads me to my table, I let my gaze take in the incredible scene before me. Blue, blue sky serves as a canopy to the blue-green ocean water, white sand beach and dozens of pink umbrellas and beach chairs. It is the dead of winter in New York. The colors here are a visual feast, and I can only imagine that people who see this every day must have much higher serotonin levels than the average person. I honestly could look at it forever.
“Will this be okay for you?” the hostess asks with a smile, waving a hand at the table facing the beach.
“It’s perfect,” I tell her, pulling out my chair.
“Would you like coffee this morning?”
“Yes, please.”
She asks for my room number, and I give it to her after which she tells me to help myself to the breakfast buffet.
Hungry from the kick-butt spin class, I head for the food. There’s a bar with pitchers of fresh green juice. I reach for one and snag a glass of carrot as well. I take them back to the table and then fill a plate with two boiled eggs, sliced tomatoes, blueberries and mango.
I eat as if I haven’t eaten in days. I can’t remember the last time food tasted this good, and I sit back, sipping my green juice and letting my gaze take in the beauty of the surroundings all over again.
The birds here have to be the happiest I’ve ever seen. But then if I were a bird, this is where I would want to live. A small wren tiptoes across the marble floor, spotting a blueberry beneath a chair. He snaps it up and flies over to sit on a rail in wait for the next morsel.
So I’m forty today.
The reality of that hits me all over again. It’s something I’ve dreaded, a number that looms on the horizon once thirty is in the taillights. I think about the class I just finished, and I’m pleased I kept up with the instructor’s admittedly demanding goals.
Anders.
The name matches the man. Strong. Memorable.
Something flutters in my stomach, and I let myself visualize his face and that incredible body of his. How long since I felt attracted to a man? No one man since Connor. Not one in three years.
When Connor and I were married, I had noticed men. I’m not a complete prude. But it was never something I acted on. Notice and move on. Married didn’t mean dead. But it did mean committed. To me, it had anyway.
My thoughts skitter back to Anders. You’d have to be dead not to notice him. Six-three would be my guess. Dark brown hair, short on the sides, longer on top. Wavy. Blue eyes, thick lashes, a dark slash of eyebrows. Sun-kissed skin. And those arms. Wide shoulders. Defined biceps.
And how old is he? Late twenties? I blink once, breaking my trance. Is forty too old to fantasize? Maybe not. But that doesn’t make it pointless. Which it is.
I finish my juice, pour some coffee from the silver French press into my cup and pull out the novel I’d stowed in my bag earlier. I haven’t read a book in ages, and I make a resolution to restore in my life some of the things I’d once loved to do. I’d started this morning with a good workout. Next on the list, reading.
I run my fingers across the cover of the hardback novel. I’ve spent the past three years mourning a life that is gone. For good. Never going to come back. For the first time in a long, long time, I wonder what might lie ahead for me. What if I’m not destined to spend the rest of my years alone, working like someone who has nothing else to define her?
A man like Anders Walker surely has a waiting list for lovers, all fifteen years younger than me.
I’d never dream of trying to throw my hat in that ring, but maybe he’s been put in my path to remind me I can feel things I never thought I’d feel again. That’s a present in and of itself.
I take a sip of my coffee, letting my gaze settle on the peaceful setting before me once more.
Happy birthday to me.
Chapter Eight
“Sometimes, the simple things are more fun and meaningful than all the banquets in the world …”
― E.A. Bucchianeri
Catherine
ONCE I’VE FINISHED breakfast, I head for the room to put on my bathing suit and pack a bag for the beach. I jump in the shower, run a razor over my legs and under my arms, towel off and slather on sunscreen.
I open the drawer in which I’d stored my bathing suits. One piece or two? Admittedly, I’m not feeling like the bikini should be an option, but I’d like to get a tan with as few lines as possible, and besides, I don’t know anyone here, other than Madeline. I don’t think she’ll care whether I’m looking bikini-ready or not.
And so I settle on a lime green one, thinking I’ll look a lot better in it once I have a little sun. Right now, it’s giving me a New York winter milky glow.
Sighing, I grab my book, stow a bottle of water and extra sunscreen in the hotel’s complimentary canvas bag and head out of the room. I take the stairs to the main floor and follow the hallway to the beach entrance. As soon as I open the door and step out into the warm air, I’m again assaulted by the beauty of this place. Birds are still chirping and tweeting as if they live in paradise, which, of course, they do.
Ahead of me, people are already set up for the day in pink chairs, an ice bucket with Evian on small tables in between. The blue-green water pulls at me like a magnet.
When I reach the white sand edge, a beach attendant greets me with a welcoming smile. “I’m Thomas. First day on the beach?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “May I get a chair?”
“Certainly, you may. Your room number?”
I give it to him, and he checks a paper on his clipboard. “Ms. Camilleri?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Excellent. The way this works is once I get you set up, that’ll be your chair for the duration of your vacation. You can come back to the same spot each day, and I’ll have it all ready for you. Any preference on location, and I’ll see what I can do?”
“The front row would be nice, and I’d love an umbrella when I’m ready to opt out of the sun.”
“Of course. Are you expecting anyone else?”
“No. Just me.”
“In that case, I’ve got a spot in the middle, right up front. That sound good?”
“Perfect,” I say.
“Follow me.” He grabs a few towels and leads the way. I slip off my sandals, my feet sinking into the warm sand. It feels so good, as if I’ve reconnected with something I never realized I’d been disconnected from. I think of all the concrete in Manhattan, how few times I actually touch grass or dirt there. Never, actually.
“Here you go. This look okay?”
“Better th
an okay,” I say, letting my gaze settle on the view that will be mine for the next two weeks.
He folds a towel around the chair cushion, places one at the top as a headrest. “If you’d like something from the beach or when you’re ready to order lunch, just stick the sign under your chair in the sand, and I’ll be right over.”
“Wonderful. Thank you so much.” I pull a ten from the wallet in my canvas bag and hand it to him.
“Thank you. Enjoy your day, Ms. Camilleri.”
“You too.”
He walks away, and I settle back in the chair, the big pink umbrella shading my upper body, my legs warming in the sun. I marvel again at the sight before me. The so-tempting water rolls into the beach on peaceful waves, the sun a blazing bulb in the nearly cloudless sky.
It’s only ten o’clock and already eighty-five degrees. I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to get in the water. I walk to the hut at the end of the beach and ask for a float. The attendant there hands me a white one with the hotel’s signature on the raised pillow. I walk back to the area where my chair is and tread out far enough to lie face down on the float.
I paddle to where it’s a little deeper. The water feels incredible. I remember it now from my trip here ten years ago. I had loved it then, and I love it again. I can’t remember the last time anything felt this good. I swim to the floating dock a hundred yards or so from the beach, hold on to the ladder while I put my float on top and climb up. I’m the only one out here, and I sit on the bench to one side, staring back at the beach, at the children playing by the water’s edge, listen to the tinker of laughter floating up from the beach-long row of chairs.
The whir of a Sea-Doo sounds behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see a guy cutting up with the waves. He angles the machine perpendicular to the rise of water, then guns it. The Sea-Doo goes airborne and lands with a smack. The rider’s fit body beneath the life vest looks familiar, and I realize it’s Anders from Spin. He looks my way at that moment, as if my gaze has pulled his to mine. I start to glance away, but something stops me. A moment of brazenness in which I hold the look, daring him to do anything about it.
Which he does. Immediately.
What did I just do?
He points the Sea-Doo toward the platform, letting off the gas far enough away that he floats up, the engine off, reaching out a hand to stop the machine from bumping the platform. “So how was that English buffet?” he asks, smiling his wide, very-white smile.
“Incredible,” I say. “Glad I worked out first though.”
“Good to hear. And now you’re hanging out on the swim platform by yourself?”
“Basking in the sun and a little me-time. I’ve had worse days.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to interrupt that, but wanna go for a ride?”
“Is this what you do when you’re not bullying guests into taking your class?”
He laughs. “Bullying? Is that how I came across?”
“It could be interpreted that way.”
“Fine. Bullying for the greater good then.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“Actually, I’m out here making this thing look appealing so guests will want to rent it. Hop on and help me out.”
Okay, so I’m not immune to flattery, despite the fact that I haven’t flirted with a man in so long I should probably Google it before trying it on my own. Still, sitting on a Sea-Doo that close to the man in question doesn’t seem like a good idea. “Ah, I don’t have a life jacket.”
He opens the storage compartment at the front of the machine and pulls out an extra. “Here you go,” he says, handing it to me. “Problem solved.”
“Shouldn’t I be paying for a Sea-Doo ride given that I’m a hotel guest?”
“Technically, but if you’re assisting with advertising, we’ll let it slide this one time.”
I laugh, the sound as unexpected to my ears as it appears to be to his.
“You should do that more often,” he says, his voice low and ridiculously, I do mean ridiculously, sexy.
“What’s that?” I ask, the words coming out as if someone else is in control of them.
“Laugh. It transforms you.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a couple of moments before I finally admit, “It’s not something I’ve been doing a lot of for a while now.”
“Come on then. I’m going to make it my one goal today to make you laugh. Get you back in practice.”
This is a bad idea. I know it, and yet, here I go, standing, sliding the life vest on, zipping it. Like a marionette whose strings are being pulled by an unknown force.
He pats the seat behind him, and I slide on, something low and warm igniting in my mid-section at the realization that he is mere inches from me. His back is smooth and sun-brown, shoulder muscles bulging. And he smells good. Like he took a shower at the spa after class.
He shows me where to hold on, both of us obviously ignoring the option of me holding onto him. I follow his instructions and slip my fingers through the strap on the seat. “Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
He guns it, and we’re off, blasting across the water, a scream freeing itself from my throat. He heads farther from the beach, falling in behind a very large yacht making its way up the Barbados coast. The name emblazoned across the side is Happy Ending. Its waves are enormous, and Anders weaves in and out of them, the Sea-Doo complying like a playful dolphin. As we bob along, Anders gets more daring, seeking out the larger waves.
“You good?” he calls back.
“I think so,” I say, smiling even as I realize I shouldn’t encourage him.
“Hold on!”
I see the wave coming, and it is huge. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek to the back of his jacket, closing my eyes.
We go airborne, and it seems like we hang there for a full minute before we land on the water, and he guns it again, rocketing us forward.
I hear cheering and glance at the back of the yacht to see some teenagers standing by the rail, clapping and whooping.
Anders laughs, and I can’t help it, I do too, feeling a euphoria that is like a high of its own. He turns and heads farther from the beach, not stopping until the water is a much deeper blue, more ambitious waves tossing us up and down.
“You’re crazy,” I say when he turns to look at me.
“Crazy can be fun,” he says, smiling.
I can’t deny it, but shake my head, sliding farther back on the seat since we’ve been jostled closer together. He stands, pivots toward me.
We face one another as the Sea-Doo bobs gently, bow to stern on the undulating waves. I resist the urge to slide back on the seat, his closeness igniting my skin so that I feel as if heat emanates from me in a visible cloud of steam. I force myself to stay still, as if to move is to give away the attraction.
“So what makes a beautiful woman like you fly two thousand miles to celebrate her birthday alone?”
There are many ways to answer the question. Flip? So I’d have a chance of meeting a guy like you. Depressed? I don’t really have anyone close enough to justify inviting them. The truth? “I wasn’t up to the surprise fortieth being thrown for me.”
“Ah. You don’t like parties.”
“Sometimes. Just not this one.”
“Nothing wrong with a solo vacation birthday present from you to you.”
I smile, surprising myself. “It was probably selfish. The people in the office had gone to a lot of trouble.”
“But was it what you wanted?”
I glance out at the horizon where the ocean meets the sky and shake my head, slowly, and admitting, “No.”
“I guess that’s the flaw in the surprise party ointment. The givers don’t ask the guest of honor if it’s what she wants.”
“I could have pretended.”
“Yeah. And been miserable. This seems like a better choice,” he says, waving a hand at the pink chair-lined beach still in sight.
“How you figure?” he asks, leaning back and folding his arms across his life vest to give me a long assessment.
“For all the obvious reasons.”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, laughing lightly. “Right before I headed for the beach.”
“If you’re what forty looks like, no need to be worrying about a crossroads.”
“Easy for you to say. What are you? Twenty-one?”
“Now would I have had time to crack a career on Wall Street if that were the case?”
“I guess not. Doesn’t mean you don’t look it.”
“Thirty-one,” he says. “Glad to hear my fitness regimen is working.”
I raise an eyebrow in surprise. “I’ll say.”
He leans back. “Why, ma’am, are you flirting with me?”
“Hah! I was just thinking I’d need to do some research before trying that particular move out.”
“So you were thinking about flirting with me?” He pulls his phone out of the compartment beneath the steering wheel, taps the screen, starts typing. “How to flirt with a younger man.”
I smack his life jacket. “Stop!”
He holds the phone out of my reach. “Let’s see. 14,700,000 results. Quite the popular topic we’ve stumbled into.”
“Put that away,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “And quit flattering yourself.”
He slips the phone back in the storage compartment, levels me with another steamy stare. “I would be flattered.”
“Okay. You need to quit. Besides flattery isn’t good for you. It gives you a big-”
“Ego?” he interrupts me, and we both laugh until I’m pretty sure I could have appendicitis judging by the pain in my side.
“Seriously, stop!” I say, holding up a hand. “Really. Or I’m going to have to swim back.”
“You won’t be there in time for dinner,” he teases.