“Sí.”
We parked our car in a reserved space in the parking terrace, carried our luggage inside the main building, and took an elevator to the third floor.
Standing in the doorway outside the condo, Andrew said, “It’s going to be warm inside. We don’t leave the air conditioner on. Electricity is too expensive.” Andrew unlocked the door and opened it. There was an immediate loud beeping.
“Sorry, that’s the alarm.” He stepped over to a panel and dialed a number into it, then flipped on all the room’s lights. A half-dozen white enamel ceiling fans began to turn. The far windows were concealed behind drawn drapes.
“Come in,” he said. “I’ll get the bags.”
I stepped inside while Andrew retrieved our luggage. He shut the door and walked to the far side of the room, where he pushed a button on the wall. The drapes parted, revealing a large patio with a panoramic view of the Cabo San Lucas marina and bay.
I literally gasped. “Oh my.”
He smiled. “Not bad, right?” He unlocked the glass doors and opened them. “Best view in Cabo.”
I walked outside to the edge of the patio. “That is breathtaking.”
“You’re going to love the sunset,” he said. “Then, after its gone, the city lights look like a little galaxy below us. Day or night, there’s never a bad view.”
The spacious patio had tile floors and a stainless-steel railing along the balcony. Waist-high, brightly colored pots spilled over with equally brilliant bougainvillea. The breeze from the ocean delivered a crisp, briny smell.
It was hard to believe that just six hours earlier I had been shivering beneath dark cloud cover. “What a beautiful day.”
“It’s always beautiful here,” he said, walking up close to me. “That’s Medano Beach below us. No SAD here.” He looked at me, then added wryly, “Someday we’ll find a cure for that.”
“I think we just did,” I said. I took his hand and looked up at him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Thank you for coming.” We kissed, then he pulled back, his eyes excited. “Let me show you around.”
Holding my hand, he led me back inside. There was an L-shaped suede leather sectional next to a long mahogany dining table.
The kitchen was new and modern, with granite countertops and backsplash and stainless steel appliances. There was original art on the wall—colorful, abstract pieces that chromatically popped from the textured, off-white walls and tan tiled floors.
“I thought we were going to be roughing it,” I said. “This is nicer than my home.”
“It’s a nice little getaway,” he said modestly. “They call this area the Beverly Hills of Cabo. The villas around here sell for several million dollars.”
“Your friend must be rich,” I said. “How long has he owned this?”
“It’s been about five years. It was one of the first condos purchased in the development, which is why it has the best views.”
“It looks more like five weeks,” I said. “It looks brand-new.”
“Well, it only gets used a few weeks out of the year, so for all intents, it is.” He grabbed my bag. “Your room is back here.”
I followed him down a short hallway to a spacious room with a king-sized bed and an ivory-colored, tucked-leather headboard with mahogany trim. He walked to the side of the room and pulled back the drapes, exposing another gorgeous view of the harbor.
“This is the master suite. The bathroom’s behind that door right there.” He turned on the lights and I walked over and glanced inside. The bathroom was immaculate, with a tile and glass shower and dark cherrywood cabinets. The sinks were two alabaster bowls partially nestled into the counter with gold fixtures. I turned to him. “You should take this room.”
“You’re my guest,” he said.
I walked around the room, then sat on the bed. It was firm but comfortable. I lay back, sinking into the lush padding.
“Passable?” he asked.
I almost laughed. “It’s perfect.” I sat back up. “Where’s your room?”
“It’s on the other side of the condo.” He looked around. “I need to go to town for groceries. You’re welcome to come with me or stay.”
“I’ll come,” I said. “When are we going?”
“No rush. When you’re ready. You need time to unpack and freshen up. I’ll be out here when you’re ready.” He walked out of the room. I shut the door behind him, then undressed and got into the shower. I shampooed my hair with a sweet-smelling Mexican shampoo, then sat down on the floor of the shower and let the water wash over me.
Suddenly I began to cry without knowing why. Maybe it was a release, but I hadn’t felt this free for as long as I could remember. There was no pain, no shame, no one—besides Andrew—who knew or even cared who I was. I was better than free. I was anonymous. I felt the shame wash off me like the foam running down my body and into the drain.
Best of all, I was with someone who cared about me. Why did he care about me? I couldn’t remember the last time I had been that happy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Andrew speaks nearly fluent Spanish. I keep being reminded how false my first perceptions of him were.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I unpacked all my clothing into the room’s empty armoire drawers, then changed into something more appropriate for the Mexican heat—a bright-blue off-the-shoulder romper with a tie at the waist.
I looked at myself in the mirror. It was the first time I had worn the outfit and I thought I looked pretty cute, even if I felt a little self-conscious. Normally I was more conservative in my dress—not that I was prudish; rather, I had just spent too much of my life being noticed by men. But Andrew was different. I wanted him to notice me. I hoped that he would think I looked cute too.
I pulled my hair back over my shoulders and walked back out to the front room. Andrew was sitting on the couch reading a business magazine, and he looked up as I walked in. He stared at me for a moment and said, almost reverently, “Estás preciosa.”
I smiled. “Gracias. I think.” I stepped closer, then spun a little. “What do you think? You like this?”
“Yes. I especially like you in that.”
Andrew had also changed his clothes. He was wearing shorts and had changed his Hawaiian shirt for a short-sleeved white linen shirt. He looked very handsome.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said.
“There is no rushing in Cabo,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s an ordinance against it. I’m reminded of that every time I go into town.” He stood. “Shall we go?”
We walked back down to our car and drove about three miles to where the seaside town sat below us. There was a white-sand beach lined with palm trees and saguaro cacti. In the distance, a cruise ship was anchored just outside the harbor. We pulled into the market’s parking lot.
MERCADO ORGANICO
Between the two words was a colorful round sign that read:
CALIFORNIA RANCH MARKET
ENJOYING NATURAL AND ORGANIC FOOD
There were several well-used rattan tables and chairs in front of the building with menus on them, which I was glad for, since I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast on the plane. The store was well-stocked and air-conditioned. Most of the product packaging was in English, though there were products I’d never seen before, and the pricing was in both pesos and dollars. We purchased several cases of water, along with fresh fruit: mangoes, peaches, and some strange-looking produce I couldn’t identify.
To my surprise, Andrew had a fairly lengthy dialogue in Spanish with the woman at the register ringing up our groceries. She put all our purchases in plastic sacks, and a lanky teenage boy took two of our three bags in his arms.
“How much Spanish do you speak?” I asked Andrew as we walked out of the store.
“Just a little,” he said.
“You speak more than a little,” I said. “How often do you come down here?”
“Not enough.”
“Your friend doesn’t use his condo very much?”