He shook his head. “No, he hasn’t been here for several years.”
“That’s a shame,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “More than you can imagine.”
Andrew opened our car’s trunk and the young man, who had followed us out, put the groceries inside. Then he just stood there.
“Does he want something?” I asked.
“Yes; it’s different here than in America,” Andrew said. “The baggers are volunteers. So we tip them.” He took out his wallet and extracted a couple of dollar bills, which he handed to the boy. The boy said gracias and ran back to the store.
“They take American dollars?”
“They want American dollars,” he said.
We walked back to the store and sat down at one of the tables in front. “I took the liberty of ordering us something to eat,” Andrew said.
A few moments later a young woman brought out two fruit drinks in tall, narrow glasses, a bowl of shrimp ceviche, and tortilla chips with a small bowl of guacamole. She said to Andrew, “Aqui está. Ahorita regreso con su pedido completo.”
“Gracias,” he replied.
Andrew handed me a drink.
I looked at him. “What is it?”
“Just try it,” he said.
I took a sip. “This is yummy. Mango?”
“Mango and passion fruit.” He took a drink from his own glass. “This is good. I didn’t know passion fruit was a thing until I came here.”
A moment later the young woman returned with a platter of lightly fried rolled tortillas with grated cheese melted on top.
“These are chile and cheese flautas,” Andrew said. “You do like Mexican food, I hope.”
I laughed. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’m sure we could find a nice Chinese restaurant somewhere.”
We shared a caramel flan for dessert.
“I’m going to gain weight here,” I said.
“I would hope so.”
We went back in the store and picked up the bag of groceries that Andrew had left inside to keep cold, then we drove back to the condominium.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tonight we ate dinner at a restaurant called Edith’s. I was serenaded by a mariachi band. This just keeps getting better.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
Back at the condo, Andrew said, “I need to take care of some business. It might take me a few hours. If you want, there’s a swimming pool on the west side of the complex.”
“Say no more,” I said. “I didn’t realize the Christmas tree business required so much tending.”
He grinned. “It doesn’t. I’ve got other irons in the fire.”
As I started for my room, he said, “We have dinner reservations at six. We should leave around five thirty.”
“That gives me four hours to burn.”
“Speaking of which, there’s sunscreen in your bathroom cabinet.”
“That’s not what I . . .” I smiled. “Thank you.” I went to my room and changed into a bikini. When I walked out, Andrew was sitting at the couch working on his laptop. He looked up as I entered the room. “Wow.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “If pasty white was—”
He held up his hand to stop me. “The proper response is, ‘Gracias, Señor.’ ”
I smiled. “Gracias, Señor.”
“De nada. Have fun.”
The pool was luxurious and not at all crowded. If this were the antidote to SAD, I could totally overdose on it. The warm fresh air and cool water were emotionally and physically healing. I coated myself in tanning oil and lay out for half an hour before covering up. I was about as white as the snow I’d left behind and didn’t want to ruin the trip with a sunburn. I sat under the shade of palm trees and read until four thirty, then went back to get ready for dinner.
When I got back to the condo, Andrew was on his cell phone. He waved at me.
I went to my room and showered, then did my hair and makeup. It was nice to have someone to look nice for. Back when I was married, I would laugh at Carina when she would rate her prospective dates on whether she would shave her legs for them or not. Now that I was single again, I understood that she wasn’t joking.
Andrew was waiting for me when I walked back out. “You’re going to love this place,” he said. “It’s called Edith’s.”
“I had an aunt named Edith.”
“Was she Mexican?”
I smiled. “No. She was ornery.”
Edith’s restaurant was back down on Medano Beach not far from the market where we had shopped earlier. I could see why the restaurant was one of Andrew’s favorites. The place looked like a Mexican fiesta. The layout was mostly open—a series of raised, thatched roofs surrounded, at least on the land side, by palm trees and bamboo and thick, snaking vines of bougainvillea.
The thatched roofs were hung with strings of colored glass and punched-tin lanterns and jeweled tin Moravian star pendant lights—the hodgepodge of fixtures hanging above the diners’ heads like piñatas. Strings of icicle lights adorned the rim of the fronded canopies. The tablecloths were in bright colors ranging from fuchsia and orange to lime green and scarlet. Around the tables were wicker chairs draped with colorful Mexican blankets.
A trio featuring a violin, a guitar, and an acoustic bass moved throughout the restaurant serenading diners with lively traditional Mexican music, naturally blending in with the overall cacophony.
Adding to the dimmed, noisy atmosphere was a fair amount of fire, not just from the flickering tabletop candle centerpieces and sconces but from long streams of blue liquid fire poured from bottles and silver sauceboats.
“They’re big on flambé here,” Andrew said. “It’s part of the festivities. If it burns, it earns.”
“Did you just make that up?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“It was clever.”
“It’s like the newspaper motto, If it bleeds, it leads.”
I frowned. “I’ve done my share of bleeding in newspapers lately.”
“We’ll just leave that back in the land of cold,” he replied.
Our hostess sat us in a section of the main canopy next to the central kitchen, an open, brick-walled edifice crowded with cooks wearing tall white toques.
“This place is fantastic,” I said.
“You haven’t tried their food,” Andrew replied. “They’re famous for their steaks, seafood, and desserts.”
I opened the menu and gasped loudly.
Andrew laughed. “You saw the price.”
“Shrimp is really seven hundred eighty-five dollars?”
“Pesos,” he said.
“But there’s a dollar sign.”
“They use the same symbol for money. It’s confusing, but you can usually figure it out. If it looks outrageously priced, it’s pesos.”
“How much is a peso worth?”
“Last I checked, about a nickel. So that shrimp dish is about forty dollars.”
We decided to order several different plates and share. We had tuna carpaccio and cheese turnovers for appetizers followed by a “flirt” salad, which was made with honey, ginger, and hibiscus liqueur. The presentation of the food was as artistic as our surroundings.
Before we ordered our entrees, our waiter brought out a tray of uncooked meats to exhibit their evening’s offerings. We ordered the grilled lobster, shrimp enchiladas, and chile rellenos.
“How long have you been coming here?” I asked.
“Since my first visit to Cabo, about eight years ago. I’ve eaten here every time since.”
“Is Edith a real person?”
Andrew nodded. “She is. I actually met her on my first visit. Her story is amazing. She came to Cabo as a fifteen-year-old girl and got a job here as a waitress. Back then it had a different name, Esmerelda’s by the Sea, something like that. Twenty years later she bought out the owner and renamed the restaurant after herself.”
“That’s a great success story.”
“Kind of makes you happy, doesn’t it?”