At Andrew’s insistence (I didn’t provide a whole lot of resistance) we ordered two desserts, the banana flambé and their house flan. While we were eating our dulce, the band made their way to our table.
“What can we play for your lovely lady?” the guitarist asked with a heavy accent.
“How about something romantic,” Andrew said.
The guitarist raised his eyebrows. “Ah, you wish romantic. We will play ‘Novia Mia.’ ”
“What does that mean?” I asked Andrew.
“It means my girlfriend,” he said.
The trio began playing a lively song with the guitarist belting out the words over the restaurant’s din, occasionally accompanied by the slightly out-of-tune, scratchy vocals of the other two band members. After the first stanza, Andrew started laughing.
“What is he saying?” I asked.
“He said, ‘Your face is so pretty it will be my torment.’ ”
The men ended the song with a unified shout, sort of an olé! We both clapped. Andrew handed the guitarist a twenty-dollar bill and the men thanked him and moved on to a new table.
“That was fun,” I said.
“It’s true, you know.”
“What’s true?”
“Your face has tormented me since I met you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
Andrew started laughing. “Sorry. You’re right. Some things don’t translate well.”
We were in no hurry, so we didn’t leave until we’d lingered over our coffees. As we walked into the condo I said, “What a day. It’s hard to believe that it began in Utah.”
“We’re just warming up,” Andrew said. “Literally. We’ve got a full day tomorrow, so we better get some rest.”
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We are going to the sea.”
The sea sounded nice. “What time do we leave?”
“We have a boat to catch, so we should leave here by eight thirty.”
I glanced down at my watch. “What time is it here?”
“Eleven. Los Cabos is on mountain time, same as home.”
I leaned into him. “Good night.”
“Sueños dulces, Linda. Sweet dreams.”
I looked at him. “Did you just call me Linda?”
“Linda is Spanish for pretty,” he said. “It wasn’t a slip.”
“Oh good. For a second I thought you were thinking of a previous Cabo guest.”
He said, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever brought here. Besides my ex-wife, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed. We kissed. After we parted I said softly, “Maybe you could call me something other than Linda. I have an employee named Linda.”
“I’ll work on it,” he said.
We kissed again, this time more passionately. Our kissing started to physically progress. Then he stepped back. “I need to stop.”
“What makes you think I want to stop?” I said.
“It complicates things.”
“Oh, that.” I sighed. “Good night, handsome.”
“Good night, Linda.”
I smiled at him, then went to my room and got ready for bed. The blinds were still open, and I could see the city stretched out below me like a rhinestone blanket. I set my watch on the nightstand and climbed into bed. The sheets were fresh and sweet-smelling. I lay back and smiled. I had started the day anxious and cold and ended it happy and warm. I couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Something about him makes me throw caution to the wind. I hope the wind doesn’t return as a tornado.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I woke the next morning bathed in sunlight. It may have been the same sun as at home, but it definitely worked a lot harder here.
Andrew was already awake; I could hear him in the kitchen. I could also smell something cooking. I got up and put on my swimsuit and cover up, pulled my hair into a ponytail, then walked out.
Andrew was standing in front of the stove frying eggs in a skillet. He wore a blue-and-white swimsuit, water shoes, and a short-sleeved baby-blue linen shirt. He looked handsome. He always looked handsome.
“Good morning, cariña,” he said.
I sidled up next to him. “Morning.” We kissed. He handed me a cup of coffee. “Thank you,” I said. “Cariña?”
“It means cute.”
“My best friend’s name is Carina, remember? She works for me too.”
“Strike two,” he said. “Linda and Carina. Maybe you should give me a list of your employees’ names.”
“I don’t have that many. And I’m pretty sure Kylee and Nichelle aren’t Spanish words.”
“I’ll keep working on it. How did you sleep?”
“Better than usual.” I looked at the stove. “What are you making?”
“Huevos rancheros on corn tortillas. Do you like avocados?”
“I love avocados. Almost as much as I love a man who can cook.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I am both.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Don’t think too much about it.” He lifted a fried egg and set it on the crisp tortilla layered with lettuce and refried beans. He dusted it with cilantro, then dropped on some jalapeños. “Those are to wake you up.” He handed me the plate.
“I thought you said you didn’t cook much.”
“Not if I can avoid it,” he said.
“You’ve even got the presentation down.”
“I watch cooking shows when I’m bored.” He brought over his own plate and a pitcher of guava juice.
“We’re off to the sea today?”
“Yes. And beaches. You can only get to the best beaches by boat.”
We finished eating and put our dishes in the sink. “Should we clean up?” I asked.
“No, Jazzy will be by to straighten up.”
“Jazzy?”
“Sorry. Her real name is Jazmín. She cleans the condo when we’re in town.”
I went back to my room and got the canvas beach bag I’d brought, along with a book, my iPod, and a few other necessities. When I came back out, Andrew was standing by the door with a large backpack slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got sunscreen, oil, and towels. There are a few things we need to pick up at the grocery store.”
We drove back down to the mercado and bought some bread, meat, and cheeses, along with two large bottles of water. We then walked down to the dock to the chartered tour boat, where Andrew was embraced by a short, barrel-chested man with a full beard and mustache and a T-shirt with a picture of David Bowie.
“Maggie, this is my friend, El Capitán.”
“Hello,” I said, shaking the man’s hand. I glanced at Andrew. “You call him the captain?”
“After six years, that’s the only name I have for him,” Andrew said.
El Capitán gave us each a life jacket and snorkeling equipment, and then his assistant, a thin, ebony-haired teenage girl, gave a brief safety lecture in broken English. We boarded the boat along with three other couples—one Mexican, the other two American.
One of the American couples looked oddly mismatched. He was in his late fifties, obese and balding with dark sunglasses and a myriad of thick gold chains hanging around his neck and dangling down to his porch of a stomach. The woman was young, probably in her twenties, slim but curvaceous, perfectly tanned, and wearing a revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, a full sleeve of tattoos on her arm, and massive diamond rings on most of her fingers, which perhaps explained the couple’s attraction.
The craft we’d boarded was a long, canopied, glass-bottom boat with smooth, worn wooden benches along its sides. The boat’s name was ABBA, which was not lost on either of us.
“Your dad would be a fan of this boat,” Andrew said, after we’d settled into our seats.
“He would.”
“Should I call you Agnetha?”
I grimaced. “No, please. Keep working on it.”