“Why is that?”
“It wasn’t for us. He bought it with the insurance settlement after my mother died. I didn’t see much of him after that.”
For the next half hour we just watched the boats cruise in and out of the marina.
“Look at the size of that yacht right there,” I said. “I wonder how much it cost.”
“Probably a couple million,” Andrew said. “There’s money here.” He pointed to a boat idling about a hundred yards from the dock. “See that yacht out there?”
“The one with sails or the huge black-and-gold one next to it?”
“The black-and-gold one next to it. My friend used to own it.”
“It’s giant. Your same friend who owns the condo?”
He nodded. “It’s beautiful inside. I wish I could show it to you. It has marble countertops, hardwood floors, a formal dining room. It even has a dance floor.”
“How much does a boat like that cost?”
Andrew smiled. “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
“I already know I can’t afford it.”
“A little over three million.”
“Your friend is very rich.”
“He was,” Andrew said. “Now he’s just rich.” He looked back out at the boat. “They changed its name. It used to be called Seas the Day.”
“Carpe diem,” I said.
“Except he spelled seize s-e-a-s.”
“That’s clever.”
“He liked word plays. It was either that or Nauti Buoy, naughty spelled like nautical, buoy like an ocean buoy.”
“Was he?”
“Was he what?”
“A naughty boy?”
“He was back then. Not so much these days.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
He turned to me. “I don’t think I want you to meet him.”
“Why is that?”
“He would like you.”
I kissed him on the cheek. “You have nothing to worry about.”
We ate lunch at a small seafood restaurant and pub on the marina, then walked around until it was time for our spa appointment.
The Spa at Esperanza lived up to its billing. After checking in, we spent the first half hour in their signature therapy pool, the Pasaje de Agua, for a water-passage purifying ritual, which basically involved moving back and forth from warm to cool water. We started in a warm-spring soaking pool, moved to the steam cave, then out to a cool waterfall rinse.
Afterward we donned thick terry-cloth bathrobes and sat in a quiet room until two therapists came for us. Andrew had booked us a treatment called “Romancing the Stone,” which consisted of a deep heat stone massage followed by a private soaking tub, then scalp and foot massage. The whole treatment lasted three hours and I don’t remember the last time that I felt so spoiled or relaxed. All my muscles felt like soft rubber.
As we exited the spa, I noticed the price tag on our treatment was nearly a thousand dollars each.
“What did you think of that?” Andrew asked as we walked out.
I sighed happily. “I think I just went to heaven.”
“Glad to take you there,” he said.
We ate dinner close to our condo at a restaurant called El Farallón at the Resort at Pedregal.
“What does el Farallón mean?” I asked.
“Farallón is a rocky outcrop.”
The restaurant was built on a platform of rock jutting from the hillside. “Hence the name.”
“Hence the name,” he said.
I ordered carrot and coconut-milk soup with curry and goat cheese, then we shared a lobster ceviche with grilled pineapple. For dinner I had sea bass with saffron rice and bell peppers, and grilled corn with epazote mayonnaise. For dessert we shared a tres leches cake with raspberries.
As in most Latin American restaurants, no one was in a hurry, so we ate and talked and laughed until past ten. I drank a little too much wine, so after dinner Andrew had to help me to the car, then up to our condo and my bed. I sat down on the bed and lifted my feet. “Please take off my shoes.”
He knelt down and took them off. “Your feet are free,” he said. He stood and sat on the bed next to me.
I leaned into him. “This has been the best day ever.”
“At least until tomorrow,” Andrew said.
“What are we doing tomorrow?”
“What would you like to do tomorrow?”
I touched my finger to his face, tracing the edge of his stubbled chin. “Be with you.”
“That’s a given. I was thinking that we might go for a drive to Todos Santos. It’s a Mexican hamlet about an hour north of us. I think you’ll like it. It has a unique charm.”
“If all I wanted was a unique charm, I could just stay here with you.”
“And they have great fish tacos,” he said.
I couldn’t believe how in love I was.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Today we visited a lovely, quaint little town about an hour north called Todos Santos. Andrew took me to a remote beachfront house he’s seriously considering buying to escape to. I would like someplace to escape to. Or maybe just someone.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
We ate a quick breakfast of coffee and black sapote—an indigenous fruit that tastes like chocolate pudding—and baked breakfast rolls stuffed with ham, cheese, and chipotle.
We packed our swimsuits and towels, got in our car, and drove north to Pueblo Mágico Todos Santos. The Pueblo Mágico (Magic Town) title had been added a decade earlier by Mexico’s Tourism Secretary to recognize it as a colonial town with historical relevance.
Andrew gave me a rundown of the town’s history as we drove. Todos Santos was founded in the seventeen hundreds by Jesuit missionaries who came to establish a farming community with the intent of providing food for the nearby city of La Paz. The success of the community led to the founding of the Santa Rosa de las Palmas mission. Later, as its population grew, the town became a major sugarcane producer. It was also the site of the last battle of the Mexican-American War.
We drove north along Highway 19, a narrow, winding desert road that runs along the Pacific coast of Baja California Sur. The drive was pretty, with desert landscape, Joshua trees, and brightly colored flowers and cactus. There wasn’t much traffic and Andrew and I talked the whole way.
“Todos has a town motto,” Andrew said to me as the town came into view. “ ‘Nothing bad ever happens here.’ ”
“I definitely should move here,” I said.
“I’m seriously considering it,” he said. “In the last few decades it’s become an artist colony. Artists, writers, and musicians come here from all over. It’s a little bit ironic: they came here because it was cheap and private, then their coming drew the public, making it not so cheap and private.” He looked at me. “The tortured life of an artist.”
“Are you an artist?” I asked.
“People used to say I was an artist with money,” he said. “But what I really wanted to be was a novelist. That was the dream.”
“What happened to your dream?”
“It got woken by the cold plunge of reality.” He looked at me. “What about you? Any artistic pursuits outside the kitchen?”
“I’ve painted some.”
“Are you good?”
“Do I still have a day job?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”
“You sound like Carina.” As we drove into town, I said, “Deep inside, do you still have that dream of writing?”
He looked reflective. “I think I have stories to tell.” He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t know if anyone will want to read them, but I have them.”
“I’ll read them,” I said.
“Good. I’ll tell the publishers I have a reader.”
The town of Todos Santos was old and picturesque. The mission church reminded me a little of the Alamo, at least the pictures I’d seen of it, and the cobblestone streets were overhung by colorful flags draped from the buildings that lined them.
The small town, like most tourist attractions, had an inordinate number of restaurants. Andrew called it a “foodie mecca,” which was good because this week I was unleashing my inner foodie. I was definitely going to gain weight.