Cassidy slid her glasses onto her face and squinted at the clock: 6:07. She pulled on the cotton guest robe hanging in the closet and wrapped it around herself. Her clothes from the day before were gritty and probably stunk from her travels; she stepped over them and approached the door, knotting the sash. The knock sounded again, and she pulled open the thick wooden door. A man with thick, dark brown hair and dancing brown eyes stood with one foot on the step and one on the walkway, almost as if he were about to bound up through her door. Black sunglasses were pushed to the top of his head, and his smooth skin—Japanese? Hawaiian, maybe?—was deeply tanned, with crow’s feet surrounding his eyes. She realized that he could be twenty-eight or fifty. When he gave her a quick up-and-down, his featured rearranged slightly; it wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t surprise, either.
The sun was still not up, but the warm tones of the sunrise were washing the walkway and grounds outside with a pale glow. She finally decided that his look was, above all, amused.
“You the one looking for Reeve?” he asked.
“Uh,” Cassidy stammered. “Yes.”
“I’m Bruce Keolani.” They shook hands. Bruce’s grip was firm, his thick callouses pressing into her palm. “Can you surf?”
“Yes,” she said again.
“I got a tour going today, I’ll take you along. I can tell you what I know.”
Cassidy blinked. “Sure,” she said.
“Be out front in five minutes. And bring your passport.”
He stepped down from her doorstep.
“My passport?” she asked, but he didn’t turn back.
Cassidy closed the door, fully awake now. She dove for her backpack and pulled out a bikini, board shorts, rash guard, and a clean T-shirt. After popping in her contacts, she grabbed her water bottle, sunscreen, hat, passport, a fistful of colones, rolled it all up in a towel from the bathroom, and shuffled into her flip-flops. Before locking up her room, she took a last glance at the big, empty bed, wondering how many more nights she would spend in it.
Cassidy joined the group of surfers, three of them scruffy twenty-somethings, each yawning, and one couple, trim and expertly dressed—right down to the waterproof surf hats and zinc on their pale cheeks.
Bruce was on the roof of a mud-splattered jeep, cinching down surfboards.
“Hey dormilona,” he called down to her.
Cassidy peered up at him.
“I got you a seven-oh. You good with that?” he asked, leaning over the stack of boards.
“Sure,” Cassidy grumbled. Had he just called her a sleepyhead? She would ride any board, any length, but she wasn’t going to stand for some pirate teasing her, no matter how handsome he was. And especially if it was about sleep—if he only knew how precious little she got.
Bringing her own board to Costa Rica had been out of the question. She was here to complete critical research, and dragging her fragile six-foot-two Al Merrick all the way to Arenal would have been a total pain in the ass. Plus, it wasn’t like this was a dedicated surf trip, in which case, she would bring at least two boards, a ding repair kit, etcetera. She had planned five extra days in Costa Rica, an indulgence she hadn’t enjoyed for years. She figured she would find a rental surfboard, catch a few waves, do some work by the pool, and go home to the rainy Northwest. Although home wasn’t really home anymore, with Pete no longer a part of it.
Despite her best effort to control it, a gasp escaped her lips. She bit down hard on her lip and covered her mouth, pretending to cough. Please, she begged to the invisible force strangling her heart. Make this stop happening to me.
The couple that had turned at the sound of her gasp stared for a moment before looking away.
“Vámonos,” Bruce said, climbing down from the van’s roof.
The surfers filed into the van; Cassidy sat in the front, next to the glued-at-the-hip couple. Bruce did a U-turn on the quiet street and accelerated slowly out of town.
Bruce picked up a brown box from the front seat and handed it back to the woman sitting next to Cassidy. “Breakfast?” he asked the group. “I have coffee too,” he added, reaching for another box packed tight with small disposable cups, each topped with a plastic lid.
The woman opened the box, took out a pastry, and passed the box to Cassidy, who chose a croissant. After passing the box to the seat behind them, Cassidy ate her flaky pastry and washed it down with the strong coffee. The surfers in the back row were waking up, their banter and hushed laughter filling the quiet space of the vehicle. The couple next to her said nothing, and Cassidy sat back and watched the fields and verdant jungle pass by, bracing herself against the deep ruts and holes in the road.
After the drive, Bruce pulled the van to a stop in front of a grand but faded hotel with a wrap-around balcony. Cassidy slid open the door, and they all spilled out to the street. “Go ahead inside,” Bruce told them. “They’re expecting you.” Cassidy fell in behind the group, but before continuing down the entryway steps, she heard giggles behind her. She turned back to see a handful of children gathering around Bruce.
“Buenos días,” he said to them with a twinkle in his eye. “No hay escuela hoy?” he said. They giggled, and the girl of the group, who was the tallest, said, “No, tonto, no hasta después.” There was a titter of giggles again. “Tonto, huh?” he said to them, then quick as a flash, reached behind the littlest child’s ear and brought out a coin. The children tittered again like a flock of tiny birds. Bruce climbed up to the jeep’s roof, and the children dispersed.
Cassidy continued through
