I stroll into the living room and plop down on the futon, putting my feet up on the coffee table. Val hates it when I do that, but what the hey, I bought it. She also hates the table and says it doesn't go with the decor. She tells me every day but I ignore her.
I’m about function and utility, not style. Why do they call it a coffee table anyway? I mean, at the moment, there's no coffee, only an array of other things on it: a magazine, a glass of wine, and one of her vanilla-scented candles. I’d say it’s an anything and everything table, including a footrest. I reach for my drink, having a little laugh to myself.
After a heaping bowl of pasta, I lean over and give her a peck on the cheek. She pulls away, rubbing her forehead.
“You okay?” I gently massage her shoulder.
“I have a headache. It’s been a long day.”
“I'll clean up, you go lie down.”
“Thanks.” She half smiles. She stands up from the table and heads for the bedroom, closing the door.
After doing the dishes, I pour myself another glass of wine and mosey over to the desk I made. Val needed a place to do her writing, so I thought I’d build her a little writing desk. She designed it and picked out the wood, teak. It's nothing fancy but it seems to fit perfectly in the corner.
She thanked me for it, calling me ‘crafty’ and I knew what she meant. I’ve been called worse before.
I take a seat and flip open the computer. I have some research to do. My laptop is in the bedroom, but I don’t want to go in there and wake Val. I’m sure she won’t mind if I use her new computer since I’m the one who bought it.
As I click through the sites and scroll down the pages, I think about opening up to Val. I consider telling her about my past and about my ex-wives. I contemplate telling her everything, even what happened on that fateful day.
Conchita has been pestering me about it once again. She says I should, ‘confesarse.’ Or in English, ‘come clean,’ ‘confess.’
It’s such a crazy, unbelievable tale. Where would I begin?
31
Valerie
Those three words, ‘ex-wife,’ ‘no,’ and ‘angel.’ I’d heard them before.
I thought back to when we first arrived in Costa Rica and I overheard Slim talking to David in the casita and the strange look he gave me. I wished I had heard the entire conversation to make sense of it all but I didn’t. So it became another piece of the puzzle.
Staring at the computer screen, I waited for the site to load—the background information site where I saw a photo of a woman named Susan. When the page appeared, all the data had disappeared along with the picture. I searched for more information on David, hoping to find a link to a name with the letter ‘G’ but came up empty.
Since I had hit a dead-end, I decided to send Cindy an email as it had been weeks since we last spoke. After composing a quick message, I went up to the toolbar to insert an emoji. As the cursor arrow drifted by the history tab, a long list of recently searched phrases appeared, but they weren’t mine.
David must have used my computer and forgot to clear his search history.
Pausing for a moment, I quickly scanned the words, hoping they might help me solve the puzzle. Most of the searches were for teas, herbs, and flowers. One certain phrase, however, caught my eye. It more than stood out; it screamed out, sending shivers up my spine. I blinked rapidly, unsure of what I saw.
Two words read ‘deadly concoctions.'
My mind raced in a million directions. I felt weak as I gripped the sides of the chair, trying to catch my breath. I deep breathed so I wouldn’t pass out and kept telling myself to stay calm.
Minutes later, the front door opened and David appeared. I saw grocery bags hanging from his arms and someone hiding behind him. I knew it wasn’t Conchita because the long, bare legs behind him didn’t belong to her; they belonged to someone else I knew. When he walked inside, placing the bags on the counter, she stood in the doorway smiling at me.
Cindy.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said with a sweeping wave of his hand.
Cindy elbowed him, “You must be the cat.”
I was at a complete loss for words.
“Val,” she squealed. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She came rushing over to me.
“What are you? How are you? How did you get here?” I stammered.
“A plane, silly,” she snorted. “How else do you think I got here? Then again, I suppose I could've sailed here in a boat.” She remarked, winking at David.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” I said. Steadying myself, I rose from the chair.
“Happy to hear; that was the plan.” She grinned and gave me a hug.
“The plan,” I stepped back, glaring at David. “What plan?”
“To surprise you,” she tugged on my arm. “I wanted it, or rather me, to be a surprise.”
“Who planned this?” I asked, my eyes flicking between the two.
“Is there a problem?” David sighed, glancing at me. I watched as he stood in the kitchen, placing three new bottles of wine on the rack. Crumpling the paper bag, he tossed it in the trash and then unpacked more groceries.
“I see you did a little shopping while you were out,” I walked over to help him put the items away.
“My fault,” Cindy butted in. “I made him stop. I want to make dinner for you guys tonight; it’s the least I can do for letting me stay here.”
David rolled his eyes as he opened the fridge. He pulled out two bottles of water and handed one to Cindy.
“Thanks. I’m sooo thirsty.”
“So, Cindy tells me she makes a mean taco salad,” David said. Twisting off the cap, he chugged
