Esteban cocked his head toward the beach. “Why not try surfing, like you’d planned. The waves look nice.” He took a step toward me, and I imagined his eyes were darkening. “Or is that the problem? It’s not dangerous enough for you.”
My pulse raced as I bit my lip. I noticed beads of sweat on the crest of his forehead, and wondered if they would taste salty on my tongue.
I really needed to go.
“I was watching you, you know,” he said. “I was out on the waves, too, though I know you didn’t notice. You were just sitting there, watching every wave pass by. For the longest time, I thought maybe you were a total beginner. But even from far away, I could see it in your eyes.”
Shocked, I swallowed hard. Though the sun was bright as sin, I felt a chill creeping up my limbs. “What could you see?” I whispered.
“The shadows,” he said simply, as if he were making sense. “I have them, too. You have to in my line of work. But you wanted yours to pull you under.”
“Look,” I said, trying to appear cool and calm, as if he hadn’t seen who I was out there. “It was really nice that you saved me and got my board, but I think we have to part ways here. I’m just here on vacation. I like to surf. I like to paint. I’m here to relax and have a good time, like everyone else.” I stuck out my hand so I wouldn’t look scared. “Good-bye, Esteban.”
When I expected him to be put out, he just smiled at me, so pure against the scars. “Esteban Mendoza. I’m staying at the Princeville Saint Regis. If you ever feel like discussing those shadows of yours.”
I was about to tell him I wouldn’t be doing that, but he just turned around and headed down the path to the beach. From there I watched him trot toward the water’s edge and dive into the clear blue water, swimming powerfully out to the reef. He made it past the breakers, disappearing into the foam before appearing out on the horizon, a tiny dot against the navy swells.
I could have sworn he waved good-bye to me. It must have been my imagination.
* * *
After the beach, I stopped by Foodland to pick up another bottle of Scotch and headed straight back to the house. I poured myself a drink, neat, and took it into the shower with me. I stood in there, washing and washing and washing until I felt raw and real and my skin had turned pruney. I could have stayed in there forever, just living in the warmth.
Oddly enough, it felt like I’d taken a shower for the first time in my life. God, how much of my day was always on autopilot.
When I finally dragged myself out, slipped on my robe, and wound my coarse hair into a braid, I decided to call Doug.
He picked up on the fourth ring. Just like always, he made himself seem too busy for me, yet would get mad if I didn’t pick up right away.
“Hello?” His voice was distracted, and I heard the distinctive crinkle of a potato chip bag in the background.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said, trying to sound cheery and sober.
A pause. “Nice of you to call me back, finally. I was trying to reach you yesterday. Where were you?”
“Surfing.”
“Not painting?”
“Not painting,” I said with a sigh. “So, how are things?”
Now it was his turn to exhale. He launched into tirade against some of the new clients at his work, the tightness of our purse strings, the lack of opportunities. With each sentence I could feel the stress and frustration pour out from him. He often used me as a venting board, though I assumed it was only on the days that Justine wasn’t around.
I let him talk, not putting in a word edgewise, not even when he reminded me that the time I was spending in paradise was costing us money we didn’t have, and if I wanted to truly make it worthwhile, I’d need to start painting. I’d need to create. I’d need to make something, and something of myself.
Instead I eventually hung up the phone with a stiff “I love you,” and poured myself another glass. I let the drink burn on my tongue as I stared at the easels and blank canvases that were hidden in the shadows of the room.
Those damn shadows. They really were here with me, filtering out through my soul, permeating every inch of my life. Just how long had they been living my life for me?
I finished my drink, then placed it down on the counter with a desolate clink.
I googled the number for the Saint Regis and was put through to one Esteban Mendoza.
Chapter 3
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a motorcycle outside the house. I barely had time to register that I had slept through my alarm when there was a knock at the door.
Fantastic.
I quickly got out of bed and slipped on my pajama pants, all the while thinking it couldn’t be Esteban. We had made plans to do something in the morning, but I’d assumed he would have called me first.
On the way to the door, I paused by the mirror and winced at my reflection. My eyes were sleepy and puffy with smudges of mascara underneath, my hair was a mess, and my nipples were poking out of my camisole. Another knock prevented me from trying to fix myself up.
I opened up the door and lo and behold, Esteban was on the other side, a motorcycle parked behind the Jeep.
He looked surprised at my disheveled appearance and couldn’t hide the cheekiness in his grin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we said noon.”
I wiped underneath my eyes and crossed my arms
