Sunscreen & Coconuts Page 6

  I continued to stare at her—I hoped unobtrusively—out of the corner of my eye. I watched her bring her drink to her lips. Her glass was filled with a clear liquid, ice, and a wedge of lime. I observed the tidy, short fingernails. The long, tapered fingers that wrapped around the well glass. The delicate bones protruding from her wrist. The long, thin arm that disappeared beneath an orgy of bright green material. The shirt nearly ruined it for me.

  “Another drink, senora?” Jimmy interrupted my stakeout.

  I put my hand over the top of my glass. “No, thank you,” I declined.

  My speech caught the woman beside me’s attention. “Hey!” she chirped, as if noticing me for the first time. “Day Three, right? I didn’t recognize you without your book.”

  “I know; people don’t typically read books in a bar,” I stated the obvious so she wouldn’t have to.

  “No, no. On the contrary. I think it shows a lot of confidence.” She waved the hand not holding a drink as if conducting an orchestra. “It says, I don’t really care what people think about me. It says, I’m not here to make friends.”

  “Kind of like your outfit?”

  I couldn’t believe I’d actually said the words aloud. I prided myself on being Midwest Nice in a world full of rude, impatient people.

  Rather than looking offended, however, the blonde woman smiled coyly. “Ooh, she’s got claws.”

  “I’m sorry,” I immediately apologized. “That was uncalled for. I’m a little on edge because I’m locked out of my room.”

  “You can get extra keys at the front desk, you know.”

  “I’m not locked out like that,” I clarified. “My friend—the person I’m on vacation with—she, uh, she had a date tonight. There’s currently a sock hanging from our hotel room.”

  The woman’s grey-green eyes widened. “Oh, that’s … gross,” she decided. “Sorry. I don’t mean to judge. I’m sure your friend is really awesome.”

  “She’s really not,” I sighed glumly. “But that’s okay.”

  “Jimmy,” the woman raised her voice, “get my friend another drink, will ya? She’s having a hell of a day.”

  He looked first to me for my consent. I nodded despite my earlier refusal.

  “I’m Kate, by the way,” she introduced.

  “Mercy,” I returned.

  “So, Mercy—besides getting locked out of your room—how are you liking our little piece of paradise?”

  “The resort is nice,” I confirmed. I paused to smile and thank Jimmy as he placed a fresh strawberry daiquiri in front of me. “I haven’t seen much of the rest of the island though,” I admitted.

  “That’s the mistake you tourists make,” Kate clucked. “You go someplace new and exotic, but you stay at one of these all-inclusive resorts and never get to experience the locale’s real flavor.”

  “What’s your excuse?” I countered. “Why are you here if you hate these kinds of places?”

  “Cheap drinks?” she smiled. She tipped her glass toward me. “And let’s not forget the good company.”

  I similarly raised my glass before taking a drink. My daiquiri burned down my throat. Jimmy apparently had given me an extra shot of rum. I tried to choke down my cough, but it came sputtering out.

  Kate slapped me on the back, her hand between my shoulder blades. “Jimmy!” she hollered to the bartender. “You trying to kill the clientele?”

  Jimmy was preoccupied with other guests and only waved a dismissive hand in our direction.

  I wiped at my eyes, which had started to water.

  “So, what brings you to the island?” she asked.

  “The same as everyone else I suppose,” I managed to wheeze. “Vacation. Relaxation.”

  “The week of Christmas though? Isn’t your family going to miss you?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was trying to ascertain if I was married with kids, or if she was asking about extended family.

  “We don’t have many get-togethers,” I revealed. “They’re all back in the Midwest where I grew up. And I live in Boston.”

  “Get out!” she marveled. “I grew up in Boston.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “Really? You don’t have the accent.”

  “Not everyone is from Southie,” she pointed out. “You’re from the Midwest, but you don’t sound like that Fargo movie.”

  “Fair enough,” I conceded.

  The tiki bar’s lights flickered above our heads. “Last call, ladies,” Jimmy announced. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

  I experienced a moment of panic. “My friend said she was going to meet me here after they finished.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, senora. But I’ve got to close up shop.”

  “I’ve got a place,” Kate announced.

  I turned my head to appraise her. “Are you bragging about homeownership, or is that an actual offer?” I posed.

  She picked up her glass and drained the rest of her drink. “It’s not much, but at least you wouldn’t be sleeping on the beach tonight.”

  I swallowed hard. I hadn’t even thought about that. I’d been so annoyed that Racy had locked me out, I hadn’t considered the short-term consequences. Who knew when and if Racy would unlock that deadbolt?

  Kate hopped up from her barstool. “Come on. I’m parked out back.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” I admonished. “You shouldn’t be driving yourself let alone another person.”

  She lifted her empty well drink. “It’s seltzer and lime. I haven’t had a real drink all night.”

  “Oh.”

  I’d officially run out of excuses.

  + + +

  I stood incredulous. “That’s your ride?”

  “Yep. Ever ridden on one?”

  A bright yellow scooter was parked by itself just outside of the Thirsty Coconut. Under the secondhand lights coming from the nearby bar, it was hard to decipher if the marks on the side of the moped’s chassis were dirt or rust.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. You don’t strike me as the kind of babe to hang off the back of a motorcycle.”

  I felt myself being insulted all over again. My stubbornness—my near obsession to always be right and to prove my doubters wrong—flared up.

  “That’s hardly a motorcycle,” I resisted.

  I stood, offended and stiff, while Kate mounted the low-riding scooter, swinging one leg over the center console, and taking a seat.

  “She may not be much to look at, but she gets the job done,” Kate quipped.

  She retrieved the half-melon helmet that had been hanging from one of the bike’s handles. “Heads up,” she called.

  The helmet lobbed my way in a slow, looping arc. Luckily I hadn’t had more to drink to impair my already questionable hand-eye coordination. I didn’t quite catch the helmet, but more like trapped it between my hands.

  “You only have the one?” I asked.

  “I only have one head,” she pointed out.

  The helmet fit snugly on top of my head, but the straps that were supposed to fasten beneath my chin were too short. I tried to adjust the buckles and the length of the nylon strands, but struggled to get them to move.

  “Let me help,” she offered as she hopped up from the scooter. “Your head’s bigger than mine.”

  She hadn’t meant anything by it, but her comment caused me to bristle even more.

  She stood within my personal bubble and loosened the chinstrap so it could actually fasten. A quiet hum vibrated in her throat as she manipulated the helmet’s parts.

  The wind had picked up off the ocean, blowing the scent of salty sea air across the beach. Even with the competition from nature, I could smell the sunscreen and slight tang of perspiration coming from her. The combination of scents reminded me of how she’d looked poolside the first time I’d seen her. The garish, boxy Hawaiian shirt she wore made it easy to forget the shape of the body hidden beneath it, but the scent of sunscree
n forced more pleasant images to resurface in my mind.

  God, what was I doing? Better yet, what was she doing? I was a total stranger—why would she invite me to stay at her house? This was more than island hospitality; this was insane.

  While my brain managed mental gymnastics, Kate succeeded in fastening the chinstrap under my chin.

  “All set,” she remarked with a light tap to the top of my head.

  My cranium was secure, but still I hesitated. “Where do I go?”

  She patted the narrow space on the seat cushion directly behind her. It reminded me of the elongated banana seat of the bicycle I’d had in middle school.

  “There’s handles under your seat to hold on to,” she informed me.

  I dug in my heels. “How far away do you live?”

  “Not far.”

  The lone headlamp on Kate’s scooter cut through the dark and illuminated a rough gravel road. Tiny houses with chain link fences dotted the sides of the road. The helmet she’d let me borrow had no facemask; the wind whipped me in the face whenever I tried to peer over her shoulder to see the road. It forced me to bury my face into her shoulder to shield myself. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant; her ugly shirt smelled like fabric softener.

  Kate accelerated unexpectedly, and my arms instinctively went around her waist. An embarrassing squeak rushed out of my lungs. I hoped the sound of her scooter’s whining engine would drown out the sound, but I felt her body vibrate with a chuckle at my expense. My pride nearly had me dropping my arms to my sides, but she gunned the struggling engine again and the scooter shot forward. My arms tightened around her torso instead of letting go. I knew she was doing it on purpose, but there was little I could do to protest while we sped down the empty road and I continued to cling to her back.

  I only looked up when I felt the vehicle slow. Kate planted both feet on the ground and turned off the engine. When she cut the engine the headlight turned off, plunging us into total darkness. There were no street lamps that might give me an indication of where we were or where she’d taken me.

  The darkness of the night seemed to bring me to my senses. My mind began to race. I knew nothing about this woman. Racy would have no idea where I was. The ponytailed bartender at the Thirsty Coconut would have been the last person to see me alive.

  “Where are we?” I asked. My voice sounded small as it got stuck in my throat.

  “My place.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “I’ve got you.”

  A cloudy night sky obscured the moon and stars that might have otherwise helped to light up the surrounding area. Kate began to walk, and I followed blindly on unsure footing. The ground beneath my flip-flops was packed hard from wear, but I could still feel individual rocks poking through my rubber soles.

  “Just a little farther,” she urged.

  The front of my flip-flops caught on an exposed tree root, and I stumbled forward. My arms began to flail as I helplessly reached for something to catch my fall. In the inky dark, I wasn’t able to find anything, but someone found me instead.

  One hand fell to my hip and another wrapped around my waist. Kate’s warm breath ruffled my hair. “I’ve got you.”

  I had no idea when Kate had fallen behind me. I’d thought she’d been in front of me the entire time.

  Her arm fell away from my waist and somehow, in the dark, found my hand. Her sturdy fingers interlaced with mine, causing me to inhale sharply. I hoped she hadn’t heard the change in my breath.

  “Home sweet home,” she muttered.

  We’d reached the front stoop of a small house. There were no lights turned on inside and no outdoor porch light to greet us.

  Kate dropped my hand to find the door handle in the darkness and pushed the door open.

  “You don’t lock your front door?” I observed.

  “Locks only keep the honest people honest,” she threw over her shoulder before crossing the threshold.

  She turned on the overhead lights and I stepped inside behind her. The light bulbs gave off a dull, yellow glow. I took the self-guided tour, but admittedly there wasn’t much to look at. The tiny house was little more than a one-room studio. The flooring was some kind of clay red travertine, practical for a sandy, tropical location. None of the furniture matched. A card table surrounded by four diner-style chairs—metal frames and plastic seat covers—served as dining room and eat-in kitchen.

  The kitchen itself was quarantined to one corner of the single room: a tiny electric range with three coiled burners, a single sink cluttered with dirty dishes, and a small butcher-block counter. The refrigerator-freezer combo was short and squat. An ancient-looking toaster oven sat on top of the refrigerator. Besides the table and chairs, the only other furniture was a red upholstered loveseat that separated the living space from the bedroom area.

  I felt obligated to say something kind about her home since she’d generously offered me a place to stay. “This is nice.”

  Kate snorted at my comment while she kicked off her flip-flops and added them to a chaotic pile of footwear near the door. Its disorganization made me wonder how she ever managed to find two shoes that matched.

  I continued to inspect my surroundings while she attempted to haphazardly clean the room.

  Small containers of multi-colored liquids and paintbrushes of various sizes and thicknesses dominated the dining table. I picked up one of the small jars and inspected its yellow contents.

  “You paint?” I queried.

  “It’s what I went to college for,” she explained, “but I’m a total hack.”

  The thought that this woman who seemed to spend all her free time at a tiki bar on a tropical island had gone to college had never crossed my mind. I hoped my surprise wasn’t writ across my face.

  I noticed, for the first time, several painted canvases hanging on the walls of her one-room house. They were of various sunsets, but from different vantage points—a city skyline, a tropical shoreline, a prairie that could have been anywhere in the Midwest, a cabin by a lake.

  I gestured to the paintings. “Did you do those?”

  She ruffled her fingers through her silver-white hair. “Yeah.”

  Something flickered across her features. Doubt? Regret? Maybe she was second-guessing her invitation. I hadn’t intended to be nosy or pry into her life; it had only been an attempt at small-talk that somehow now felt intrusive.

  “They’re good,” I remarked.

  Her lips twisted as she regarded me. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I teach first grade.”

  “Uh huh,” she laughed. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I demanded to know.

  “Why you’re so loose with the compliments. My house is a dump, and my painting isn’t any good.”

  “Okay, your house is on the rustic side,” I admitted, “but your paintings are actually really good.”

  “Know any art dealers?” she laughed to herself.

  It didn’t feel like an actual question, so I didn’t bother with a response.

  “You can take that off now,” she said.

  My eyes momentarily widened in confusion. Take what off?

  Her odd smile remained. “Unless your head has fused to my helmet, which in that case I guess you get to keep it.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. I immediately unfastened the strap under my chin and returned the half melon helmet to her.

  Kate held the helmet under her arm like it was a football. “Are you, uh, hungry or something?”

  “No,” I was quick to dismiss. “I’m kind of just looking forward to going to sleep.”

  Upon mentioning sleep, I scanned the house for evidence of a bed. I spied a mattress atop wooden pallets on the floor. There was no duvet cover, only a thin blanket and rumpled cotton sheets.

  She must have seen the direction of my stare. “The sheets are clean,” she assured me. “I just didn’t bother making the bed this morning; I didn’t expect to be bringing anyone
home. I’m not normally this messy,” she apologized. “It’s the busy season though, so I’m kind of all over the place.”

  “Busy season?” I echoed.

  “Christmas presents.” She grabbed a large, yellow-green orb from the kitchen countertop and spun the globe in the palm of her hand. “I paint coconuts. Landscapes, sunsets, personalized names for family vacations. I can even make them look like fish.”

  “And you sell them? To tourists?” I guessed.

  “Yep.”

  “And that’s …” I hesitated. “Lucrative?”

  Kate set the coconut back on the counter. It rolled around for a moment before coming to a complete stop. “I don’t have many expenses. It pays for my tab at the bar.”

  A yawn slipped out of my mouth. I tried to cover it with my hand, but Kate noticed.

  “Shit. I’ve been yammering away, and you’re about ready to drop.”

  I tried to wave her apology away. “It’s okay; I’m fine.”

  In truth, I was beyond exhausted—apparently exhausted enough to have taken up a stranger’s offer to spend the night.

  “I’ll see if I can scrounge you up some pajamas,” Kate said. “I usually sleep in my underwear, but I don’t want to scare you off.” She flashed me a toothy grin.

  I watched with restrained horror as she rummaged through a painted wood bureau that overflowed with unfolded laundry. She pressed a t-shirt to her nose for inspection and, apparently satisfied with its relative cleanliness, tossed it in my direction. The t-shirt was thin and worn, but had no visible stains. It wasn’t like I had the luxury to be picky though. My only others options were to sleep in my underwear or in my sundress.

  “Thanks,” I said, suddenly remembering my manners.

  She produced a pair of cotton boxers for me—navy blue with a skeleton print—which also traveled in my direction via airmail.

  “Toilet’s behind that door,” she instructed me.

  I breathed a quiet sigh of relief for the option of privacy; I didn’t even like changing clothes in front of Racy, and I actually knew her. My ease was short-lived, however. When Kate had said toilet, she literally meant toilet. A porcelain commode, not unlike one might find in a rural truck stop bathroom, was the only thing in the makeshift bathroom. When I shut the bathroom door for privacy, the water closet went dark. A narrow panel of light shone around the edges of the ill-fitting wooden door; gaps on all sides provided just enough light to help guide me, not that I really needed my eyes to put on a t-shirt and shorts.