Jade's Song (South of the Border Book 2)

by Sabrina Devonshire

  I wait till I’m seated in the car before asking him another question. “What about hurricanes? Is that part of the beach very vulnerable, too?”

  “The condos are well-built and set back further from the beach behind a seawall. No unit there has ever been severely damaged by hurricanes.”

  He backs out of the parking space and maneuvers onto the main road. He drives a couple of miles and then turns to the right. The road follows a huge estuary and leads to two condo complexes—one white, one terra cotta-colored. We turn toward the earth-toned one. A security guard greets us at the gated entrance. Richard speaks to the guard in Spanish, shows identification, and only then does the guard raise the gate. It’s nice that the place has security. After seeing so many wrought iron bars on home windows, I imagine break-ins must be a problem around here. The complex is large. Three-story buildings with red tile roofs sit in tidy rows on neatly manicured lawns. This place reminds me of upscale apartment complexes in the States.

  Richard gives me a tour of the complex. I see amazing sea views, palm trees waving in the breeze, lush landscaping, and a lagoon-sized swimming pool, complete with lounge chairs, tables and a thatched roof palapa for shade. I know I should keep my game face on, but my excitement breaks loose. “This place is amazing,” I burst out. Living here would be a dream. It’s like a vacation resort.

  “I’ll show you a ground-floor unit first. The views won’t be as good, but it will be easier for you to get your suitcases and groceries inside.” He states the price.

  It’s within my budget. I clear my throat and try to speak in a calm voice. “I can work with that.”

  “You can get a lot for your money in Mexico right now. I think you’ll like the floor plans, too.”

  The first two-bedroom condo is all white inside. Even the tile. It looks more like a hospital than a cozy living space. And there’s not even a hint of Mexico in the place. “Hmm. I need some color. And some Mexican accents.”

  Richard sweeps his hand through the air. “There’s an upstairs unit with Mexican tile in the kitchen and in both the bathrooms.”

  “I’d like to see that one.”

  “It’s on the west side of the complex. You won’t believe the views.”

  During the walk, Richard tells me about his move from Michigan to Mexico five years earlier. He moved to Mexico for health reasons—because the damp and cold winters up north aggravated his arthritis. Not only is his health better down here, he claims, but costs for healthcare are much more economical.

  We ascend a steep staircase to a second-floor unit. Inside, the floors are Saltillo tile and the kitchen pops with bright yellow walls and countertops and backsplashes accented with colorful Talavera tile. I smooth my hand across the cool glazed tiles. “What beautiful work.” They have that handmade quality I’ve always been drawn to. Each tile looks like a work of art. Many of the shops in downtown Tucson sell mirrors and ceramics made in Mexico. All of them are hand-crafted and painted. I never bought any of them because Brandon said they would detract from the sophisticated look of my place. At this moment, it feels good to realize that what Brandon wants no longer matters. I’m buying a place just for me. I want my home to burst with warmth, to be alive and full of vibrant color.

  Two bedrooms are downstairs, and the Master bedroom is upstairs on the third floor. The first thing I do after I walk up the stairs is step out onto the balcony. My heart leaps in my chest. Wow. This is too amazing to believe. The view is… incredible. Like drone-view videos I see on the Internet. I can see an endless stretch of sea, rocky islands—two with flat tops and one with a “window” in the middle of the rock—plus the jagged, mountainous curve of the coastline, and most of the town of San Carlos from up here.

  There’s a wide stretch of beach, a stone wall, and two other condo buildings separating this building from the sea. Richard’s right. The condo is set back enough so that it should be less vulnerable to hurricane damage. But it’s still close enough to the water, I’d be able walk down to the beach and be swimming in the sea within minutes. My stomach is turning somersaults. I’m so excited, I could jump out of my skin right now. I can’t let Richard see how desperate I am to buy the place. I take a deep breath and feign calm and collected the instant I step back inside. He’s talking to someone on his cell phone. I patiently wait for him to finish.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  I nod and smile. “The unit is quite nice. Let’s write up an offer.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jade

  For two months now, I’ve lived in my dream condo by the sea. Every morning, I swim for an hour, sometimes longer. It’s July and the water’s warm, really warm—like barely cooled bathwater. During these long, hot, lazy days of summer, I swim just before the sun rises.

  I wade into the shallow water, feeling the sand tickle my feet, and then plunge into the sea. Once I’m about 30 feet from shore, I swim parallel to the coast toward the El Soldado estuary. The sea wraps me in a warm embrace—it’s so soothing, comforting. With my awareness of my movements and the sensation of water all around me, thoughts of Brandon slowly fade away and I start to feel whole again.

  The sea is my only safe place. I know it’s strange to say. Most people fear the ocean. They’re afraid of sharks, stingrays, and jellyfish. But I feel at one with the natural world whenever I’m out here, immersed in the sea. My only worry is that that the time I have in the water won’t be long enough. Because it feels so good—I wish I could stay out here forever.

  Each exhale is a happy sigh as I propel myself over the waves. The salty water flows over my skin like massaging fingertips as I glide through the sea. I usually swim freestyle for long stretches, past the condominium complex where I live and the one beyond it until the shoreline I follow is just sand and mangroves. Less than a mile down the beach is the estuary. Herons, egrets, and even the occasional pink spoonbill make their homes in the swampy vegetation that encircles the large lagoon. I’m almost there now. Below me, I can see the sandy bottom, rippled by waves.

  I breast stroke swim over a few dark volcanic rocks, which jut up from the sand and are overgrown with dark green seaweed and wispy pale pink sea fans. Two puffer fish drift along below me. Schools of black-and-white-striped sergeant majors dart around and nibble on plants. In the shallow sea, small waves sigh over the sand. Seeking deeper water, I swim out further until I’m maybe a couple hundred feet from shore. The water’s still shallow enough I could stand if I wanted to.

  Submerging myself in the sea always makes me feel vibrant, alive. I stroke and kick my way along, relishing the sensation of the salt water sliding over my face, my back, my shoulders, my thighs. I swim faster. And faster. Adrenaline from the exertion jets through me. Happy chemicals dance in my brain. I flip over and swim backstroke. Wispy white clouds streak across the clear blue sky. Looking out to sea, the stretch of water looks endless. More than a hundred miles of sea separate me from the Baja Peninsula.

  When I’m on my back, I have to trust that whatever’s below me isn’t in a biting mood. Or at least won’t bite hard. I’m used to the nibbling fish—the shiny blue obelisks with yellow fins. They nibble on my feet, my inner thighs. And when I turn my head around and roar underwater at them, blowing bubbles and laughing, they dart away and then glide back to nibble on my vulnerable flesh the minute I turn away. Today we have been playing the scary face and nibble game most of the way to the mouth of the estuary.

  That’s where I find my dolphin friends. Five fins rise and then quickly dip beneath the surface. I don’t understand them as well as I want to. I do know this is one of their favorite playgrounds. When I spot dolphins near the condos, they always seem to be on the move. On a mission. But down here they’re always jumping and playing.

  As I swim a slow breaststroke, I watch them leap and crash into the water. They have so much personality. Sometimes they are playful and childish. At other times, they appear purposeful and focused. Always, though, they are graceful and athletic.
The way they arc and spiral through the water, they make swimming look effortless. A few flicks of their horizontally-oriented tail—the fluke—and they’re rocketing through the water. The upstroke of the tail is preparation. From careful observation, I know that their power comes from the downward thrust.

  Two pods of dolphins frequent this bay. But I know this pod and they know me. Maybe they recognize me by my pink cap. Or the bright orange swim buoy I wear around my waist that tags along behind me for safety. Maybe without the cap, the buoy or the bright swim suit, humans all look the same to them. I’m only just learning to tell the dolphins apart.

  Dolphins are so smart. I wonder what thoughts pass through their minds when they look at me. Do they ever wish they had hands to pick things up or write or build? Do they wonder why humans swim when we’re so clumsy moving through the water compared to them? Do they worry about all the trash and other contaminants that humans have dumped into their living environment? Do they ever wish they could communicate with me, the way I always wish I could talk to them?

  Fins rise and submerge. I glide along nearby, allowing them to decide whether to come closer. One dolphin dives and then surfaces, his dorsal fin visible just feet away from me. He’s gray, with a white belly, like most of the members of this pod. In the direct sunlight, the dolphins appear almost black above water. Only underwater can you see their true colors. He arches over the water and dives again. I can see by the wake of water that he’s approaching. My heart always beats faster when I know one of these magnificent creatures is beneath me. They’re nine or ten feet long and probably weigh six hundred pounds compared to my five-foot four height and a hundred and thirty pounds of weight.

  A dorsal fin knifes through the water just a foot or two away. When the dolphin dives again, I duck my head underwater. The water’s clear enough today that I can see his big body glide beneath me. So incredible. He moves so gracefully. Does he know I can see him underwater with my goggles on?

  The dolphin plays a hide-and-seek game with me. I see a fin and then before I know it he’s on the other side of me. Once he swims directly underneath me. All I can see below me is a huge gray shape with a long nose. People I see on the beach and out in the water on kayaks and paddleboards sometimes ask if I’m scared to be so close to these enormous creatures. I always tell them how being near them isn’t scary at all. I find being near the dolphins comforting. What about sharks and rays and eels? I usually shrug my shoulders because that’s a complicated question to answer. And I figure my response wouldn’t make any sense to a non-swimmer. On land, there are bills to pay and appliances to fix and emails and calls to return. But swimming with the dolphins has this magical way of washing all my worries away. I belong out here in the sea. Here, I’m in my element, the stress of daily life forgotten. There is only this world of blue-green water, the gentle lift of the waves, gliding pelicans and squawking gulls. The appearance of another dark fin tells me more of my sea friends are approaching.

  One dolphin zooms through the water, creating an enormous wake. He must be moving at more than twenty miles an hour. Other dolphins leap into the air and fall back down with a splash. I love to watch their tails. So wide and separated by two pointy fins. Maybe I have tail envy. It would be amazing to be able to propel myself through this water at twenty miles an hour. I imagine how the water would feel sliding over the skin when moving that fast. I’d feel so sleek and powerful.

  Another dolphin is behind me. I sense her before I turn around. Some of the dolphins have started to play rough, even slapping each other with their tails. The ones near me just glide slowly by. They sense somehow that they need to be careful around me. I hear clicking noises. And something else. A dolphin voice. Like a little squeak. Maybe I can understand them if we spend enough time together. One makes a particularly loud squeak and then glides away before I see the dolphin’s fin moving toward shore.

  I turn to watch the dolphin arc out of the water and dive down. And behind him, I see a wide stretch of beach. And one lone person. A man. He seems to be watching the dolphins through binoculars. He’s fifty yards or more away, but I can see that he’s hot. Running shorts and a tight tank top showcase his lean, muscular physique. His messy dark curls have been tossed by the sea breeze. Another dolphin comes up beside me and then ducks underwater as if he’s asking me to follow him. I glide behind him toward the shore while he bodysurfs the waves.

  Most of the dolphins are frolicking in water less than three feet deep. They’re rolling with the waves. Now the man I saw from far away is only a few yards away. What are these dolphins up to? If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were trying to set me up with this guy. That’s silly, but if they are, I can’t fault their taste. This guy’s a hot tamale if ever there was one. I can’t tell if he’s Mexican or American. But each feature I take in is more than a little distracting.

  The aviator glasses he’s wearing make him look like a total badass. His day-old beard accents the angular features of his face and the cute dimples that bracket full lips. Moving down to his body. Gulp. My mouth goes dry. My gaze wanders over every hard mound and ripple.

  His tank top, damp with sweat, clings to his muscular torso. The man’s got some serious biceps and triceps. They bunch and flex when he moves. His shoulders are broad and well defined. The sight of all that wet muscle in front of me makes my fingertips tingle. I imagine touching his amazing body. No. When another wave lifts me up and lowers me back down again, I duck my head underwater. I need to clear my head, not stare at the stranger. I came here to get way from a man. The last thing I need to do is get myself entangled with another one.

  A dolphin nose pokes me in the back, but I resist. I deliberately turn away from the shore. I swim away from the dolphins, away from the man. Faster. And faster. I must get away. I swim until I’m out of breath. Tears fill my goggles, fogging my vision.

  I may have thought I was healed, but I’m not. Part of me is still broken.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Luca

  A few down days in this small seaside town helps me relax after weeks on tour performing nearly every night. Every morning, I run or walk several kilometers on San Francisco beach. The sea reminds me of Sorrento, Italy, the place where I grew up—a place I sometimes want to remember and sometimes wish I could forget. Creative thoughts flow to me whenever I’m in San Carlos. New lyrics flow into my mind the way waves roll over sand. I’ve noticed that my creativity stagnates after too many flights and time zone changes.

  I lock my condo door and walk barefoot down to the beach. Small waves lap over the sand and barely a ripple disturbs the blue-green water. It’s early morning—just past seven. The wind hasn’t picked up yet, so the sea is still calm. I start to stroll along in the sand.

  Next week, my band and I are doing the second leg of our Estados Unidos tour. The tour isn’t sold out the way my tours in the UK and Mexico usually are. But I’m thrilled to be as popular as I am. Two of my recent albums went platinum in the UK, Mexico and Australia. As a recording artist, romantic ballads and jazz fusion is my forte. I write lyrics and sing about love—being in love, losing love, finding love. Too bad my songs don’t match my life. Twice, I thought I was in love. But each time I found out it was fame and money that attracted the women, not me. Whenever I sing songs of passion, of forever love, I see the face of the lover I haven’t yet met, that I dream of one day meeting.

  An American woman passing me on the beach greets me with a cheerful, “Good Morning.” A black spaniel—free from a leash—bounds along beside her. I breathe in a lungful of the salty air. During the week, the beach is largely deserted. Most people out on the beach now are out to walk early to beat the heat. It’s usually only crowded on the weekends when American tourists and Mexican families from nearby cities come into town. Once I pass the rows of condominios, I continue walking along the undeveloped stretch of beach toward the El Soldado estuary.

  The paparazzi haven’t yet found me in San Carlos. When they do, I’ll have
to find a new place to decompress. They relentlessly pursue me whenever I’m on tour. They follow me to hotels, restaurants, and airports. Since I often sing about romantic love, reporters often ask if I believe that love can last forever. I answer, “Sí,” even though all my life experience indicates otherwise. They ask if I wrote the lyrics for a girlfriend or someone I once loved. I say my songs aren’t about anyone in my life now or anyone from my past. I tell them my songs of love have been composed for a dream girl I see in my mind. I believe she is out there somewhere. And I have every intention of finding her.

  My mamá is the only real-life person that I sing about. I write songs to honor her and all she’s done for our family. She knows the meaning of love. My mamá taught me that love isn’t about getting what you need from someone else. It is about giving and being willing to make sacrifices for the sake of another. She brought my sister, two brothers, and me to Mexico City after my Italian-born father ran off with another woman. What was my mother to do? She was left alone with four children in a fancy house on the Tyrrhenian Sea with no means to support us. We were an ocean away from all her family. So, we left Italy and moved to Mexico.

  Every night—until the night he disappeared—our father told us he loved us. My mother reserved those words for special moments. When she said, I love you, she meant it. My father’s Te amo’s meant nothing. They were all lies. My mother never wasted time on empty words. She showed the depth of her feelings through what she did for us every day. She cooked our meals, helped us with our schoolwork, kept us clothed, and made sure all the bills were paid. Meanwhile, my father was nowhere to be found. Once we arrived in Mexico City, we lived with my Tía Veronica until my mother found work as an office assistant. Then we moved into a cramped apartment, but we got by.