by Merry Jones
Maybe so. But this was my jour. And Alain was someone I could talk to. As soon as the host left us, I began. “I’m so glad to be here, Alain. I needed to get away from the hotel.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”
Oh dear. Was I whining? Because his tone implied that I was. It was the tone a man uses when his wife complains about the kids acting up or the dryer breaking down.
“Nothing in particular.” I put on a smile, stopped talking. Made myself extra cheery. “It’s just nice to have a change of scene.”
The waitress came by with a wine list. Alain ordered something. I didn’t know what it was, red or white. I didn’t care. Still, I wondered why he hadn’t asked my preference. When she left with his order, he folded his hands. Seemed oddly distant.
“Is there any word about your intruder?”
“No. They think it’s someone who has access to keys. Maybe a maid.”
“Yes, that’s what Jen said.”
I nodded, said nothing. I knew that the topic of Jen was off limits, so I didn’t mention her mood. Didn’t suggest that he prescribe doses of fresh air and walks outside. Didn’t say a word. I looked at my hands.
“You seem preoccupied.”
Did I? Funny, because I thought the same about him. I shrugged, felt him assessing me. “It’s been a troubling few days.”
“Indeed.” He leaned back in his chair, casual. Crossed his legs. “It occurs to me that you said you saw a maid in Greta’s suite when she died.”
Had I told him that? “Yes.”
“Perhaps that maid is the same person who entered your suite. What do you think?”
I didn’t know. Why would a maid want to hurt me or anyone else? “Perhaps.” Perhaps? What an odd, old-fashioned word. I never used it. But Alain had, so I did, too. I shifted in my seat, less comfortable than I’d expected to be. Sensing reserve in Alain’s demeanor. Demeanor. Also an odd word for me. But there it was. I kind of liked it. Thought about it as I avoided Alain’s unwavering eyes.
“How’s your leg?”
“Better.”
“And your breathing? The edema?”
“Better.”
His questions were quick, impersonal. It seemed I was a patient, and he was examining me.
The wine came. Red. Good. Not Syrah, but still it was red. He tasted it, nodded approval. The host poured it for us, speaking Spanish and laughing with Alain. When he left, Alain uncrossed his legs, leaned forward. Picked up his glass.
“Elle, a toast.” He met my eyes. “To a fascinating woman. And to our time together. This night belongs to us.” He took a long, slow sip, holding me with his gaze.
I flushed. Sipped quickly, felt naked. “Alain,” I wasn’t sure what I was about to say, but his mood had changed so abruptly that it disarmed me, and I felt the need to lighten the moment. But he stopped me.
“No—in a moment. First, I have something to say to you. I owe you an apology.”
He did?
“I underestimated you, Elle. You know only a little about me. But one thing you do know is that although I am married, I am a lonely man. I sometimes stray.”
I looked at my wineglass. Put a hand on the stem.
“I thought that you would be another of the women with whom I share—moments. I thought, this woman will be here for only a short time. Why not make that time memorable for her, and at the same time make my own nights less lonely? Nothing complicated. Win-win, as they say.”
My face sizzled. And my neck. The people at the next table weren’t talking. Were they listening in?
“Alain—”
Again, he stopped me. “But I was wrong. The incidents this week—the killing of Greta. The death of Claudia. The losses have hurt me badly—more than I would have anticipated. Nevertheless, I went on, proceeding as usual. Then, you were attacked. You nearly died, too. And I realized that, although I’ve known you for only a short time—although we haven’t even become lovers yet, I was devastated. I spent the day in a stupor. The thought of something happening to you, of losing you, Elle, I couldn’t bear it. It would be too much.”
I looked at him. Saw the candlelight swimming in his pupils. Tears welling around his lids.
I didn’t know what to say. Once again, I was doubtful. Were those tears real? For me? He didn’t know me well enough to care that much. It just made no sense that this elegant, internationally known plastic surgeon who’d bedded wealthy world-class beauties would be smitten with a middle-class moderately attractive on good days second grade teacher from Philly.
He peeled my hand off my wineglass, held it in both of his. “I care about you, Elle, more than I expected to. More than I can explain.”
I looked down at my lap.
The host came over again, asked a question. Got an answer. Alain released my hand, straightened up. “I ordered for us. I told him to make whatever was fresh. I hope that’s okay with you.”
I gulped wine. Glanced at Alain, the candles, the couple nearest to us. The sky.
“I’ve offended you? Frightened you?” He smirked. Amused at my discomfort?
“Maybe. Yes, a little.” I sipped more wine.
“I want only to be honest with you. To me, this isn’t just another affair.”
How could he know that so soon? I thought of Becky, convinced after four days that Chichi was her soul mate. But Alain wasn’t like Becky; he was worldly, seasoned. Accustomed to seducing women far more fetching than I. And to letting them go.
“Talk to me, Elle,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I chewed my lip, fiddled with my wineglass. Stalled. “I’m thinking that it’s exactly what you said. The trauma of the week. The pain of losing people. You’re hurt and vulnerable. You need someone. I happen to be here. So you’re turning to me.”
He tilted his head. Raised his eyebrows. “Makes sense. But—”
“You said you want to be honest. Okay. I’ll be honest, too. I’m attracted to you.”
He nodded, eyes twinkling. “Good.”
“But—honestly? Don’t patronize or placate me. Because I have to admit I’m not sure why you’re attracted to me. Your work—you’re with stunning women. Every day, all day you’re surrounded by women with perfect faces and bodies. Like Greta—you yourself said she was exquisitely beautiful.”
He didn’t patronize or placate. He watched me, waiting for me to finish.
“I’m not like those women.”
“Okay, I understand.” He nodded, looking me over. “You compare yourself to those other women and wonder what I see in you. Is that right? Well, I’ll tell you what I see. I see a real person. Not a construct. Not a canvas that I’ve painted. Not a sculpture that I’ve molded. You aren’t a work of art, Elle. You’re a genuine, natural woman, complete with flaws and smile lines and, pardon me for saying it, an imperfect nose.”
Again, blood rushed to my face. My hand rose to my cheek.
“You are not my creation. You are your own person. Frankly, I haven’t met a woman of character like yours in years. You’re resilient—refusing to be intimidated even by an attempt on your life. Brave enough to risk your own life trying to rescue a stranger. Loyal to your friends. You inspire my respect, rouse my curiosity. It isn’t merely superficial physical beauty that draws me to you, my dear Elle—it’s you. The person you are. The aura you radiate.”
Wait. What? He could see my aura? Was it bloody and stained? Did he see spirits there?
“Your physical imperfections actually enhance your appeal. Your features are defined, but also slightly asymmetrical, making you uniquely, jarringly attractive.”
My what? My physical imperfections? Had he just outright told me that I wasn’t beautiful like his other women? And that my lack of beauty was what attracted him? I replayed his words. Yes. He had managed to say—to my flawed face—that my imperfect appearance was an asset. Wow. The man was slick.
Dinner arrived. Grilled fish again with some kind of spicy salsa. Fried
bananas for dessert. Lots of wine. We talked as we ate. I mentioned going to the festival. He was relieved that I’d be away from the area, thought I’d be safer in the city. And he raved about Puerto Vallarta, the cathedral. The story about the Virgin Mary appearing to a peasant. I wandered, thinking about spending the night with him. Candlelight and wine influenced my thoughts, and his voice vibrated in my chest, steady and deep, rhythmic, with traces of far away places.
What’s the point? part of me asked. You’re leaving. You’ll be just another one of his conquests.
Maybe, I answered. But also, he will be one of mine.
I considered going back to the suite. Lying in bed alone, watching for a veiled night prowler. Waiting for dawn. Feeling dismal.
Even so, I knew I should go back, shouldn’t leave Jen and Susan alone.
But Susan would bolt the door. They’d be fine. I hoped.
Because by the time we finished the fish, I’d decided. The rest of the meal was a matter of letting myself appreciate the light in Alain’s eyes and the line of his jaw. I stopped resisting, stopped analyzing events before and after, savored the anticipation of the night ahead.
The radio was on, playing Latin rock. The cab driver wended his way through traffic, weaving, changing lanes. Susan and I sat in the back.
“So?” She sat sideways so she could see me better. Blinked impatiently.
“So what?”
“Really? That’s how it’s going to be?”
“How what’s going to be?”
“Elle, please don’t waste time playing dumb.” She crossed her arms and looked out the window, harrumphing.
I tapped my foot to the music, watched the back of the driver’s head.
“After you called, Jen went apeshit.” Susan’s tone was somewhere between scolding and tattling.
Her comment didn’t surprise me. I’d assumed that Jen would not react well to news that I was spending the night at Alain’s. “She didn’t say anything about it this morning.”
“She didn’t speak to you this morning.”
True. “So she was really mad?”
“I don’t know. It’s like you took something away from her. With Jen it’s about pecking order. She doesn’t want you to outrank her with him.”
“Outrank? But she’s just his patient.”
“Just? We’re talking Jen.”
Right. Jen and her territory. I’d have to deal with it. “So, besides Jen’s tantrum, the night went okay? No bad dreams or break-ins?”
“Of course not.” She waited a beat, watching me. “Elle, are you seriously not going to tell me about it?”
Was I? “Why are you so curious? You don’t bug Becky about her nights with Chichi.”
“Becky tells us every detail, play by play. I never have to ask.” She waited.
The driver braked suddenly, leaned on his horn. “This guy—is he crazy? Does he want me to hit him?” He sped up, swerved, cutting off the offending vehicle. Muttering in Spanish.
Susan was still waiting.
“It was nice,” I told her. I turned away, looked out the window, avoiding her.
“Nice?”
“Yes.” I supposed it had been, despite the awkwardness of all the firsts. First time being naked together. First time touching and exploring. First time being touched and explored. I’d felt self-conscious, like a “before” picture in a plastic surgery ad. I’d been the woman with too small a bust and a not tight enough butt. Alain had seemed not to notice. He’d been attentive, affectionate. Well acquainted with female anatomy. Skilled in manipulating it.
“So that’s it?”
Why was she persisting? “Susan, there’s nothing to tell. He’s kind and thoughtful. And I spent the night with him. It’s a fling.”
She didn’t look away. “You don’t have flings, Elle.”
Damn. Why did my friends know me so well? “So? Maybe I’m starting to.”
“Okay. As long as you’re okay about it. I’ve just never known you to be casual about relationships. And, since we’re leaving in a few days—”
“I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.” I didn’t, of course. I hadn’t a clue. I knew that in Alain’s life, I was one in a long line of women. In my life, he was only the second man who’d turned my head since Charlie. The first that I’d slept with. And sleeping with him had been complicated—not that Alain had done anything wrong. Physically, we’d been fine. Alain’s body was attractive—compact and muscular. His hands were smooth and deft. His kisses deep. Our parts had fit together comfortably. The whole experience had been fine.
But emotionally, I’d had a disconnect. I hadn’t wanted to, but the whole time, I’d kept thinking of Charlie. Missing Charlie. Telling myself that it had been a year, that it was time to have sex again. Time to be with a man who was still breathing. I told myself to enjoy Alain and the no-strings opportunity and get past the first time, end my celibacy. And so, I had. I’d had sex again. Mission accomplished.
Susan was still watching me.
“What?”
“You seem—I don’t know. Different.”
“It’s been a crazy week. I haven’t had much sleep.”
She nodded. “Yes, it has been. How’s your leg?”
“Healing. It doesn’t hurt.”
She put a hand on my arm. “Elle, I’m only asking questions because I care about you. But I’ll stop interrogating. You know that if you want to talk about Alain or anything else that happened this week, you can.”
Before I looked at her, I knew what expression was on her face. The concerned furrowed eyebrows, the softly intense stare. “Thanks, Susan. Yes. I know.”
“Good.” She sat up straight, smiling. “Now. Today we are leaving everything behind. Here’s the deal: we won’t talk about any of it. Not Jen, not your drowning or the dead women or Sergeant Perez or Becky and the love of her life. None of it. Today, it’s just you and me and the Virgin of Guadalupe. We’re on vacation. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” It sounded glorious.
“Good. No exceptions. Unless you want to tell me about last night.”
I snickered, shaking my head. Susan finally turned away, checking e-mail on her phone. The music played loudly, the bass so low that it vibrated our seats. Reminded me of Alain’s body pounding against me. He’d been tender, appreciative. His eyes had been sad. And I’d wondered, while I was missing Charlie, if Alain were missing his wife. Probably he was; I’d felt them both, Charlie and Mrs. Du Bois, intruding on us, crowding the bed. A few times, I’d opened my eyes and looked around, almost certain I’d see one or both of them there. Even when I hadn’t, I’d felt pathetic rolling around with Alain, as if we weren’t really together but merely pretending. As if, having lost what we’d wanted, we were making do with what we had.
The cab dropped us off near the boardwalk. It was long, crowded.
“It’s called the Malecón.” Susan had a guidebook with her. She practically skipped ahead, pulling me into a stream of strolling people. Some were foreigners like us, but most seemed to be Mexican families in town for the celebration. Girls in colorfully embroidered skirts or many-tiered festival dresses, boys in trousers and white shirts, intricately woven serapes draped over their shoulders or sombreros dangling on their backs. The joy around us was palpable—joy? When had I last felt joy? I tried to remember. Charlie popped to mind, of course. Our wedding. Had I felt joy that day? Did it count as real joy if it was later sullied by betrayal? Never mind. Joy was around me now, and I could sense it. Watch it. Marvel at it. People had gathered from all over. The city was decorated, vibrant. Hosting a party for the Virgin Mary. I wanted to blend in, lose myself in the celebrations.
But Susan had a different agenda. Consulting her travel book, she marched me along the Malecón, pointing out inanimate objects. Announcing that Puerto Vallarta was famous for sand sculptures. Indeed, the beach alongside the Malecón was covered with them, intricate and ornate. I stopped to stare at one, a sculpture of two men at a table playing
cards and drinking beer. It was too realistic. Couldn’t be made out of sand—had to be models in sand costumes. I watched, waiting for them to move. But, of course, being sand, they didn’t.
When I looked up, Susan wasn’t there. I looked ahead, across, behind. Saw throngs of people in every direction, but no Susan. I turned back toward the sculpture. Maybe she’d gone to get a closer look. Nope. I scanned the beach. Didn’t see her.
Oh, great. We hadn’t been in town for twenty minutes, and I’d already gotten lost. Faces flowed past me, families swarmed by. I waited for Susan’s to emerge from the crowd. Wondered how long it would take her to figure out she’d left me behind. Watched the crowd. So many people, none of them Susan. Finally, thought I sensed her behind me and spun around, startling a sun-wrinkled woman with dyed blonde hair.
“Sorry,” I said.
She kept moving.
I looked around. I’d been sure Susan had been there, that she’d been about to touch me.
“Elle?”
But she couldn’t have been. She was calling from about ten yards up. I scurried to catch up. Listened to her scold me about getting separated, not paying attention.
We walked on. My stitches felt itchy and tender, but I didn’t care. A man passed by in full Aztec: silver, black-and-red collar piece, scant loincloth, bracelets, and headdress. His thighs and shoulders glistened in the sun. I touched Susan’s arm, laughed at her eyes traveling up and down, taking him in.
As we walked, Susan talked about Puerto Vallarta’s art, pointed out famous statues. Elongated half-human, half-alien figures, facing out to sea. A boy riding a seahorse. Three leaping dolphins. A ladder leading up to the sky, being climbed by squat, robed figures with outstretched arms and wide triangular heads. Susan narrated the name of each piece, recited the artists’ names. I didn’t pay attention. There was too much else to focus on. Children with wide brown eyes. Musicians. Vendors. Living statues—people coated in makeup textured like golden sand, standing motionless along the beach: A Santa Claus. Flamenco dancers. A fisherman.
And no guardrail. No fences. One side of the Malecón simply dropped off to the sand; the other was lined with shops, clubs, and restaurants. According to Susan, it went on for fifteen blocks. Apparently, she intended to walk all of it.
