The Noel Stranger

by Richard Paul Evans

  “Mango and passion fruit.” He took a drink from his own glass. “This is good. I didn’t know passion fruit was a thing until I came here.”

  A moment later the young woman returned with a platter of lightly fried rolled tortillas with grated cheese melted on top.

  “These are chile and cheese flautas,” Andrew said. “You do like Mexican food, I hope.”

  I laughed. “Do I have a choice?”

  “I’m sure we could find a nice Chinese restaurant somewhere.”

  We shared a caramel flan for dessert.

  “I’m going to gain weight here,” I said.

  “I would hope so.”

  We went back in the store and picked up the bag of groceries that Andrew had left inside to keep cold, then we drove back to the condominium.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Three

  Tonight we ate dinner at a restaurant called Edith’s. I was serenaded by a mariachi band. This just keeps getting better.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  Back at the condo, Andrew said, “I need to take care of some business. It might take me a few hours. If you want, there’s a swimming pool on the west side of the complex.”

  “Say no more,” I said. “I didn’t realize the Christmas tree business required so much tending.”

  He grinned. “It doesn’t. I’ve got other irons in the fire.”

  As I started for my room, he said, “We have dinner reservations at six. We should leave around five thirty.”

  “That gives me four hours to burn.”

  “Speaking of which, there’s sunscreen in your bathroom cabinet.”

  “That’s not what I . . .” I smiled. “Thank you.” I went to my room and changed into a bikini. When I walked out, Andrew was sitting at the couch working on his laptop. He looked up as I entered the room. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “If pasty white was—”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “The proper response is, ‘Gracias, Señor.’ ”

  I smiled. “Gracias, Señor.”

  “De nada. Have fun.”

  The pool was luxurious and not at all crowded. If this were the antidote to SAD, I could totally overdose on it. The warm fresh air and cool water were emotionally and physically healing. I coated myself in tanning oil and lay out for half an hour before covering up. I was about as white as the snow I’d left behind and didn’t want to ruin the trip with a sunburn. I sat under the shade of palm trees and read until four thirty, then went back to get ready for dinner.

  When I got back to the condo, Andrew was on his cell phone. He waved at me.

  I went to my room and showered, then did my hair and makeup. It was nice to have someone to look nice for. Back when I was married, I would laugh at Carina when she would rate her prospective dates on whether she would shave her legs for them or not. Now that I was single again, I understood that she wasn’t joking.

  Andrew was waiting for me when I walked back out. “You’re going to love this place,” he said. “It’s called Edith’s.”

  “I had an aunt named Edith.”

  “Was she Mexican?”

  I smiled. “No. She was ornery.”

  Edith’s restaurant was back down on Medano Beach not far from the market where we had shopped earlier. I could see why the restaurant was one of Andrew’s favorites. The place looked like a Mexican fiesta. The layout was mostly open—a series of raised, thatched roofs surrounded, at least on the land side, by palm trees and bamboo and thick, snaking vines of bougainvillea.

  The thatched roofs were hung with strings of colored glass and punched-tin lanterns and jeweled tin Moravian star pendant lights—the hodgepodge of fixtures hanging above the diners’ heads like piñatas. Strings of icicle lights adorned the rim of the fronded canopies. The tablecloths were in bright colors ranging from fuchsia and orange to lime green and scarlet. Around the tables were wicker chairs draped with colorful Mexican blankets.

  A trio featuring a violin, a guitar, and an acoustic bass moved throughout the restaurant serenading diners with lively traditional Mexican music, naturally blending in with the overall cacophony.

  Adding to the dimmed, noisy atmosphere was a fair amount of fire, not just from the flickering tabletop candle centerpieces and sconces but from long streams of blue liquid fire poured from bottles and silver sauceboats.

  “They’re big on flambé here,” Andrew said. “It’s part of the festivities. If it burns, it earns.”

  “Did you just make that up?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “It was clever.”

  “It’s like the newspaper motto, If it bleeds, it leads.”

  I frowned. “I’ve done my share of bleeding in newspapers lately.”

  “We’ll just leave that back in the land of cold,” he replied.

  Our hostess sat us in a section of the main canopy next to the central kitchen, an open, brick-walled edifice crowded with cooks wearing tall white toques.

  “This place is fantastic,” I said.

  “You haven’t tried their food,” Andrew replied. “They’re famous for their steaks, seafood, and desserts.”

  I opened the menu and gasped loudly.

  Andrew laughed. “You saw the price.”

  “Shrimp is really seven hundred eighty-five dollars?”

  “Pesos,” he said.

  “But there’s a dollar sign.”

  “They use the same symbol for money. It’s confusing, but you can usually figure it out. If it looks outrageously priced, it’s pesos.”

  “How much is a peso worth?”

  “Last I checked, about a nickel. So that shrimp dish is about forty dollars.”

  We decided to order several different plates and share. We had tuna carpaccio and cheese turnovers for appetizers followed by a “flirt” salad, which was made with honey, ginger, and hibiscus liqueur. The presentation of the food was as artistic as our surroundings.

  Before we ordered our entrees, our waiter brought out a tray of uncooked meats to exhibit their evening’s offerings. We ordered the grilled lobster, shrimp enchiladas, and chile rellenos.

  “How long have you been coming here?” I asked.

  “Since my first visit to Cabo, about eight years ago. I’ve eaten here every time since.”

  “Is Edith a real person?”

  Andrew nodded. “She is. I actually met her on my first visit. Her story is amazing. She came to Cabo as a fifteen-year-old girl and got a job here as a waitress. Back then it had a different name, Esmerelda’s by the Sea, something like that. Twenty years later she bought out the owner and renamed the restaurant after herself.”

  “That’s a great success story.”

  “Kind of makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

  At Andrew’s insistence (I didn’t provide a whole lot of resistance) we ordered two desserts, the banana flambé and their house flan. While we were eating our dulce, the band made their way to our table.

  “What can we play for your lovely lady?” the guitarist asked with a heavy accent.

  “How about something romantic,” Andrew said.

  The guitarist raised his eyebrows. “Ah, you wish romantic. We will play ‘Novia Mia.’ ”

  “What does that mean?” I asked Andrew.

  “It means my girlfriend,” he said.

  The trio began playing a lively song with the guitarist belting out the words over the restaurant’s din, occasionally accompanied by the slightly out-of-tune, scratchy vocals of the other two band members. After the first stanza, Andrew started laughing.

  “What is he saying?” I asked.

  “He said, ‘Your face is so pretty it will be my torment.’ ”

  The men ended the song with a unified shout, sort of an olé! We both clapped. Andrew handed the guitarist a twenty-dollar bill and the men thanked him and moved on to a new table.

  “That was fun,” I said.

  “It’s true, you know.”

  “What’s true?”
/>
  “Your face has tormented me since I met you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

  Andrew started laughing. “Sorry. You’re right. Some things don’t translate well.”

  We were in no hurry, so we didn’t leave until we’d lingered over our coffees. As we walked into the condo I said, “What a day. It’s hard to believe that it began in Utah.”

  “We’re just warming up,” Andrew said. “Literally. We’ve got a full day tomorrow, so we better get some rest.”

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “We are going to the sea.”

  The sea sounded nice. “What time do we leave?”

  “We have a boat to catch, so we should leave here by eight thirty.”

  I glanced down at my watch. “What time is it here?”

  “Eleven. Los Cabos is on mountain time, same as home.”

  I leaned into him. “Good night.”

  “Sueños dulces, Linda. Sweet dreams.”

  I looked at him. “Did you just call me Linda?”

  “Linda is Spanish for pretty,” he said. “It wasn’t a slip.”

  “Oh good. For a second I thought you were thinking of a previous Cabo guest.”

  He said, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever brought here. Besides my ex-wife, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed. We kissed. After we parted I said softly, “Maybe you could call me something other than Linda. I have an employee named Linda.”

  “I’ll work on it,” he said.

  We kissed again, this time more passionately. Our kissing started to physically progress. Then he stepped back. “I need to stop.”

  “What makes you think I want to stop?” I said.

  “It complicates things.”

  “Oh, that.” I sighed. “Good night, handsome.”

  “Good night, Linda.”

  I smiled at him, then went to my room and got ready for bed. The blinds were still open, and I could see the city stretched out below me like a rhinestone blanket. I set my watch on the nightstand and climbed into bed. The sheets were fresh and sweet-smelling. I lay back and smiled. I had started the day anxious and cold and ended it happy and warm. I couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Four

  Something about him makes me throw caution to the wind. I hope the wind doesn’t return as a tornado.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  I woke the next morning bathed in sunlight. It may have been the same sun as at home, but it definitely worked a lot harder here.

  Andrew was already awake; I could hear him in the kitchen. I could also smell something cooking. I got up and put on my swimsuit and cover up, pulled my hair into a ponytail, then walked out.

  Andrew was standing in front of the stove frying eggs in a skillet. He wore a blue-and-white swimsuit, water shoes, and a short-sleeved baby-blue linen shirt. He looked handsome. He always looked handsome.

  “Good morning, cariña,” he said.

  I sidled up next to him. “Morning.” We kissed. He handed me a cup of coffee. “Thank you,” I said. “Cariña?”

  “It means cute.”

  “My best friend’s name is Carina, remember? She works for me too.”

  “Strike two,” he said. “Linda and Carina. Maybe you should give me a list of your employees’ names.”

  “I don’t have that many. And I’m pretty sure Kylee and Nichelle aren’t Spanish words.”

  “I’ll keep working on it. How did you sleep?”

  “Better than usual.” I looked at the stove. “What are you making?”

  “Huevos rancheros on corn tortillas. Do you like avocados?”

  “I love avocados. Almost as much as I love a man who can cook.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Because I am both.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Don’t think too much about it.” He lifted a fried egg and set it on the crisp tortilla layered with lettuce and refried beans. He dusted it with cilantro, then dropped on some jalapeños. “Those are to wake you up.” He handed me the plate.

  “I thought you said you didn’t cook much.”

  “Not if I can avoid it,” he said.

  “You’ve even got the presentation down.”

  “I watch cooking shows when I’m bored.” He brought over his own plate and a pitcher of guava juice.

  “We’re off to the sea today?”

  “Yes. And beaches. You can only get to the best beaches by boat.”

  We finished eating and put our dishes in the sink. “Should we clean up?” I asked.

  “No, Jazzy will be by to straighten up.”

  “Jazzy?”

  “Sorry. Her real name is Jazmín. She cleans the condo when we’re in town.”

  I went back to my room and got the canvas beach bag I’d brought, along with a book, my iPod, and a few other necessities. When I came back out, Andrew was standing by the door with a large backpack slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got sunscreen, oil, and towels. There are a few things we need to pick up at the grocery store.”

  We drove back down to the mercado and bought some bread, meat, and cheeses, along with two large bottles of water. We then walked down to the dock to the chartered tour boat, where Andrew was embraced by a short, barrel-chested man with a full beard and mustache and a T-shirt with a picture of David Bowie.

  “Maggie, this is my friend, El Capitán.”

  “Hello,” I said, shaking the man’s hand. I glanced at Andrew. “You call him the captain?”

  “After six years, that’s the only name I have for him,” Andrew said.

  El Capitán gave us each a life jacket and snorkeling equipment, and then his assistant, a thin, ebony-haired teenage girl, gave a brief safety lecture in broken English. We boarded the boat along with three other couples—one Mexican, the other two American.

  One of the American couples looked oddly mismatched. He was in his late fifties, obese and balding with dark sunglasses and a myriad of thick gold chains hanging around his neck and dangling down to his porch of a stomach. The woman was young, probably in her twenties, slim but curvaceous, perfectly tanned, and wearing a revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, a full sleeve of tattoos on her arm, and massive diamond rings on most of her fingers, which perhaps explained the couple’s attraction.

  The craft we’d boarded was a long, canopied, glass-bottom boat with smooth, worn wooden benches along its sides. The boat’s name was ABBA, which was not lost on either of us.

  “Your dad would be a fan of this boat,” Andrew said, after we’d settled into our seats.

  “He would.”

  “Should I call you Agnetha?”

  I grimaced. “No, please. Keep working on it.”

  Once we had boarded, El Capitán started the outboard engine, the crisp smell of gas and exhaust mixing with brine-scented sea air. The girl untied us from the dock, and we backed out of the slip into the harbor’s waterway and headed out to sea.

  Our first destination was Pelican Rock, where the boat stopped a hundred yards from shore and dropped floating diving flags. We snorkeled for about half an hour in calm turquoise water teeming with colorful, exotic fish.

  The older man didn’t leave the boat but his hot little woman did. (Do I sound catty?) I noticed that she swam unnecessarily close to Andrew, occasionally “accidentally” bumping into him. When she wasn’t next to him, she looked like she was posing, even provocatively adjusting her swimsuit underwater where anyone with a mask could see. I did my best to focus on the sea life, but the blonde insisted on taking center stage.

  After we were back on the boat, Andrew said, “Do you know what the most terrifying sea creature out here is?”

  The blonde, I thought. “This sounds like a game show question,” I said. “Sharks.”

  “Hammerhead sharks,” the blonde said, inviting herself into our conversation.

  “Squids,” Andrew said
. “Every year, the Humboldt squid comes to the Baja peninsula to feed. The fishermen call them diablo rojo, the red devil. They grow as long as nine feet and they’ve been known to grab people from the surface and pull them under.”

  “You’re making this up,” I said.

  “Nope. I watched a documentary on it.”

  “I watch documentaries too,” I said. “I saw one on beavers.”

  Andrew started laughing.

  “I’m not kidding. I did.”

  “I . . .” He shook his head. “So the film crew sent a cameraman in the water at night wearing a Kevlar jacket.”

  “What’s a Kevlar jacket?” the blonde asked. “Is that like a Gucci jacket?”

  I barely suppressed my eye roll.

  “It’s a bulletproof vest,” Andrew said. “And then they waited for the squid to come. The squid have the ability to change their color to match their surroundings, so they’re virtually invisible until they’re on you.”

  “Like a stealth squid,” the blonde said.

  “Exactly,” Andrew said. “Only when they’re in a feeding frenzy, they flash red and white. The squid attacked the diver and penetrated his vest with its beak.”

  “Squid have beaks?” I asked.

  “Humboldt squid have very sharp beaks. They resemble a parrot’s beak, except they’re black and the force of their bite is more powerful than an African lion’s. They can bite through metal. And their eight tentacles have more than a hundred suction cups, all lined with razor-sharp teeth.”

  “This is terrifying,” the blonde said.

  “To make it worse, the Humboldt travel in schools of more than a thousand squid. At night you can see hundreds of tentacles sticking up out of the water, like agave plants.”

  “What’s an agave plant?” the blonde asked.

  “It’s a succulent,” I said, reminding her of my presence. “With long, sharp, painful spines. You would not want to be stabbed by one.” I noticed Andrew grin. “They use it to make tequila.”

  “I like tequila,” she said, moving a little closer to Andrew. “I didn’t know they made it from squids.”

  Andrew didn’t bother to explain.

  “Is this squid thing real?”

  Andrew nodded. “Completely.” Then he turned to me and held out his hand. “If my fingers are the legs, the beak is right here,” he said, touching the center of his palm. “When they attack, they come at you like this.” He put his hand in front of my face.