Beach Glass (6 page)

This time, I have no problem staying alert. As Carson speaks in the vocal equivalent of dark clover honey, he looks into one person’s eyes at a time, making each feel as though he’s talking only to him or her. Eventually, he makes his way to me.

“So if you’re under water and you can’t tell which way is up—what surfers call ‘being in the washing machine’—reach for your surfboard,” Carson instructs. “It’s going to be attached to your ankle by a leash. Find that, and you’ve found your floatation device. And whatever you do,” Carson says, still looking directly at me, “Don’t panic.”

It’s hard to imagine panicking about anything as I’m pulled into the green undertow of his eyes.

WE BREAK FOR lunch back at the beautiful veranda at the main house. The instructors sit with us at the communal table, and thankfully we’re not talking about weddings anymore; we’ve moved on to work. In our group, we have an accountant, a computer technician, a speech therapist, and a few stay-at-home moms. Brigitte and I steal a glance at each other and smile, grateful that we came up with our cover stories ahead of time.

Carson listens attentively to each person, asking questions about their jobs and how they like them. He’s so polite, but he seems genuinely interested. I admit I’m a little excited at the prospect of that genuine interest being directed toward me as we go around the dining table. Finally, the male model masquerading as a surf instructor turns to me. “How about you, Kate?” Carson asks. “What do you do?”

When he says the name
Kate
, I try to conjure that confident woman who spoke with him at the beach. Besides, this bit of fiction isn’t such a stretch for me as a longtime yoga student, so I sound very casual when I say, “I’m a yoga instructor.”

Suddenly, Carson, Randy, and Evan are all looking at me intently. Then Randy says, “It’s fate!” Fate? Whoa, what’s he talking about?

“Kismet, dude,” Evan agrees as he and Randy grin and high-five each other.

“What?” I ask, confused. I look at Brigitte, who gives me a small, bewildered shrug, and then back at Carson. “What did I say?”

“We have a regular yoga teacher here at Emerald Cove, but she had a family emergency and won’t be here for the rest of the week, maybe longer,” he explains. “The manager’s been freaking out trying to find a replacement.”

“And here she is,” Randy says, indicating me. “Told you, the beach gods deliver!”

“Randy, Kate’s here on vacation,” Carson admonishes gently. “She came here to relax and learn how to surf, not to work.” He looks back to me. “I mean, it
is
kind of an interesting coincidence. We don’t have a yoga teacher for the week, and a yoga teacher magically lands on our beach.” He smiles, which is itself an entirely magical experience. “Like a goddess stepping out of a seashell.”

Oh my beach gods, did he just make an Aphrodite reference about me?

“You’re freakin’ kidding,” one of the bridal party girls intones in an accent so nasal it could bend a spoon. “There’s no yoga this week?”

“No teacher,” says Randy, who then looks at me plaintively. “No teacher, no yoga.”

“OMG,” Allegra, the bride-to-be, groans. “I’m so stressed out about this wedding! I
need
to do yoga.”

Jamie, one of the honeymooners, looks at me and says, “Maybe you could teach us just one class?”

The bridal party chimes in with a twangy chorus of “Please!”

Randy starts a chant of “Kate! Kate! Kate!” that won’t let up until I say, “Okay, okay! I’ll teach a yoga class.”

They all applaud and cheer. I bask in the attention until I look at Brigitte, whose eyes are wide with questions. Probably
Can you teach a yoga class?
And maybe
Are you insane?

I give her a tiny shrug. I got caught up in the moment. And I don’t regret it for a minute after Carson turns that magical smile on me again and says, “That’s really generous of you, Kate.”

“Well, that’s what yoga teachers are all about,” I say. “Being of service.”

The rest of the table goes back to chattering about various things that I don’t really hear or care about because Carson is talking to me. “Do you teach at one particular yoga studio or wherever you want?” he asks.

Not expecting specific questions, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Mountain Yoga, in Manhattan.” That’s where I used to do yoga, back when I had the money for classes.

“We host yoga retreats here sometimes,” Carson says, pushing his empty lunch plate aside so he can put his elbows on the table and lean toward me. “I’ve met yoga teachers who travel all over the world by taking groups of students on retreats. Do you ever do that?”

I could take the easy way out and simply say no. But having someone like Carson, a hot guy who teaches surfing in a paradise, paying this much attention to me makes me want to embellish a little. “Oh, sure, I’ve led a couple of yoga retreats, in Fiji and Belize,” I toss off, recalling the exotic locations of the stories I proofread for the women’s magazine.

I stop short of saying how lovely the Galapagos Islands are at this time of year when I catch Brigitte giving me the worried eyes. But she was right about yoga instructor being a great choice for my cover story. I can tell from the way Carson is smiling at me, a glorious thing to behold. And his eyes are all the greener being offset by his tan and by the hints of gold in his shaggy light brown hair. His lips look really soft, his teeth are perfect, and I don’t know why I’m taking more note of these details about him than I am about this place for my article.

“It’s so great to have work that allows you to travel,” Carson continues. “But that must be hard on a relationship.” He brings his eyes back to mine, and sweet Georgia Brown, there are flecks of blue within the green. “Is your boyfriend’s work as portable as yours?”

“No. I mean
 . . .
” I pause, because this is the first time I’m officially saying this. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Kate or Katy, that’s the truth. I take a sip of my water to mask a hard swallow.

Carson’s face remains passive, but I could swear the green of his eyes gets deeper. The smile eases across his face again. “So nothing’s keeping you from traveling the world. You can go anywhere you want, whenever you want, see and do amazing things.”

Oh good, away from reality and back to the Kate game. “Yep, I sure can,” I say, nonchalantly forking a bite of cake. In my pretend world, it’s fine to have cake at lunch, because Kate will just yoga the calories right off. “I should probably do more traveling. Teach classes here and there, live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”

“Just like me,” Carson says, his smile electric.

Swallow your cake very carefully, Katy,
I tell myself
, so you don’t choke, because the extremely hot man across the table just said something that sounded very flirtatious in a way that is beyond your current emotional ability to handle.
I try to avoid asphyxiation via lemon pastry by smiling, nodding, and taking another sip of water. When I can speak again, I ask, “Is that what you do? Travel around, teaching people how to surf?”

“More or less,” Carson says. “Anything to avoid sitting in an office. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he says, nodding in deference to the office workers among us. “But I just can’t. This is my office.” He indicates the lush trees embracing this open-air veranda. “I want to travel, see things, and yeah,” he laughs, “live the beautiful life of a vagabond on the beach.”

I don’t know whether it’s listening to him describe this adventure-filled life or watching his beautifully shaped lips say it that makes normally unadventurous me sigh, “That sounds amazing. I mean, it is amazing.”

Carson’s gaze is the equivalent of a secret handshake, as though he and I have something wonderful in common.

WHEN BRIGITTE catches up with me after lunch, I find out I was right about at least one of her questioning looks. “Katy,” she says, taking my elbow, “Are you insane?”

“Possibly,” I say as we walk down the path toward my tentalow. “Yeah, I think I lost my mind a little. Or a lot.” Carson’s intent, sparkling green eyes could definitely drive a normally sane woman to say crazy things. Like that she’d teach a yoga class.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh,” Brigitte says. “I just meant, I know you do yoga, but I don’t know whether you can lead an entire class full of bridesmaids.”

“And honeymooners and possibly surf instructors. Oh, my God.” I stop walking and clutch my head. “What have I done?”

“It’s okay,” Brigitte soothes. “Just tell them you can’t do it.”

Right. I’ll tell them I can’t do it. I can’t teach a yoga class. And I can’t surf. Can’t travel without getting all bent out of shape, can’t get a man to stay with me and share a life with me. I hate
can’t.
Kate wouldn’t do
can’t.
“No,” I state. “I
can
do it.” I start walking purposefully down the path again.

“But how?” Brigitte asks, trying to keep up.

“I’ve taken yoga for years. I can practically recite an entire Mountain Yoga basic class by heart. My teachers used to tell me all the time how good I was at yoga. Well, how different can taking a class be from instructing one?”

Brigitte shrugs. “I guess you’ll find out. When is the class?”

“Tomorrow morning. Randy and Evan had already told Juan, the manager, before I even got downstairs after lunch. He was thrilled.” I manage a weak smile. “He even gave me another free night.”

“You should get every night free in that bug condo,” Brigitte says, “without having to teach. I mean, pretend to teach.”

Her lack of confidence is dissolving my resolve. “Look, I’ll keep it simple. Just one class, everyone’s happy, and my cover’s not blown. Besides, how many of Bon Voyage’s writers can say they’re actually saving the website money on these trips?” That is, if I can keep them from getting slapped with a lawsuit after this fake yoga teacher accidentally breaks somebody’s neck.

WE GO BACK to the beach for our afternoon surfing lesson, and Randy is telling us about our equipment. We’ll each get beginner’s boards, which, unlike regular surfboards, are made of foam rubber. “This way, if your board konks you on the head, you’ll laugh, as opposed to when a fiberglass surfboard konks you,” he says. “Being unconscious is definitely un-fun.”

He shows us how to attach the leash to the board and to our ankles, both so we don’t have to swim after the board when it gets away from us, and so it won’t hit another surfer. “It’s important to stay connected,” Randy says. “You and your board are married for the week, okay?” The Bridal Party giggles, the Honeymooners give each other lovey-dovey smiles, and Brigitte looks at me with sympathy as I try not to groan too loudly.

“Now for the fashion portion of your equipment. You’ll need these shirts called rash guards,” Randy says, indicating what he’s wearing. “They call them that because they guard you against the abrasions you can get from pulling yourself up on the board repeatedly. Anya will give you a hand with those.”

We’re directed to a hut on the beach that serves as supply storage and gift shop, and Anya distributes rash guards to each of the campers. I end up with a grey shirt that’s kind of baggy and not terribly flattering. I’m about to ask for something that fits better when I see that the other women in our group have also gotten loose guards, while the few men among us are now showing pec cleavage. So that’s how Anya rolls. Kate just smiles, thanks Bitchy Anya, and walks away.

We’ve come to the Meet Your Surfboard part of the afternoon, and everyone lines up to get sized for the right board. William, being almost as tall as Carson, gets a long blue board, while the Honeymooners, both about my height, get shorter ones.

Then it’s my turn. While Carson looks me up and down politely, I can’t help but take in his broad shoulders, the curve of his toned biceps, his sinewy arms, his strong hands. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. I attribute the noticing of this detail to Kate, who might be interested in such a thing, while I am in mourning over my failed relationship. In my mind, Kate gently kids me for being a killjoy.