Beach Glass (9 page)

I chew on the end of my pen, a bad habit I try not to engage in, as I read the list over. On paper, Daniel looks great. Except for the word my pen scrawls out now.
Afraid.
The word sits there on the page, making me fold my arms in anger. Not just because I could hate Daniel for being too fearful to embrace life with me. It’s because that’s one of my least favorite characteristics about myself. He kept asking me during that big bad birthday conversation why I’d never brought up marriage and kids before. Well, it was because I was afraid he’d say no.

A soft breeze brings the aroma of my coffee to my nose, and I put down my pen and take a sip. I can’t help but make a yummy noise, which reminds me of Carson. A smile comes to my lips, and I look around, even though no one would know what I was doing if anyone else were here. Then I turn to a fresh page and write
Carson.

Adapting what I wrote about the surfing lessons but abandoning any pretense of actually working, I write
Incredibly friendly.
Smiles at everyone.
Now, these two things could just be a function of Carson’s job, since he has to be nice to the guests, but it doesn’t come off that way. When he smiles, which is often, he smiles all the way up to his eyes.
Seems to be in love with life,
I write.
Great surfer.
That’s not fair. Daniel is a great chess player, but for some reason, that didn’t make it to his list.
Good teacher.
Both my parents were teachers, so I know about patient, kind instructors.
Appreciates good food. Seems to appreciate everything.
Great listener. Excellent handshake.
Again, Daniel’s perfectly fine shake wasn’t counted, dismissed like a hanging chad on a voting ballot. And lots of crooked politicians have great handshakes, too.

Carson’s list seems kind of superficial. Well, I just met him yesterday, after I saw him surfing at sunrise. I remember watching him run happily into the ocean, confident and unafraid, which is close to the attributes I wanted for my new persona. For me.

I look up to think about more things I like about Carson and find a pair of startlingly green eyes staring at me. “Hey,” Carson says, giving me that smile I was just writing about.

“Oh, uh, hey,
hi
,” I blather. I smile and try to close my notebook without being too obvious about it.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just came by to grab some coffee,” he says, not moving from the spot where he’s leaning casually against the wooden rail of the veranda, facing me.

“Yeah, this coffee is great. Best I’ve ever had.” Somehow it got even better in the last five seconds.

“It comes from the mountains just a couple of hours away,” Carson tells me. “They roasted it right here this morning.”

“That is amazing,” I say. Then again, I’m beginning to think Carson could read the label on a bottle of aspirin and make it sound amazing. “How come you’re not at the beach for the afternoon lesson?”

“I think everyone’s kind of beat,” he says. “Only Krystal and Allegra showed up. Evan and Randy have it covered.”

I smile as I imagine how happy Krystal is right now and how disappointed Allegra must be.

“Thanks again for the yoga this morning,” Carson says. “I don’t usually take the class, as you could probably tell.” He gives a little self-effacing laugh. “But I wanted to try it with you after I watched you doing it.”

My jaw unhinges. “You watched me doing yoga?” I didn’t know I had an audience and that the audience was Carson. How long was my butt in the air, and, OMG, did I fix my wedgie in front of him?

“I went to the cove to surf this morning, and I saw you there,” he says. “I didn’t want to bother you, so I went someplace else. But I have to admit, I did stay and watch you for a few minutes. You were so graceful.”

The way he says it, I’m not embarrassed anymore. “Well, I have to confess that I’ve watched you surf in the morning, too. I love the way you move on the board.” I hope I don’t sound like an idiot, but Carson is grinning at me.

“Tell you what,” he says. “We’ll both keep going to the cove in the mornings. You do yoga, and I’ll surf. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, and hold out my hand to shake on it.

His fingers close over mine, not shaking my hand as much as holding it for a moment, pressing it gently. I feel his thumb travel over the sensitive skin at the back of my hand. Just once, quickly, but it sends a subtle message. Our eyes meet and hold, and he seems to be waiting for me to do or say something. But when I don’t, mostly because I can’t, he releases my hand. “I should let you get back to that,” he says, his eyes dipping to my notebook.

I shouldn’t get back to what I was doing
, I think after Carson says he’ll see me at dinner and leaves. I should get back to work.

I DID TRY TO do some work, really. But I gave up when I noticed I’d switched from rubbing my ring finger like it was Aladdin’s tragic lamp to tracing the back of my hand, where Carson gave it that slight touch that was a little more than surf instructor to student.

On the way downstairs from the veranda, I check my email on the guest computer in the front office. I sit at the teak desk in a plush office chair and scroll down to the bottom of my inbox, scanning the “From” headings. There’s some spam, a few messages from publicists sending press releases, a note from Dina at
Bon Voyage
telling me to have a great time and that she knows my story’s going to rock. I think about my sparse notes and resolve to be more businesslike. I’m here to work not wonder what a caress across the back of my hand might mean.

There’s a message from Mom asking a dozen questions, mostly about my safety. Am I using bug spray to keep the malaria-bearing mosquitos away, am I watching out for barracuda, and do I understand that monkeys can be cute
and
dangerous? I write back a quick note telling her that I’m mostly bug, barracuda, and monkey-free, and that I love her.

The last message, at the top, is from Daniel.

My heart jumps with a pang when I read the subject line:
Please.
I hesitate, not wanting anything to upset or distract me while I’m supposed to be working, but of course I open his message.

Katy,

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you how sorry I am. Call me every name in the book, and it won’t begin to cover what an ass I’ve been. I know you’re mad at me and ignoring my calls, so I figured I’d write to apologize. I never meant to hurt you. You know that.

Please, let’s talk this over. I know we can figure something out. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to be without you, ever.

I love you always,

D

I read the message twice. At first, I want to jump up and get a phone card from the front desk and call him immediately, but something about his words keeps me in my chair.
Let’s talk this over. We can figure something out.

It’s all on me again, isn’t it? If I want him back, I have to compromise. Settle for moving in and try to figure things out as more baby-less years go by. My arms fold angrily against my flat belly. If he wants me back, why doesn’t he just man up and marry me? Honestly, is being with me such a terrifying prospect?

Wait. Is that what he wants to talk about? Being a writer, I can’t help but create scripts about the way I think things should go. If I were Daniel, I wouldn’t just be begging forgiveness, I’d be proposing marriage. But by email? That’s not very romantic. It sure wouldn’t stand up against Allegra’s sweet engagement story. I try to picture what it would sound like.
Daniel and I had a huge fight the night of my thirtieth birthday because he gave me a watch instead of a ring. So I left the country, and then he sent me an “I’m so sorry and would you marry me” email.
Nope, that is so not the engagement story I’d want to tell my friends, my kids, strangers at a surf camp, or anybody.

And Daniel’s no idiot. A jerk, maybe, but he knows how important this is to me. He’d never pull an e-gagement. That is, if he intends to propose to me at all. There’s only one way to find out. I sign out of my email account and go to the front desk to buy a phone card.

Behind the closed folding door in the tiny, old-fashioned phone booth, I can hear my heart outpacing the sound of Daniel’s cell phone ringing. This wasn’t a good idea. My stomach is jumping over the prospect that I might finally get what I want, or over the possibility that I’ll be told no all over again. I’m about to hang up when I hear a frantic “Hello? Hello?”

“It’s me.” My voice sounds small, unsure.

“Katy, where have you been?” Daniel exclaims. “Did you get my messages? I’ve been freaking out!”

“I’m away on a business trip. I forgot my cell at home.”

“Oh my God, I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Where are you?” he asks, still agitated.

I debate whether or not to tell him, but I can’t come up with a reason why I shouldn’t. “Costa Rica,” I say. “I’m doing a travel story on a surf and yoga camp.” I like the way this sounds, like I’m not just sitting at home and suffering.

Daniel composes himself. “Oh. I—I thought you were just ignoring me.”

“The way you ignored me after you left me in the middle of the night on my birthday?” Oops. I think I just blew my cool, but the heck with it. I’m pissed.

I hear Daniel sigh heavily. “Katy, I’m so, so sorry. You have to believe me. I never wanted things to go the way they did. I didn’t mean to leave that way, but I didn’t know what to do.” His voice sounds helpless. “I wish you weren’t so far away. I want to talk to you face to face, to be with you. When are you coming home?”

“Not for a while. Did you have anything specific you wanted to say to me, Daniel?” I don’t know if I’m hoping he’ll propose over the phone, which is almost as bad as an email proposal, but I’d take it. Maybe.

“Specific?” Daniel’s tone shifts. “What,
specifically
, should I be saying, aside from that I’m sorry and I love you?”

I put my travel journal on the ledge by the phone and open to the page marked
Kate.
The person I want to be. The honest person who says what she wants, who speaks her truth. But something tells me that even Kate would decide that a long-distance phone call isn’t right for either the beginning of a marriage or the end of a relationship. “Daniel, I’m working. I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

We’ve been together for too long for me to just hang up the phone,
bang
, like we’re in a cheesy movie. But I can’t bring myself to sign off with my usual
Love you.
So I end up tacking on a muttered “Take care” before I put the phone back in its cradle.

Emerald Cove Surf Camp Schedule

Day 3: Excursion

Note: Due to cloudy weather and rough currents, today’s activity is a day trip to Arenal Volcano National Park, or you’re welcome to stay at camp and relax. Enjoy your day!

8:00 a.m.—9:00 a.m.

Group breakfast on the veranda at the Main House

9:45 a.m.—11:45 a.m.

Drive to Volcán Arenal National Park. Van will be outside of front office and leaves at 10 a.m. sharp!

12:00 noon—3:00 p.m.

Volcano tour, lunch, shopping

3:00 p.m.—5:00 p.m.

Van ride back from Arenal

6:30 p.m.—9:00 p.m.

Dinner on the veranda at the Main House

“HAVE YOU EVER seen anything like that?” Brigitte asks me.

I haven’t, and I know that when I write my article, I’ll struggle to find the words to describe what it’s like to stand just a half-mile away from a mountainous, smoking volcano that could erupt at any time. But while I may never have seen a real volcano before, today I kind of know how one feels.

I’d boarded the bus for the day trip with Brigitte, William, Nicholas, and all the other campers, and we figured we might be going on the trip unsupervised since none of the instructors were there. But at the last minute, Carson jumped on board and said, “Everybody ready? Okay, let’s go.”

He sat near the driver, chatting amiably with him (in fluent Spanish, no less; I make a note to add
bilingual
to Carson’s “pro” list) as we drove. And I did what I always do on long car trips. I got drowsy and fell asleep. I had a very vivid dream, but this time, it wasn’t about being a kid in the backseat of my parents’ car.

In the dream, only Carson and I were on a day trip, not at the volcano but at one of the waterfalls I’d read about in my guidebook. Behind the rushing water, there was a cavern wide enough to walk into. It was dark and cool with fresh spray from the waterfall that hung like a large, natural curtain in front of us. Making sure we were alone, Carson suddenly pulled me into his arms and kissed me like I was the source of everything he’d ever hoped for. Then he edged back, asking with his sparkling eyes whether I wanted him to keep going. Unlike in real life, I was bold, like Kate would be. I said yes, not with words but with my kiss. Carson leaned into me, pressing his body to mine everywhere he could, his strong arms pulling me ever closer, and I could feel how much he wanted me. My hands explored his broad back and shoulders. I couldn’t get enough of him. I slowed down in ecstasy when he kissed his way down my neck. His mouth came to my ear and whispered one word:
You
. My skin tingled where his lips touched me as he spoke. I pulled off his shirt. He unzipped my dress. The mist from the waterfall cooled our heated bodies, and
 . . .

Then I heard Allegra say, “OMG, this humidity is turning my hair into a total frizz bomb,” an awakening that made the howler monkeys seem like being roused gently by Mozart.

I woke up completely discombobulated and unsettled. I don’t feel like Kate, in the dream or in reality. The phone call with Daniel last night stirred up all kinds of heavy feelings, like wanting to be with him and resentment over how his damn fears have ruined my plans of starting my thirties as a wife and future mother. And then I have this sexy dream about somebody I just met a few days ago.

It’s all so confusing and distracting, and I’m pissed off about that, too. Not only could I get some steady work if I do this assignment well, but I’m on what most people would think of as the vacation of a lifetime. I don’t want to be pining for a man who won’t commit or dreaming about a surfing vagabond, hot though he may be, who says things like
We
, if only in my dreams. I feel a simmering anger, just like that volcano, rising all the way up to my cheeks. I want to get back to how I felt when I was surfing, feeling the cool ocean breeze as I sailed on the waves. In those few moments, it was just me out there, being so light, so free. That feeling was new, and it was brief, but I liked it. I want to feel that way again.

I close my eyes. They say you play all parts in your dreams, and I think about Carson and Kate making love under a waterfall. That’s something I’ve never done and would probably never have the guts (or the chance) to do, but I think the dream was less about sex and really about the freedom that comes with being fearless. It’s what my alter ego Kate has, and I think Carson’s like that, too. I’m so not there, but it’s something to work toward.

On the tail end of this is the idea that I can’t get what I want until I become that kind of person. I open my eyes suddenly, intimidated by the gravity of that thought, and start looking for Brigitte, William, and Nicholas.

As I wander the park among groups of tourists, I hear a rich male voice behind me say, “Hey.” I take a deep breath and try to summon up Kate, because I know after that dream I’ll blush when I see Carson. I turn around and give him what I hope is just a friendly smile. My eyes can’t help but sweep over him, noticing his off-beach outfit of faded, soft-looking jeans, a pair of dark blue Sanuk surf shoes, and a red cotton shirt with the name of a surf company on it, its long sleeves pushed up and revealing tanned, sinewy forearms. “Nice volcano you have here,” I say breezily.

“We like it,” he says. “We plug it in when people come to visit.”

Thankfully, Brigitte walks over to us, so I don’t have to worry about making cool, unflustered conversation. She asks to take our picture with the volcano in the background. Carson’s a full head and shoulders taller than me, so he leans down and puts his arm around me. His hand rests lightly on my waist, just above the band of my khaki Capris, and the warmth of his palm is making my cheeks flush a pink I’d bet is as deep as the shade of my tank top. It’s fine, I’m fine. Just take the freakin’ picture, Brigitte.

“A little closer,” she says, taking her time focusing the camera. Oh, for the love of
 . . .
I give her a look, wondering if she’s a photographer or a matchmaker, just as Carson gently pulls me close enough that our hips are touching. Oh hell, he even smells amazing, like fresh soap and warm man. I give up and put my arms around his waist, feeling lean muscle. His cheek comes to rest against the top of my head.

Brigitte’s camera clicks a few times. “Nice, you two,” she says. When she finally finishes, Carson gives me a little smile before releasing me.
Good, okay, that’s done
, I think as I absently touch the spot where his hand was, my skin missing his touch already.

ALL THE NATURAL wonders of the world have one universal element in common: the gift shop. At least the one here isn’t too tacky, no volcanoes in snow globes, for example. But there are beautifully shaped wooden bowls, handmade braided tethers for hanging plants, lots of things made from coconuts, and of course, postcards.

As our group fills shopping baskets with gifts for family and friends back home, I wander the aisles, stopping in front of a large, colorful box full of seashells. I pick up a gorgeous, creamy conch that turns pink where the smooth shell curves inward, and I do something I haven’t done since I was a child. I hold the shell to my ear to listen.

Listen, Katy
, my father said on our first visit to his new home in California. He’d taken Bethy and me to the shore, and we walked along the coastline and heard seals barking in the distance. My sister was thrilled, both by the seals and the reunion with our father. I was quiet, remote, still trying to figure out in my teenaged mind how he could love us and have left us. Dad had been trying for the whole week to reach me.

He found a shell on the beach and handed it to me. “Put it up to your ear, Katy. Listen,” he said. I did, and I could feel my pain falling away in a moment of joyful discovery. “Hear the ocean?”

I nodded, my eyes wide. That was the first time I’d smiled in a long while. It’s similar to the way I’m smiling now at the memory.

Carson comes along and stands by me. “Mermaid cell phone,” I joke, putting the shell back in the basket.

“Ah, the shell phone,” he adds, smiling. “Are you having withdrawal? Not a lot of people get cell service here.”

“Actually, I forgot my phone at home,” I tell him. “I thought I’d break out in hives without it, but it’s kind of nice not being a slave to it, feeling like I have to check it every five seconds.” Or getting depressed over bad phone calls with the ex.

Carson nods. “I feel the same way. I don’t use mine much. It’s in a drawer in my room somewhere. I don’t want to be in a beautiful place like this and have my phone go off. I’d rather just be in this moment, you know?”

As someone who has been living in a hoped-for future for the past five years, the idea of being here, right now, sounds very good to me.

MERCIFULLY, THE VAN ride from the volcano park back to Emerald Cove is free of heavy thoughts and sexy dreams. After watching the lush green countryside whizz past my drowsy eyes, we arrive back at camp just in time for another yummy, healthy dinner, with a backdrop of a brilliant sunset in shades of orange and purple. Then, Juan leads us all to the beach for a bonfire, complete with music, wine, and cake with luscious dulce de leche filling. Soon everyone’s feeling good, stoked on drinks, sugar, and a beach fire.

William and Brigitte beckon me to sit with them. They’ve been so great about making sure I’m not lonely on this trip. That’s a good thing, because as I look around the campfire, I can’t help but notice that everyone has somebody, either here or at home. The bridal party girls all have their men, and now Krystal is having a whispery chat with Evan. The Honeymooners kiss languorously. Brigitte, of course, has William, who’s got his arm around her. The scene goes a little blurry when tears start pooling in my eyes.

At just that moment, little Nicholas crawls into my lap and starts falling asleep. I stroke his silky hair, imagining what it would be like to have my own child in my arms. I have to take a deep breath to keep the tears from spilling. Someday, I promise myself. Someday soon.

Fortunately, I’m distracted when William and Dean, the only guy campers, start asking the instructors about the biggest waves they’ve ever surfed. “I did a triple overhead in Maui,” Randy boasts.

“Yeah, but a wave three times your height is only twelve feet,” Evan jokes. Everyone laughs, and Randy mimes punching Evan, even though he’s laughing, too. “At least I’ve been in the green room,” Randy says.

“What’s the green room?” William asks.

“Surfing in the barrel of a big wave,” Evan explains. “The sun shining through the water turns it green, and you’re surrounded by this wall of liquid jade. It’s mind-blowing.”

“It’s the ultimate surfer experience,” Randy says. He turns to Carson. “You ever been in one?”

Carson shakes his head. “I keep trying. It’s got to happen someday.”

Randy pats his shoulder. “Someday, buddy. Cartoon will surf the green room.”

“Cartoon?” Allegra asks.

“We were going to tell you about this at your surf lesson tomorrow,” Carson says. “Almost all surfers have nicknames. Randy’s is ‘Rabies’ because he surfs like a mad dog. Evan’s nickname is Evster, because, well, that’s the best we could come up with.” Everyone laughs again.

“And Carson’s is Cartoon because he rides goofy on the board, with his right foot first,” Evan explains.

“Yeah, but also because when Carson surfs, he looks like his spine’s made of rubber,” Randy says. “When Evan and I first saw him, we were like, ‘Is
that
how they surf in Long Island?’”

Carson rolls his eyes and smiles as his friends dissolve in good-natured laughter. My mind grabs on to the piece of information that Carson is from Long Island, not too far from where I live. Not that it should matter.

Randy promises us that by the end of the week, we’ll all have surfer nicknames. Everybody starts joking about what their names might be as I sigh and look into the fire, cradling Nicholas, wanting and wondering and waiting.

When I look up, I see Carson gazing at me through the flames. He gives me a smile that warms me more than the fire.

I HEAD BACK to my tent, the growing moon illuminating my way enough for me to not need my flashlight. Right before I open the door flap, I see something small and white on the wooden platform floor. Bending down, I find a treasure.

It’s the creamy conch from the volcano park gift shop. Tucked inside the pink curl of the shell is a small piece of paper with a message written on it in neat print:
Mermaid cell phone.

A small thrill goes through me. This sweet, thoughtful gift came from Carson. But why? Oh, he’s probably just being nice. He saw that I liked the shell, and he got it for me, that’s all. And then, when we got back, he apparently sprinted over here and left it for me as a surprise. Okay, that’s not just nice, that’s really nice. Like the touch on the back of my hand, this goes beyond a surf instructor being kind to a resort guest. As did the way he looked at me holding Nicholas at the bonfire. There was something in his smile, like he really liked what he was seeing.

My eyes close as I bring the shell to my ear. Just like when I was a child, I feel pain being replaced by wonder as the ocean whispers secrets to me.