Chapter 3 #2
“I think we’re overdressed,” said Lora as she and Vilmari stood on the edge of an old cement pier under a sagging wooden sign that read BAIA SANTA YACHT CLUB.
Scanning the crowd beyond and already feeling a pinch from the heeled sandals she’d changed into, she instantly wanted every extra minute back of the time it took her to decide between the gold hoops and the silver star earrings, because it obviously didn’t matter a bit.
The “yacht club” consisted of three short docks populated entirely by fishing boats ranging in size from dinghy to glorified raft, and a large canvas tent vaulted over communal tables covered in butcher paper.
A four-piece band was playing a rock-ish cover of “Get Lucky” on a section of a wooden dock that bobbed with the motion of the drumming.
Farther down the pier, a man in a tricorn hat emblazoned with a skull and crossbones used a three-inch paintbrush to swipe olive oil and garlic onto dozens of skewered whole fish that were cooking over what looked like a low wall of cinder blocks.
And it seemed as though the entire town was either eating, waiting in line to eat, or—based on what she could gather from gesticulations—talking about eating.
Not one of them wore anything fancier than a pair of shorts or a breezy cover-up.
She would have had the instinct to run back to the hotel to change were it not for the 146 reasons why that was a terrible idea.
“I think we’re over-everything,” said Vilmari, scanning the crowd.
“Look at that.” She pointed to smoke rising off the makeshift grill as the man flipped the fish over quickly by the long skewers.
He reached for the tin bucket of olive oil and began painting the blackened skin.
“Do you think Cap’n Jack over there will fillet it for me? ”
Lora flicked her eyes over to where people were deftly removing skin and bones from the whole fish, a large pile of discarded parts accumulating in a separate plate on their trays.
One woman in a red bikini used her fork to remove a white hunk of fish from its backbone, dragged it through a small dish of oil, and popped it in her mouth.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Lora.
“Por Dios.”
“Maybe there’s a salad we’re not seeing,” Lora offered.
She didn’t want to be squeamish, but her days of watching a boyfriend catch panfish from a pontoon boat with a cold six-pack between them were long gone.
Her own most recent foray into seafood was eating tuna salad on a poppy seed bagel from Shelsky’s in Gowanus, no deboning required.
She wondered if she still had an extra protein bar somewhere in the bottom of her carry-on.
“Hello! Welcome,” said a voice from behind them.
They turned to see Andrea in a button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled and a pair of shorts, looking freshly shaved and decidedly more like a mayor in his glasses than he had that afternoon in a hard hat.
Lora felt a rush of excitement and recognition but caught herself.
Just because he was the only familiar face here did not mean that his face was going to become familiar.
“Thank you for coming.” He smiled and leaned in to double-kiss them both.
Lora tried to remind herself that everything she’d read online said that here, double kisses were like handshakes.
They were formal and universal, not necessarily affectionate.
Still, in this case, there was something about it that felt like being next in line for a roller coaster.
“We probably should have asked about the dress code,” said Lora, glancing down at her dress.
“Why? You both look perfect. Are you hungry? That’s Luciano there at the grill,” he said, pointing across the crowd. “He and his sons are the pescatori that caught all of this fish today, so it’s going to be fantastic.”
“Is there only fish?” asked Vilmari.
“I should have asked if you like it. Yes. Well, no, there’s pasta pomodoro for the kids, but you don’t want that.”
“We don’t?”
“Nooo,” said Andrea, shaking his head. “The fish was alive only an hour ago, and it’s going to be in your mouth in five minutes.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Vilmari said, eyeing the grill.
He laughed, leading them through the maze of people and pausing every now and then to double-kiss a hello or shake hands.
“It seems like the whole town is here,” said Lora. “How do you remember everyone?”
“Eh, Sindaco! Hai bisogno di un taglio, lo sai?” a man called from one of the tables, making cutting motions with his fingers.
“Believe me, they don’t let you forget. Sì, sì, Ottavio, ci vediamo prossima settimana,” he called back to the man. “For example, that’s Ottavio, owner of the salon in town, who is reminding me that I need a haircut.” He pushed his hair back up off his forehead.
“Some people use a calendar app for that,” said Lora.
“You know, I’ve heard that,” said Andrea. “But I can’t imagine a reminder that doesn’t yell at me from across a party.”
If Andrea was a politician, he was definitely a different breed.
Sure, he smiled and seemed to listen patiently, but there was none of that veneered-teeth, hand-pumping, fake stuff she’d seen in the US.
He was wearing old-school Converse sneakers.
How could anyone be fake while wearing Chuck Taylors?
He brought them over to buy food and drink tickets, picked up two plastic cups of orangey-crimson Spritz from the bar, and finally ushered them over to stand in line for the fish.
“Do you have time to do this with us? I am sure you have so many other people to talk to.” It’s not that Lora wanted him to leave, just that sipping a cocktail on an empty stomach and a head full of jet lag was not helping her remain unaffected every time he smiled at her.
“I have time. Also, the more I pretend to be hosting foreign dignitaries, the fewer complaints about not having enough free parking spaces I will have to listen to.”
“Foreign dignitaries, huh?” Vilmari cocked her head.
“Well, you’re Americans on official government business, so I think it counts,” he said, laughing.
“Quanti volete?” Luciano asked Andrea. He pulled out a stack of plates lined with more butcher paper and laid one skewered fish across each one.
“Due. Benissimo, grazie.” He pointed toward the women. Luciano passed the dishes over to Andrea, and he gestured with his head for them to follow him. “Come this way.”
“There’s Nico,” Vilmari whispered to Lora, catching sight of his already distinguishable rack of shoulders by the bar. “I think I’m going to go say hello again.”
“Didn’t you say something about ‘downtime after a divorce’ on the plane over here?” asked Lora, grinning.
“I decided I’ve had enough downtime. Moving out of the apartment I had with Quique and into Ellie’s place took a whole three days.
It was plenty.” Vilmari had gotten married when she’d just turned twenty and couldn’t have known that her new husband was going to try to get her to move to Puerto Rico, though neither of them was born there.
Quique was determined to get out of New York and move to the west coast of the island, while Vilmari was determined to become a journalist and live in New York City forever.
Realizing they wanted different things, they agreed to try a half-hearted long distance for a while, until Quique admitted that he was falling in love with the owner of a surf shop in Aguadilla.
When he finally said he wanted a divorce, it was a relief.
Until that time, she’d been holding her breath.
She finally breathed out, applied for a senior position at El Diario Nueva York, rented an apartment from her cousin’s former boss, a talk show host who’d moved back to California, and never looked back.
“Plus, I think I’m going to need another Spritz. You?”
“No, I’m good,” said Lora. “I’ll save a fin for you.”
“You do that,” she said, heading into the crowd with a grin.
She suddenly turned back to Lora, grabbing her hand and pulling her a few feet away from Andrea.
“Listen. I’m not trying to set you up or anything, but you know what?
He’s cute. And you’re single as hell. So, why don’t you make this trip a little fun and go ahead and get your documents stamped. ”
“Mar. Really?”
“Yes, really. Go be—I don’t know. Italian.”
“I’m not here to be Italian,” Lora hissed as Vilmari started walking away.
She turned back to where Andrea was waiting and smiled.
The sun was losing its strength behind a fluff of pink clouds, casting a rose-gold light over everything.
The band switched to a ballad, and a few couples found space to dance.
When was the last time she danced? With a person?
The closest thing might be the salsa kickboxing class she religiously took with Vilmari, which didn’t count, especially since she wore combat gear during most of it.
Andrea was pretty amazing-looking. And kind.
Plus, he could both swing off buildings and, by the looks of it, iron a shirt.
There was no way in hell she was going to be interested in another relationship until she was finished with her postdoc, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make friends with the person who had to be involved in the very tricky operation she was attempting.
Plus, she’d be gone in a couple of weeks.
What harm could she do in a couple of weeks? She took another sip of Spritz.
“Let’s sit here.” Andrea placed the fish down and gestured for Lora to sit at one of the long tables.
“This is a really nice event, by the way. The town seems like a great place to live.” Lora sat, tucking her dress up under her legs as she swung them around the bench seat.