17. Clive
Clive
W e’ve spent six glorious days basking in the breathtaking beauty of paradise. I never dared to dream. But tomorrow, Becca and I must return to the bustling chaos of the real world, New York, where the shadows of consequences lurk in the corners.
Despite the looming transition, I am fearless. Kay lacks the financial means, the influential sway, or the network of connections to pose any real threat to me, and Jack is practically adrift without a home. My sole concern is the mischief he might try to stir up for Becca. If only I could keep her by my side, I could shield her from harm, yet I understand she needs space to acclimate to our new reality.
As I steer the small sailboat through turquoise waters, the Caribbean sun beats down on my back. My hands grip the wheel confidently while Becca lounges at the bow, her face tilted toward the sun, dark hair whipping in the breeze. She's wearing that little white bikini that has been driving me mad all week.
"You're staring again," she calls out without opening her eyes.
I don't deny it. "Can you blame me?"
Her laugh carries on the wind, light and free in a way I've never heard during all those stilted dinners with Jack. It's a sound I want to bottle and keep.
We drop anchor in a secluded cove I discovered years ago. The water here is so clear you can see straight to the bottom, schools of tropical fish darting between coral formations. Casa Azul is just a blue speck in the distance.
"Last full day in paradise," I say as I cut the engine. "What shall we do with it?"
Becca sits up, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks at me. "I can think of a few things."
The heat in her gaze has nothing to do with the tropical sun. I've learned many things about Rebecca Jamison this week—that she's smarter than Jack ever gave her credit for, that she has an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure movie trivia, and that she snores softly when truly exhausted. But perhaps the most surprising discovery was her insatiable appetite for physical intimacy. Not just sex, though there's been plenty of that, but all the small touches that build intimacy. She reaches for my hand unconsciously and traces the lines of my face when she thinks I'm sleeping.
I move to the bow and pull her into my arms, the taste of salt on her lips as I kiss her. Her body fits against mine perfectly, and for the thousandth time this week, I marvel at how right this feels.
"I could get used to this," she murmurs against my mouth.
"Then do."
Her eyes search mine. "It won't be this easy in New York."
"No," I agree, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But nothing worth having ever is."
We spend the afternoon exploring the reef, snorkeling side by side in the crystal waters. Occasionally, she'll point excitedly at some colorful fish or peculiar coral formation, her eyes wide with wonder. Later, as the sun begins its descent, we make love on the deck of the boat and let the waves set our rhythm.
"I never knew it could be like this," she whispers afterward, her head resting on my chest.
I stroke her hair, understanding precisely what she means. Sex with Kay had become perfunctory years before our divorce—a transaction rather than a connection. With Becca, it feels like rediscovering something I'd forgotten existed.
"We should head back," I say reluctantly as the sky begins to take on sunset's warm oranges and pinks. "Get cleaned up for dinner."
"Do we have to?" she pouts, tracing lazy patterns on my chest.
"I thought we might try that little place in town. The one with the string lights and the mariachi band."
Her eyes light up. "The place we saw on our first night?"
"That's the one." I press a kiss on her forehead. "Something casual. No designer dresses, no business suits."
"Just us," she says softly.
"Just us."
We sail back to the house, the setting sun casting long golden rays across the water. After showering—together, which takes considerably longer than it should—we dress simply. I'm in khaki shorts and a linen shirt, while Becca wears a flowing sundress that makes her look like she belongs on these beaches.
"You're beautiful," I tell her as she slips her hand into mine.
We walk into town, enjoying the cooling evening air rather than taking the car. The restaurant is exactly as I remembered—vibrant and authentic, with the scent of grilled seafood and spices wafting from the kitchen. We're seated at a small table on the patio, fairy lights twinkling overhead like earthbound stars.
"Two margaritas, por favor ," I tell the waiter, who nods approvingly.
Becca looks around, taking in the locals and tourists mingling, the musicians tuning their instruments in the corner. "This is perfect," she says. "Not a wedding planner or corporate executive in sight."
"Just a man and a woman enjoying dinner."
Our drinks arrive salt-rimmed and cold. We clink glasses.
"To unexpected journeys," I toast.
"And to being brave enough to take them," she adds.
The first sip burns pleasantly, the tequila warming my chest. We order a spread of tacos, guacamole, and grilled fish. The food comes quickly, and we fall into easy conversation punctuated by laughter and the occasional brush of fingers across the table.
"What happens when we go back?" she asks suddenly, her voice quiet beneath the music.
I consider my answer carefully. "We should probably be discreet at first."
"Play it safe," she nods, a flash of disappointment crossing her features.
"Just until the dust settles with Jack," I clarify. "I don't want him making your life difficult."
"And Kay?”
"Kay will always be Kay. She'll posture and threaten, but ultimately, she cares more about how things appear than anything else." I take another sip of my drink and lean back in my chair.
Becca toys with her glass. "Do you think we can really make this work?"
"I think," I say, reaching across to take her hand, "that I've never wanted anything to work more. But I need you to be sure, Becca. This isn't a rebound for me."
The mariachi band strikes a lively tune, and couples begin moving to a small dance floor near the corner of the patio. Becca's eyes follow them, and she has a wistful expression on her face.
"I've never felt more certain about anything," she says, returning to me. "That's what terrifies me. I spent years with Jack, convinced I was doing the right thing, checking all the boxes." She takes a long sip of her margarita. "What if I'm wrong again?"
I squeeze her hand. "The difference is you were trying to convince yourself with Jack. Are you trying to convince yourself now?"
She shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No. That's just it. For once, I'm not overthinking. It just feels... right."
"Dance with me," I say suddenly, standing and offering my hand.
She laughs. "I've had two margaritas. I make no promises about my coordination."
"I'll hold you up," I promise, pulling her to her feet.
The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. I guide Becca to the dance floor, pulling her close, one hand at the small of her back. She smells like coconut sunscreen and salt air. Her body fits against mine perfectly, her head resting just below my chin.
"I could stay here forever," she murmurs into my chest.
"In Mexico?"
"In this moment."
I close my eyes, memorizing every sensation—the warmth of her body, the gentle sway of our movement, the way her breath tickles my skin. It's true what they say about time slowing down when you're truly happy. Each second stretches like honey.
"We don't have to play it safe," I say softly into her hair. "When we get back. Not if you don't want to."
She pulls back slightly to look up at me, eyes serious. "But you said?—"
"I know what I said. But I'm tired of hiding things that matter. And you, Rebecca Jamison, matter more than anything."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I think it’s safe to say we can figure things out together.”
"I'd like that," I reply, pulling her closer as we sway to the melody. "Figuring things out together."
The band transitions to something livelier, and soon, we're laughing as I attempt to teach her the basic steps of salsa. She's a quick study, her body responding to mine with an instinctive grace that belies her protests about her coordination. Her dress flares around her legs when she spins under my arm, and the joy on her face nearly stops my heart.
By our third round of margaritas, the stars are out in full force, painting the night sky with a brilliance you never see in Manhattan. We order dessert—churros with chocolate dipping sauce—and feed each other bites between kisses that taste of cinnamon and tequila.
"Now you tell me something you've never told anyone," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and happiness.
I consider this, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles. "I used to be terrified of falling in love."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You? I don’t believe it.”
"Phobias can be overcome." I smile. “You’ve made it extraordinarily easy.”
Her expression softens. "And what are you afraid of now, Clive Bishop?"
"Losing you before I've really had the chance to love you properly."
My words are more honest than I intended after three margaritas. But I don't regret them. Not when Becca looks at me like that, as if I've given her something precious.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispers.
We walk back to the house hand in hand, stopping occasionally to kiss under the moonlight. The road is quiet, and most tourists are already tucked away in their resorts. I point out constellations I recognize, and she makes up names for the ones I don't.
"That one's clearly my cat, Mr. Darcy," she insists, pointing to a cluster of stars that looks nothing like a feline.
"Clearly," I agree, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
At the house, we sit on the beach for a while, listening to the waves crash against the shore. Tomorrow, we'll be back in a world of conference calls and social obligations, as well as of ex-wives and ex-boyfriends and complications.
"I don't regret it," she says suddenly as if reading my thoughts. "Staying here. Being with you."
"I don't regret a moment," I reply, pulling her closer as we sink into the cool sand. The moonlight casts silver ribbons across the water, a sight I've seen countless times from this beach but never truly appreciated until now.
"Even knowing what we're heading back to?"
I turn to face her, cupping her cheek in my palm. Her skin is warm, slightly flushed from the margaritas and the night air. "Especially knowing what we're heading back to. It makes this all the more precious."