Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CLAIRE
Claire turned the key and entered her room.
Though she’d told the front desk not to bother, housekeeping had done a full refresh—clean towels, bed made, pillows fluffed, and a bucket of Red Stripe, ready and waiting.
She snatched a beer from its icy bath, shimmied out of her damp swimsuit, and rinsed off in the outdoor shower.
Nearly a week had passed since Claire departed her London flat under the cover of darkness, determined to get as far away from work as possible.
The predawn taxi ride to Heathrow in the pouring rain confirmed her destination of choice.
A place of familiar and literal warmth. She and Molly had spent many a raucous Spring Break here in Jamaica.
Her father and uncle had crashed their party one year too.
The girls had been royally pissed off when the men sauntered out to the pool area, dressed in loud shirts and sporting a significant buzz.
But, per usual, Harry Jordan and his brother-in-law, Hamish Fielding, became the life of the party.
And, as a bonus, Claire and Molly never touched their pocket money for the remainder of the trip.
Harry and Hamish were more than happy to spoil them.
Oh, to go back to those simple days, Claire thought with a long pull on her beer.
Her last visit to Negril had been with Calvin.
He’d rented what she suspected might be the most expensive house with views of Seven Mile Beach.
A drop-dead gorgeous villa, complete with a full-time chef, a jovial bartender, and a stealthy housekeeper.
It should have been the greatest vacation of her life.
Less than twenty-four hours into it, Calvin all but disappeared, lost to business calls or parked behind his laptop.
They never even had sex. A whole week together in a tropical paradise, and her most intimate experience had been a ninety-minute full body massage.
Clean and free from beach sand, Claire wrapped her wet hair up turban-style in a towel. As she slathered lotion from head to toe, her cell phone rang.
“No, I still haven’t gotten laid on this trip,” Claire answered on speaker.
“Are you telling me there are no single men in the whole damn resort?” Molly asked.
“I’m telling you that I’m not looking.”
Claire choked back a laugh when she heard Molly sigh with frustration.
“What exactly have you been doing with your time then?”
“Well, let’s see. Mostly loading up on jerk chicken and Jamaican beer and falling asleep around nine-thirty. Oh, and I’ve read two romcoms.”
“Thrilling,” Molly said, her tone cemented in sarcasm.
“I am scheduled for a massage and facial tomorrow though.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
“I didn’t come here for love, Mol.”
“Who said anything about love? I’m talking about lust, Claire—lust. Surely there’s a hot cabana boy within arm’s reach.”
“Thank you, but I’m not interested.”
Claire’s emphasis on the word not came out way stronger than she intended and silenced their conversation for a minute.
“I’m sorry, Mol,” Claire apologized.
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I know that you’ll know when the time is right.”
“And I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
The two chatted for a few more minutes before ending the call.
Claire pulled on a hotel robe, grabbed another beer, and moved out onto the balcony.
The gorgeous sunset signaled meal time. Her poolside sandwich at lunch had long worn off, but the thought of getting dressed for dinner held no appeal. Room service it is.
An hour later, a handsome young man with a bright smile and muscles for days arrived with a tray of food. Claire’s mind flashed with images of their naked bodies intertwined, thrashing about in the king-size bed. He’s what? Early twenties? Maybe twenty-five at the most.
“Will that be all?” he asked, awaiting a signature on her receipt.
I’d like for my best friend to stop planting ridiculous ideas in my head.
“I think that’s it, thank you.”
With a nod, he exited her room.
Claire sat on the bed, cheeseburger in one hand and TV remote in the other. After three cycles through all the channels, she finally decided on an old Fred Astaire movie–one she’d seen before, thus her attention drifted.
“You’ll know when the time is right…”
Molly’s words bounced around her head, to the point that she lost her appetite.
Shoving the tray aside, she made a beeline to the safe located in the closet.
She punched in the four-digit code—Calvin’s birthday, oddly enough—and waited.
The small metal door popped open to reveal just three items: her passport, three hundred dollars in cash, and the engagement ring.
Claire slipped the ring into position on her left hand, unsure why still had it.
She’d texted Liz on New Year’s Eve, asking for her input.
Liz eventually responded and told her to keep it.
It made its way onto her finger more times than she cared to admit—mostly as a deterrent to anyone who might show romantic interest. But when it did, it confirmed a simple truth: forgiving herself seemed light years away.
With teeth brushed, she grabbed her book and crawled into bed.
The plan to read until she fell asleep failed.
She couldn’t banish Calvin from her brain.
She reached for her phone and googled his name—a practice she did regularly.
She had to hand it to Lucy. Other than a brief mention of his accident days after it happened, there was zero news about him.
Well, no personal news. His name was still attached to several upcoming Hollywood productions.
She, herself, was not mentioned and never had been.
Claire struggled to focus on her book but restlessness grew.
Her two beers had barely scratched the surface.
With a sigh, she dressed, shoved her hair up into a messy bun, coated her full lips with her favorite lip balm, and made her way downstairs.
Steel drum music and laughter from the main bar near the pool filled the air.
Wanting to avoid a crowd, she opted for the smaller bar—The Neon Note—a quiet space that featured a brightly painted piano parked smack dab in the center.
Claire stood at the entrance, her face falling into disappointment. The Neon Note had a crowd of its own. With a sigh, she pushed her way through the masses to the one and only empty barstool.
“Evening." The bartender nodded.
"Good evening," she answered.
"What sounds good?"
"Bartender’s choice.” She smiled. “Surprise me."
Claire caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Her eyes were somewhat puffy, which might have been emotion, too much sun, or a combination of the two.
Luckily, her oversized tortoise shell frames concealed the worst of it.
She stared in awe at the dozens of female patrons scattered around the bar, all dressed as though they were about to walk a tropical but very fashionable runway.
She looked down at her loose linen sundress and shiny silver Birkenstocks.
Beach hippie casual and boring, she decided after a moment's inspection.
She continued to size herself up as the bartender placed a cocktail on a napkin in front of her.
“A little something I invented—it’s called Jefton Juice.” His eyes sparkled with pride.
She eyed his nametag. Jefton.
“Am I gonna regret this, Jefton?”
“Yet to be seen, miss. My momma always says good things bring happiness, bad things bring experience. Either way, there’s value.”
Claire took a sip, her eyes wary and still watching him.
“It’s a good thing, yes?” he asked.
“It’s fabulous.” She took another sip. “Fruity but not overly sweet.”
"Would you care to start a tab then?" he asked.
"I don't think so. It’s a little crowded in here for me, so just the one drink tonight."
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s like this every night.” He laughed and pushed a receipt in front of her. “If you sign here, I’ll charge it to your room.”
“Perfect, thank you.”
She took a couple more sips then moved her eyes back up to the mirror, locking on a man sitting at the piano.
She'd heard his song earlier but couldn't recall where. His arrangement of the tune was slower, jazzier, and much more sensual than the original—definitely not what you’d expect to hear at a festive, beachside bar.
A few more sips into the cocktail, her chest grew heavy and heated.
For the first time in months, she truly disappeared, forgetting her past and her pain as the soft notes fell over her.
She watched a server deliver a Red Stripe to a handsome man sitting alone at a tiny table near the piano.
He nodded with humble thanks, taking a small sip before signing his receipt.
Claire kept her eyes on the man until she finished her drink.
She motioned to the bartender, indicating her desire for a refill by raising her empty glass.
“Just the one drink, eh?” he asked playfully.
“Last one, I promise.” Claire smiled back.
“Oh, the promises I’ve heard standing behind this bar, miss,” he said with a smirk.
A couple seated near the man stood to leave.
Claire tracked them, watching closely until they were out the door.
No one else in the crowd seemed to be aware of the vacant table, and Claire quickly snagged it for herself.
Once seated, she focused on the musician—a man of slight build, probably close to seventy, with a carefree expression.
His wrinkled hands danced across the keys.
After a minute or two, the gentleman stopped playing and offered Claire a welcoming smile.
"Any requests, miss? A favorite song, perhaps?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I have so many favorites."
"Anything you like, just name it."
"What song were you playing just a moment ago?" She hummed a few bars of the tune. "I think it’s from a movie."