SHORT STORIES 10
Chapter 1
Tessa and Greg were six weeks away from their fifth wedding anniversary when they decided the trip would be their gift to each other. No jewelry. No dinner they would forget by Monday. Just seven days in Jamaica, white sand, and the kind of quiet that did not include client calls.
Tessa was twenty-nine. She worked as a junior accountant at a mid-sized firm in Tampa and still got carded when she ordered wine.
She stood five foot two, slight through the shoulders, with a body that looked almost delicate until you noticed the curve of her hips and the full shape of her breasts under ordinary clothes.
Her hair was dark brown and wavy, usually pulled back for work, and she had the kind of face that made people assume she was younger than she was.
She had never liked that. She dressed carefully because of it, choosing cuts that looked adult rather than cute.
Greg was thirty-four, a marketing consultant who spent half his life in hotel rooms.
He was good at his job and better at apologizing for it.
When he was away, they stayed close through video calls.
Sometimes she let the strap of her top slip for him.
Sometimes he begged for more. She almost always stopped short of anything permanent.
Pictures made her nervous. Famous people got ruined by photos. Ordinary people did too.
They chose a resort near Negril because the beaches looked like postcards and the season was slow enough that they would not have to fight for a chair.
Greg had airline miles. Tessa had packed three pieces of lingerie she rarely wore and two bikinis she almost never wore outside their backyard.
She had also stopped birth control two months earlier.
The decision had been mutual. Quiet. Hopeful.
It made her body feel different, more aware of itself, as if every hour without him was counted in skin instead of clocks.
Two nights before departure, Greg called from Chicago.
"The deal is stalling," he said. "I may have to meet you there instead of flying with you."
Tessa sat on the edge of their bed and stared at the open suitcase. "Same day?"
"I will try."
He could not try hard enough. The next morning his itinerary arrived by email. Her flight landed Tuesday afternoon. His earliest seat was Thursday evening.
"I am sorry," he wrote. "If this closes, it covers the trip twice over. I love you."
She believed him. That did not make the empty passenger seat beside her any less empty.
Tessa landed in Jamaica just after one. Customs moved slowly.
The air outside the terminal hit her like warm silk.
By the time the shuttle delivered her to the resort, her blouse clung faintly to her back and her mood had softened into something less sharp.
The room was bright and clean, with a balcony that looked over the water.
She did not unpack. She changed into a pale pink bikini that covered everything it was supposed to cover, pulled a thin wrap around her hips, and went straight to the beach.
The sand was soft. The water looked almost unreal, pale turquoise near the shore and deeper blue farther out.
She claimed a lounge chair a little away from two families and one older couple, applied oil to her arms and legs, and lay back with a book she did not open.
For nearly an hour she simply watched the horizon and let the heat sink into her.
A man walked the shoreline with a bag over one shoulder. He stopped at the nearer family, spoke for a minute, then lifted a camera and arranged the children against the water. The shots looked intentional. Professional. When he finished, he shook the mother's hand and continued down the beach.
He was tall, dark-skinned, built like someone who spent more time moving than sitting. Broad shoulders. A red swim short that sat low on his hips. He could not have been older than twenty-five. As he came closer, Tessa considered pretending to sleep. Then he paused near her chair.
"Excuse me," he said. His accent was more American than local. "You are starting to pink up a little on your shoulders. Easy to burn out here."
She looked up. His smile was easy, not pushy. "Thanks," she said. "I should probably head in soon."
He nodded once, as if that was all he had come to say, and kept walking. She watched him go farther down the sand before gathering her things. She did not want a burn. She also did not want to admit that the brief attention had left a small, unwelcome heat under her skin.
That night she video-called Greg from the balcony. The connection lagged every few seconds.
"It is beautiful," she told him. "I wish you were already here."
"Did you take any pictures for me?"
Her mind went immediately to the man with the camera. "No. Just the beach."
They talked about his meeting. Then the conversation drifted the way it often did when they were apart.
She let one strap of her tank top fall. Then the other.
Greg went quiet in that particular way that meant he was watching hard.
She pulled the fabric lower until the tops of her breasts showed, then lower still until her nipples were bare to the laptop camera.
"God, Tessa," he said. "You look unreal."
"What will you do when you get here?"
"Everything." The video froze on her chest. A second later her phone rang. "Internet died," Greg said, laughing. "My last frame is you half naked. I wish I could keep it."
"Do not even joke."
"I know. I know."
After they hung up she ordered room service and watched the sun drop into the water in bands of orange and purple.
Somewhere between the last bite of dinner and the first star, an idea settled in with surprising clarity.
Professional photos. Not wild ones. Just her, the beach, maybe something he could put on a desk.
An anniversary gift that said she had been thinking of him while she waited.
In the morning she worked out in the hotel gym, then jogged a short stretch of beach. She stayed near the hotels. At the far end of the strip, a surfer came in with the smaller waves. When he stood and shook water from his hair, she recognized the photographer.
She angled closer without quite deciding to. A low wave caught her calves at the wrong moment and knocked her sideways into the wet sand. Before she could stand, a hand was under her arm.
"You all right?"
"Fine," she said, embarrassed. Sand stuck to her thigh. "You are the one taking pictures yesterday."
"That is me. Andre."
"Tessa." She brushed at her side. "I am here for our anniversary. My husband arrives Thursday. I was thinking of getting a few professional shots for him. Nothing complicated. Beach. Maybe something he could frame."
Andre's expression stayed professional. "I do that. Portfolio is in my bag if you want to look."
They walked up to where he had left a duffel.
He flipped through laminated pages while she tried not to get sand on them.
Families. Couples. A few fashion-style shots against cliffs and trees.
Near the back was a waterfall so clear it looked staged, surrounded by green that had not been cut back for tourists.
"Where is that?"
"About five miles inland. We can stay on the beach if you prefer. Your call."
She hesitated. Going anywhere alone with a stranger was the kind of choice her mother would have listed under bad ideas. But the portfolio was clean, his manner was clean, and the waterfall looked like the kind of place Greg would love to see her standing in.
"The waterfall," she said. "If that is all right."
"I can pick you up outside your hotel in an hour. Bring a few outfits. Color changes everything."
She told him the resort name, went upstairs, and stood in front of the closet longer than she needed to.
She packed a soft white sundress, a blue one-piece, the pink bikini from the day before, and a pair of sandals.
She left a note on the desk for no one in particular, as if writing something down made the plan more ordinary.
Photo shoot. Anniversary gift. Back by late afternoon.
Andre arrived in a dusty open Jeep. He had changed into a dry shirt and had real camera gear in the back.
The drive left the main road after twenty minutes and turned onto a track that bounced hard enough to make her hold the door frame.
He talked easily about light and angles and how early afternoon could still work if the canopy was thick enough.
She answered when spoken to and tried not to notice the line of muscle along his forearm when he shifted gears.
The trail from the parking pull-off was short and shaded. She heard the water before she saw it. Then the trees opened and the place from the portfolio was simply there, real and cooler than the beach, a curved fall spilling into a clear pool with a stone shelf along one side.
"We start dry," Andre said. "Then, if you want, we get a little wet for contrast."
She changed behind a stand of leaves into the white sundress. The first shots were simple. Her on the rocks. Her looking toward the fall. Her sitting with her feet in the shallows. Andre moved with quiet confidence, giving short directions without crowding her.
"Chin up a little. Good. Now turn toward the light."
After twenty minutes he suggested the blue one-piece.
She changed again. The water was colder than she expected when she stepped in to her knees.
He took more frames, then asked if she was willing to go deeper for a few shots with the fall behind her.
She was. The dress went back on over damp skin because he said white fabric against dark water photographed beautifully. The cotton clung almost at once.
"Hold the skirt up a little so it does not drag," he said.
She lifted it to mid-thigh. He took three frames, then lowered the camera.
"Higher is better for the line of your leg. Only if you are comfortable."
She looked at him over the water. His face was calm. No leer. Still, something in her stomach tightened in a way that was not only nerves. She pulled the dress higher, to the edge of her pale underwear. The shutter clicked.
"Good," he said softly. "You look like you belong here."
Heat moved through her chest. She told herself it was the compliment, the setting, the days without Greg.
She told herself a lot of things while Andre stepped into the pool with her to adjust her position.