Chapter 17
It was our third day in Aruba.
My mom was thrilled when I told her about Beckett’s big casino win over breakfast the next morning. “It’s a sign,” she insisted, sipping on a mimosa. “There’s something about him, Pretty Girl. I’m telling you.”
“Some people are just blessed with great fortune, I guess.”
“You’re blessed too.”
“I lost twenty bucks,” I replied.
“So what? Are you having fun?”
I stirred a long, skinny packet of fancy raw sugar into my coffee, smiling to myself. “I am. Thank you.”
Her eyes looked like they were filling with tears. “Good,” she said. She took a shaky breath, exhaled hard, and swallowed, chasing her emotions with a sip of the orange juice-tinted champagne.
“Are you okay?”
Mom nodded. “One day, when you’re a mom, you’ll understand.” It was a fairly typical, ambiguous response from her.
“I just hope I’ll be half the mom you are,” I replied.
“You’ll be even better,” she said. “I already know it.”
Not wanting to trigger her further, I changed the subject.
We talked about the day’s plans—laying out on the adults-only side of the beach on the private island followed by lunch at Papagayo’s Grill over there.
The adults-only beach was particularly fun because it had a small flock of pink flamingos that lived there and were protecting a nest of eggs.
But also, that side was bathing-suit-top-optional and Mom got the giggles judging the women who thought Aruba needed to see their “sacks of potatoes.” I reminded her that in today’s world, her jokes would be considered body shaming, and she reminded me that she was allowed to say whatever she damn well pleased because that’s what happens when you get old.
She also told me that I should be thanking her because at least she was discreet about it.
She could be writing songs about the potato sacks and singing them aloud to neighboring beachgoers.
“Or worse”—she warned me, as we polished off the last of our respective breakfasts—“I could be releasing my gozangas for the whole island to see.”
I laughed. “Yikes. Please don’t. Imagine if Beckett found you like that?”
“Talk about being blessed!”
“Okay, maybe no more mimosas at breakfast,” I suggested, only half joking.
“Buzzkill.” Mom puckered.
About an hour later, after returning to the hotel, changing into our suits and cover-ups, and boarding the water taxi, we arrived at Renaissance Island.
The taxi was driven by a beefy guy named Hugo, whose calves were easily the width of my head.
I overheard a nearby couple gushing about how Hugo had been working as the water taxi driver since back when they honeymooned at this resort twenty years ago.
He was like the human version of an English bulldog.
Stocky, solid, and with a gentle underbite.
He steered the boat effortlessly, his dark eyes shielded by sporty, black sunglasses and thick brows, and I noticed him staring off into the horizon with a look of contentment on his face that exuded calm.
He wasn’t what I’d imagine the picture of contentment to look like, and yet, that was how he appeared to me.
While most employees were on the bubblier side, Hugo was extremely quiet, contemplative. Like it was just him and the sea.
Naturally, my mother took a liking to him and decided that he would become her buddy.
When approaching the dock, Hugo used a single hand to spin the steering wheel expertly this way and that, flexing his forearm while casually parallel parking a boat that was easily twenty-five feet long.
He threw a rope on the dock and tied up the front, then hopped off the boat and tied up the back.
Hugo climbed out and we all began to exit in a single file.
He offered a hand to passengers so they wouldn’t get hurt stepping up onto the dock.
Mom and I were last to depart the vessel on this trip, and after she took his hand, Mom said, “Ooh la la, such a firm grip you’ve got, Hugo.
Hugo? Is that short for something?” She batted her eyelashes at him.
I climbed up out of the boat on my own, as she was still holding his hand. This poor guy was probably subjected to ladies like my mother all day.
“Si. Hugoberto,” he said, giving her what looked like a handshake so that he could remove his palm from hers.
“Well, Hugoberto, this has been a lovely ride. Thank you very much for your smooth driving.”
“Si, claro.” He nodded.
“Oh! Solo hablas espanol?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“Hablo un poco de espanol, Senor Hugoberto. Mucho gusto. Me llamo Birdie, y ella se llama Melody.” She waved her hand as she spoke.
Hugo offered a small smile. “Mucho gusto.”
“Gracias por el viaje,” she continued.
“De nada, Senora Birdie.”
“Buen dia,” she sang, flashing a smile and holding up her hand in a delicate wave.
He bobbed his head gently, held up a silent hand in an understated return wave, and turned to get back on his boat.
I took my mother by the arm. As we walked away she looked back at Hugo and smiled some more, tossing her hair beneath her floppy hat.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said.
“If by ridiculous, you mean vivacious and delightful, then yes, I’m inclined to agree,” she replied.
We grabbed towels from the towel hut and headed back the other way toward the adults-only beach.
The mama flamingo was seated primly on her nest, a mound of muddy sand beneath her measuring about eighteen inches high.
She looked like a queen on her throne, her velvet rope a yellow stream of caution tape alerting visitors to look but not touch.
A sign tacked to a nearby tree shared the nesting habits of flamingos, and the remaining, non-gestating pink birds milled about, eager for children to feed them kibble from the nearby dispenser.
For the low price of fifty cents, people squealed as rounded beaks nibbled straight from the palms of anyone offering food.
My mother paused to wonder at the mama bird perched on her eggs. “Look how majestic she is,” she noted. “So protective. Like even though all these people are around, she is firmly planted on her baby.”
“There’s probably more than one baby,” I pointed out. “Don’t nests have, like, a bunch of eggs?”
Mom shook her head. “Not flamingos. Read the sign. They usually only have one egg at a time. Two, tops. This whole nest,” she gestured, “is all for one little bird.”
“Hm,” I replied. “That’s interesting.”
“Yup. And she ignores everyone and everything around her. It’s just her and the baby,” she continued. “It’s very sweet.”
I nodded.
“Also, did you know that the mama will lose all of her color when she’s feeding the baby the crop milk?”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. Once the baby is born, Mama will create special secretions called crop milk and will regurgitate it into the baby’s mouth. It’s full of essential nutrients that the chick needs. But Mama will lose her color, because she’s draining herself of all those nutrients.”
“Wow. Will she get it back? The pink color?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t say it on the poster over there.” She smiled at the nesting bird. “Goodbye, sweet Mama,” she chirped. “Time to take my boobies out at the grown-up beach.”
“Sweet Jesus, Ma,” I laughed.
“C’mon, my little chick,” she grinned. “Let’s go.” She linked her arm in mine, and we found ourselves a couple of beach chairs by the water’s edge.
When Beckett arrived, I was on my belly, slurping my second daiquiri of the day while reading my Sophie Cousens book.
Mom was enjoying her afternoon nap. We’d opted to have food and drinks delivered to the chairs: a veggie wrap for me and a smoked salmon wrap for Mom, both with fries, and strawberry daiquiris all around.
She said that she felt too tired to go all the way to the other beach where the Papagayo’s Grill café was located and that she didn’t want to give up her perfect spot in paradise.
I made a mental note that she probably should stop drinking so early in the daytime, since she’d grown extremely weary over the past few days.
Between the alcohol, the sunshine, and the relaxing ambience, I could understand floating away into dreamland every afternoon, but she was also getting almost twelve hours of shuteye a night and I didn’t want her to miss out on the whole trip.
Beckett jutted his chin in Mom’s direction. “Asleep again, huh?” he whispered.
I stretched my arms over my head and flipped over.
He leaned down and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“Yeah,” I replied. He reached out a hand to help me up off my chair, set his drawstring bag and towel down, and kicked off his flip-flops.
Then, without a word, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing a sculpted chest and defined abs.
I looked down and traced my toe through the sand, trying not to ogle him.
I’d seen Beckett’s top half before, but it still made my breath catch in my throat.
When I finally looked up, he was smirking.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re such a perv,” he said.
I opened my mouth, aghast at his comment, but he laughed quietly and waved for me to follow him into the water.
“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake up Sleeping Beauty over there,” he said, once we were in up to our waists.
“I am not a perv, thank you very much,” I announced.
“You nearly bore a hole into the ground when I took off my shirt, Melody.”
“Ew. Think highly of yourself, do you?”
“Listen. This was advertised as a topless beach. I’m just following protocol.”
“It’s not topless,” I argued. “It’s toptional.”
Beckett laughed. “Is that even a thing? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I have coined the phrase,” I announced.
“Well, I’d certainly like to see you ‘toptional,’” he replied, throwing up air quotes.
I couldn’t hide my surprise at his comment, but my face also erupted into a big, cheesy grin. “Is that so?”