Chapter 19
I did skip hanging out with Beckett on the third night.
And yes, he called it: I was freaked out.
Like I said, I’m not the kind of untamed woman who takes off her bathing suit top in public.
I needed a reality check. So instead of accepting Beckett’s offer to go to the movies, I stayed in with my mom.
“I just don’t understand it, Pretty Girl,” she said. “A stone cold fox of a man is dying to take you out on the town, and you’re holed up here? With me? Watching old reruns of Psych on USA?”
“This show’s great, Mom. I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”
“It’s official. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“They’re a—uh—team, right? Of, like, detectives?
” I vaguely waved at the screen from my seat in the living area of the suite that doubled as my bedroom.
Mom was tucked up under the covers in the foldout couch that was serving as my makeshift bed for the week.
“And that one can read people’s minds or something. Epic.”
“You have literally no idea what you’re talking about.
” She held the remote up and hit the power button.
“Don’t mess up my stories with your ignorant self.
Besides, your life is way more interesting right now.
I just don’t understand why you’re trying to screw it all up by pretending you don’t like him.
” She set the remote down beside her in the bed and gave me a knowing look.
“I’m not pretending anything!” I argued. “Can’t a girl just want to hang out with her mom in paradise for a night?”
“Of course! Except, not on a couch, indoors, watching old, bad cable television,” she retorted. “If I was my old self, we would be out at a show or at the casino. Or on that drunk bus!”
“The Kukoo Kunuku?”
“Yes! The school bus thing!” she went on. “But I’m a waste of a good time now. I get tired at 8:00 p.m. Which is why none of you being here makes any sense to me!”
“It’s not my fault they don’t have Netflix or something better to watch than this. Besides, I came here with you, remember? I wasn’t expecting to go on any drunk bus!”
“That’s fine. I’m not coming at you about that. I’m just saying—I think you’re afraid to like this guy. And I don’t want to sit by and let you screw up a potentially amazing thing. Especially not on my account!”
“I’m not!” I insisted.
“You will, if you keep this shit up,” Mom said. She took a breath and placed her hand on her chest. I could hear the slight wheeze in her throat.
“Calm down,” I said. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Yes, let’s not elevate my blood pressure needlessly,” she agreed. “Tomorrow night, you go out with Beckett and leave me to my cable TV stories.”
I sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Maybe so. But I’m not wrong. He likes you. And you like him.”
I tried to suppress my smile.
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life is short. You’re young, and beautiful, and totally capable of being happy. You deserve that, Melody. You’re my little girl, and I’ll be damned if I steal even one night of joy from you.”
“I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
She took another exaggerated breath. “I love you, and I know you don’t.
But I’m not lonely. Don’t you see the difference?
Loneliness is the perpetual state of being without a soulmate.
I’ve never been lonely. Not since you came along, Pretty Girl.
You’ve always been my soulmate.” She inhaled again, and her voice shook.
“But I won’t be here forever. You have to find your own soulmate.
Someone to love you long after I’m gone. ”
“Will you stop it, please?” I replied. “I don’t want to talk about that. We said we wouldn’t talk about that here.”
“Fine. You’re right, and I’m sorry. But promise me you won’t pull this shit again. You go out with Beckett tomorrow night. And every night if he asks you. See what he’s all about,” she explained. “If it turns out he’s terrible, then fine. Be done. But not without giving him a fair shot first.”
“Deal.”
“Swear it.”
I exhaled, fed up. “I swear.”
“Good.”
“Now put back on that stupid show, please.”
She nodded, held up the remote, and turned the TV back on.
And for the rest of the night, I felt like shit, because I knew everything she said was right.
I didn’t want to face the idea of a life without my mother in it, even if that alternate reality came with a happily-ever-after courtesy of a wonderful guy like Beckett.
But I made her a promise, so on day four, when he asked me if he could take me to the Sopranos Piano Bar after dinner, I said yes.
Aruba is divided into sections, at least as far as tourists know.
It’s a small island, only twenty miles long, with everything that matters to visitors running along the western and southern shores.
Most of what folks come to see stretches from the capital city of Oranjestad eight miles west to the northernmost tip of the island, where the California Lighthouse is located.
Between those two points, one can find the low-rise section at Eagle Beach and the high-rise section at Palm Beach, and yes, they’re labeled as such based on the height of the hotels in each area.
The high-rise features more of the well-known, popular chains like the Ritz-Carlton, several Marriotts, the Hilton, the Hyatt, and the Radisson.
The low-rise has less expensive brands like La Quinta and local brands like the Divi Resorts.
Oranjestad houses the cruise port. The only real game in the capital from a large hotel standpoint is the Marriott, with its twin buildings: the Marina Hotel and the Ocean Suites.
Heading east, there’s another twelve or so miles of Aruba, but anything past the airport is mostly home to locals.
Savaneta, the original capital of Aruba, is about twenty minutes east of Oranjestad, and Baby Beach—named as such because the water stretches out for miles and only goes up to your waist—is the southernmost tip, a thirty-five-minute drive from Oranjestad.
The Sopranos Piano Bar was named after the famous television show from the early 2000s.
Why it should exist in Aruba of all places was beyond me.
The Sopranos was set in New Jersey, and it’s about the mob.
Not exactly Aruba vibes, but okay. Apparently, the Sopranos Piano Bar had very little to do with the show itself, outside of the ambience being similar (inside, not outside) and there being lots of Sopranos paraphernalia on the walls—signed photographs and such.
A good spot for live music and drink specials.
My only issue with it was that it was situated down by the high-rise area of Aruba, about four miles (or ten minutes) away.
“I’d love to go there, Beckett. But, I have to be honest, I’m concerned about this one,” I said, jutting my chin in the direction of my mother, who had opted to sit next to Beckett at dinner on our fourth night in Aruba. We were at Casa Tua, an Italian restaurant next to the Dutch Pancake House.
“Concerned about what?” she asked me, spinning a bite of linguine alfredo around her fork.
“Mom, it’s not right close by. It’s a cab ride away.”
“So?”
“We can go somewhere else if you don’t feel comfortable,” Beckett offered. “I didn’t realize that would be a concern.”
“No. She’s being ridiculous,” my mom declared. “What’s a cab ride on the smallest island on earth? Ten minutes? Also,” she added, “who cares? I am literally going to go back to the room, wash my face, brush my teeth, and curl up in bed.”
“I just read good things about it on Tripadvisor. Thought it might be fun,” Beckett explained.
“Fun!” Mom exclaimed. “Yes. Yes to all of the fun. Right, Pretty Girl?”
I sighed. “Yes to all the fun.”
Beckett cocked his head. “Am I missing something?”
“No,” I said. “My mother here thinks I need to lighten up.”
“I mean, you’re absolutely welcome to join us, Birdie,” he went on. “I’m sure you’d love it, given your background in music. And we don’t have to stay late or anything. We could just get one drink, you know? Request a song or two?”
“I’ve been to more piano bars than you could count, sweetie,” Mom said to Beckett. “I lived in Nashville for some time. Long before my girl, here.” He nodded. “But you two go ahead. It does sound fun.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll go. And you’ll be fine.”
“I will, babe.” She reached across the table to place her hand on mine. “I’ll be completely fine.”
“I’ll take excellent care of your daughter,” Beckett said.
“I have no doubt about that,” Mom grinned. “Good!” She clapped her hands. “I’m glad that’s all settled.”
After dinner, I walked Mom back to the hotel room, freshened up, and met Beckett in the lobby, as was our routine.
He gave me a kiss on my forehead. “Hey,” he began, “were you okay at dinner? We seriously don’t have to go if you’re going to be nervous. I completely understand.”
“It’s fine,” I replied. “I want to go. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”
“Then what is it?”
“Can we sit for a sec?” I asked.
“Sure.” He led me to one of the lobby couches. We sat down and positioned our knees toward one another. “Go ahead.”
I took a deep breath, summoning my courage. “I really like you,” I blurted out.
He smiled, then his features twisted up in consternation. “Uh-oh. Is there a but coming?”
“No”—I shook my head—“that’s all. I really like you.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” he asked, brightening. “Because I really like you too.”
The words felt like a warm hug. “Yes, it’s good. I just—I wasn’t expecting any of this to happen. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. I didn’t think I’d meet someone on this trip. It’s been a crazy ride from the moment we met at the airport back in New York.”
“Right? I guess I’m nervous because I don’t feel like myself around you.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, lifting his hand to my face to tuck a flying tendril of hair behind my ear. The gesture gave me goose bumps on my upper arms.