Chapter 21
R ENé’S OUTSIDE MY COTTAGE, SITTING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE stairs. He hears the squeak I make stepping onto the wood and turns around.
“I should have told you where we’re going.” He stands and runs a hand across his buzz-cut hair. “It’s outdoors.” He’s frowning.
I pause mid-step for a beat and then continue descending. “That’s okay, I’m fine.” I actually gave this some thought and put on a pretty versatile outfit.
He watches me incredulously but doesn’t budge from the bottom step. “Are you sure you want to wear all that?”
I stand tall a few steps above him, starting to get irked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He scoops up a tiny duffel bag he’s left on the step and slips the band through his wrist. He starts to move then stops again. “Not even the blazer?” he cracks, teasing me now.
“No, I’m great.” I whip up a smile. “And technically, this is a bolero.”
“Well”—he fights back a smile—“in that case, we’re ready to go.” He gestures at my large backpack, offering to carry it for me.
“I’m good.” I transfer the hefty bag over to my other shoulder.
He leads the way on the narrow deck path and turns in the direction of the beach. I glance down at my outfit. Mid-sleeve black bolero, formfitting tank, above-the-knee skirt, and booties. This is actually my most laid-back work look, but no one said anything about the beach.
As we walk, my initial excitement wanes as the nerves over the unknown kick in. I take a deep breath. “So… how far away is it?”
“Not too far. Just a few beaches over.”
A rooster crows in the distance. It’s officially the hottest morning since I’ve been here. I’m already feeling toasty under these layers of fabric, but there’s no way I’m turning around. And it isn’t just because I don’t want to admit that I was wrong. I really don’t want to make him wait again while I change.
I stop when we reach the sand, then I bend down and pull off my boots and socks, a layer of perspiration already on my face and neck. I’m about to toss them in my already heavy bag when René stops me.
“Here.” He jogs them over to a table near the back entrance of the property and carefully tucks them under one of the chairs to keep them out of the sun.
When our beach thins out, he holds the gate open for me and we come across another beach with a U-shaped dock filled with small sailboats.
We reach a taller gate. “I don’t think we’re supposed to go this way.”
“It’s fine,” he says nonchalantly.
“Is it?” I point out the “Private Property” sign.
“What do you think’s going to happen?” He opens the gate calmly. “It’s quicker this way. It’ll be fine. We’ll walk fast.”
I oblige reluctantly, and walk through. “Perfect.” I shake my head. “When they stop us, we’ll just say, ‘Sorry, Officer, we thought this property was only private for people who walked slowly. Not us quick walkers.’”
René chuckles and then seems to get lost in his thoughts for a while as we walk along the pebbly shore. Every once in a while, he picks up a stone and makes it skip across the waves.
The private beach ends and we have to climb along a path of small boulders, balancing ourselves on one large rock at a time.
“Here we are, Flamenco Beach,” René announces proudly as we turn a corner. “It’s the last lyric in your dad’s song.”
I guessed this could have something to do with my dad’s song, but I’m still visibly stunned. And unprepared for this gesture. The practically deserted beach is framed by a crystal-clear sea to the left, tall wind-breaking grass along the right, and a green mountain at the far end that jets out into the water. There’s a wide stretch of powdery white sand that curves up and down like waves on the shore.
“It’s beautiful,” I say at last, still in a bit of a daze.
René opens the small bag dangling from his wrist and pulls out what appears to be a handkerchief but, with a flick, expands into a large towel. He drops down on one side, leaving room for me to sit on the other.
“Impressive.”
“And it’s quick-dry technology.”
“You should be their spokesperson.”
“They can’t afford me.” He smiles lazily.
I take a deep breath and let the warm air fill my lungs. René’s scent slips in, too, so I get salty air with alluring undertones of musky, sweet cologne.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“My pleasure.” He eyes me curiously.
I feel like he may be expecting a bigger reaction from me, but I’m still in a bit of a shock.
As I look around, I can feel myself not letting it in fully. All my father ever did was miss this place. The food. The long drives on his only day off, so we could visit his friend’s horses. His music.
It’s been so romanticized, I’m almost surprised to discover it’s a real place.
René stretches his legs out, leans back on his elbows, and tilts his head up to let the sun kiss his face. I watch him, his skin glistening, his sculpted body at ease. Even in hot pink swim trunks and expensive shades, he still looks like he belongs here. Like he’s a natural fixture of this beach.
I, on the other hand, am sweating. Probably from the exertion of the long walk or the stress of breaking the law. It’s incredibly nice of him to bring me here but I don’t know quite what to make of it.
I take a few pictures of the beach, then set my phone down on the towel between us.
“Cute.” René points to the image saved on my locked screen.
It’s been my wallpaper forever. A picture of Meri and me. We’re cracking up as we pose in a cardigan we’re sharing, each of us wearing one arm. It’s hard to imagine it was taken only a few months after our dad passed away. As an escape, we spent that Christmas with our aunt in the Keys. It was uncharacteristically cold, and we’d gone for a walk to check out the Christmas lights on the houseboats. Meri forgot a sweater, so I shared mine and we had the best time as we stretched out my cardigan and tried to walk around like that. It had felt so good to be silly. To make her laugh again.
“That’s my little sister, Meri.” René picks up the phone for a closer inspection. “She’s not that little. We’re only five years apart,” I add in case he’s wondering why we’re practically the same height in the photo. “She’s a big fan of yours, actually.”
He nods appreciatively. “Is that you?” He sounds alarmed.
“Yes.” Insulted, I try to take the phone from him.
“Sorry, it’s just… you look different.” He holds the phone next to my face. “You look older there than you do now.”
He isn’t wrong. My hair is flat and tucked behind my ears, dark circles under my eyes.
I focus on Meri’s wide toothy smile. “She was the only kid in the world excited to get braces.” I can feel René’s gaze on me. “She wanted to grow up so she could be a woman so badly.”
“I bet you were like that too. Wearing little blazers.”
“No, actually”—I yank the phone from his grip—“I wasn’t.”
“So, why do you think your father included this place in the song?” He takes his sunglasses off; his dark brown eyes seem to be smiling. “What did he like about this beach?”
“Oh…” I look around, tiptoeing past the discomfort in my chest. “I don’t know.” Not too far off, two large seagulls glide effortlessly over the water, and then expertly dive in and out of it.
“Actually”—he reaches for his bag and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper—“I wrote out the lyrics.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, last night,” he responds matter-of-factly. “The digital transfer is still in Santiago’s computer from when we emailed it to you.”
“Oh, right.” After we listened to the song, René had Santiago use the recording studio to transfer the old recording into a more reliable digital file for me.
“Okay.” René reviews the list, getting down to business. “The waterfall you already went to.” He glances at my knee. The skin is pink now and less swollen. “Resaca Beach,” he continues, “is on the other side of the island. That one’s a little harder to get to. I’ll find out where we can hear some bomba music. And you’ve had alcapurrias before?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Really? They’re so good.” He studies the last line of the song. “The dock beneath the sea.” He frowns. “I don’t know what that is, but I’ll ask around. I can help you do it all while you’re here.”
“No, no, that’s okay. You’re too busy to—”
“I want to.” He hands me the lyrics.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” I slide my feet off the towel and onto the sand. Knowing I may actually experience what my dad most wanted for me is like setting something heavy down I didn’t know I was carrying. And I feel some of my guard drop along with it.
I glance at the lyrics, my eyes lingering over the last line.
Last night I saw Flamenco Beach in my dreams
The memory rushes back vividly. My dad and his band performing the song at Christmas. Probably one of our last. The scent of a pig roast and the heat of family and friends crowded into the living room. He began improvising and adjusting the lyrics. Last night, I saw Meri in my dreams. Last night, Dani was in my dreams. We cheered as each person was included and waved their arms around, dancing.
“I used to think it was a happy song.” I watch the waves, feeling René’s eyes on me. “But it’s really kind of sad, isn’t it?” I let out a deflated half laugh. “Nothing but broken dreams and longing for a time and a place you can never truly return to.”
René’s quiet for a moment. “I can assure you as a fellow singer-songwriter, he did return.” He gestures at the lyrics. “Every time he sang that song.”
The thought is so refreshing, my eyes instantly water. “Thanks,” I say, meaning it, and glance down at my feet.
“How did he die? If you don’t mind me—”
“No, it’s okay.” I switch on the cool, distant approach I’ve perfected when I talk about my father. As though he were someone else. “He had a heart attack while he was at work.” I tighten my ponytail with both hands. “One day he just didn’t come home.”
“That’s… I’m so sorry.” René’s words are soft and deeply felt, and instantly push me closer toward the hole in my chest. “I never met my father,” he says. “He split before I was born.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. My mom’s a badass.” He half smiles, half smirks.
“That’s good. Mine is too. And a little unpredictable.”
“Nice,” he responds like it’s a good thing.
I have this strong urge to correct him. I try to focus on the seagulls. “Not really,” I blurt out, unable to hold back. “For years, the month of the anniversary of my father’s death she’d shut down. Barely come out of her room. Which sucked because he passed away in September, so the first year it coincided with Meri starting a new school.” The words are flying out of me. “So I had to drive her myself and convince her that Mom was just tired. So no, it wasn’t nice .”
“I see.” I kick myself for unloading all of that.
“Sorry. I don’t usually talk about all that.”
“No, it’s okay.” He gives me a warm, commiserating smile and I feel my whole body relax a couple of notches. “Sounds like they were lucky to have you.”
“Yeah, I guess. I was lucky too, though. It was good… to have someone else to focus on, I think.”
“You really don’t talk about all this?”
“Actually, I never have,” I admit more honestly.
His eyes shoot up. “Good. This is good.” René puts a hand over his heart. “You have to get that stuff out.”
“Do I? I’ve always found that not to be the case.” Though I’ll admit sharing how hard it was at first does make me appreciate how much better Mom is doing now.
“I grew up with my mom blasting classic Puerto Rican ballads.” René extends his legs long out in front of him. “I thought everyone’s kitchen had a radio that only played that kind of music. I’d come home from school and we’d dance together. If sad and sappy music wasn’t playing loudly in our kitchen, something was wrong. We owed money or something.” René pauses, seeming weighed down by what he’s about to say. “I loved coming home and hearing sad music playing.”
“I know what you mean. My mom loves those songs too. As long as the dejected lovers are looking at the same moon, everything’s fine.” I pretend to swoon.
“Well, obviously. Intense romantic melancholy equals happiness.” I can’t help but smile. “That’s all I ever wanted.” He looks into my eyes. “To make music that melts away your troubles. Makes you lose your inhibitions.”
It’s the most René’s ever opened up about his childhood. I wish there was a camera here. Then again, he’s probably being this candid because there isn’t a camera around.
“Be honest—is this why you haven’t wanted the cameras around? Because you’re not making a reggaeton album at all, are you? You’re making a sappy, romantic one and you don’t want us there for it.”
“I wish. Those songs are the best. Maybe one day I’ll be dejected enough to write a ballad your mom would approve of.”
I smile and shake my head, thinking about my mom. “She’d love it if I were dejected.”
“What do you mean?”
“I broke up with someone not too long ago and didn’t react the way she expected. But it’s, like, what kind of mother wants her child to cry over a broken heart?”
“The kind that wants them to feel something. I’m going to have to side with your mom on this.”
My mouth drops open, pretending to be shocked, while a little voice inside my head creeps in. That’s because you’re the one who leaves them crying.
“So what, you were happy it was over? What was wrong with this ex?” His bold demeanor seems somewhat weakened.
I glance back in the direction we came. “Nothing,” I defend. “There’s was nothing wrong with him. And I wasn’t happy it was over. I just wasn’t… affected. That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not good.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “All right, now you be honest”—his bedroom eyes switch on—“why are you always so stiff?” The smile on his face is mischievous.
“I’m not stiff.” I force my jaw to unclench.
“Seriously. It’s like you’re not comfortable in your skin. Which I don’t get, because you have really nice skin,” he adds casually.
My cheeks fire up and the beach feels warmer. “Thanks. For that partial compliment.” He waves it off, his eyes still on me. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, suddenly feeling bold.
He considers this. “You’ve never been before, so you needed to come,” he says plainly. As though this were enough of a reason. “But I could tell you were hesitant.”
I break into a half smile. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I can just tell when someone needs to do something they don’t want to do. Like me when I have to do press,” he adds more playfully.
A nervous chuckle escapes me. “It’s true, though.” I fiddle with his sunglasses on the towel. “It’s hard to be here without him.” Instinctively, I pick up his glasses and put them on. They feel nice. And expensive.
“Let me see.”
I turn to him and pose.
“ Ave Maria, que jevota. ” He blends the words together easily, barely annunciating. Hail Mary, what a babe.
My pulse quickens and everything suddenly feels hotter. As though steam were rising from the sand. He’s poured water on hot coals.
I want to say something, but he’s thrown me completely off course. My brain’s been flooded with whatever it is deer get in their heads at the sight of headlights.
I take off the glasses and set them back down.
He fans his shirt. “How about a swim?”
“I can’t. I’m not wearing a bathing suit.”
“So?” He’s baffled by my response. “Swim in that.” He points to the tank top I’m wearing beneath my bolero.
“It’s okay. I’m not too hot.” I feel a bead of sweat slide down my temple.
He squints, fighting back a smile, then turns to his bag. He removes the small audio recorder he used on my balcony and heads to the water.
I watch him as I dig through my backpack for one of the protein bars I brought from home. I special-ordered them for Meri because they’re packed with nutrients. As I peel it open, I’m actually taken aback by its girth. It’s a brick of coconut, pecans, and sesame seeds.
A seagull shoots out of the water right in front of me, a fish shaking in its mouth. It’s impressive but also off-putting because I hadn’t even seen it go into the water. How long can a bird hold its breath?
Bringing the bar to my mouth, I watch as René aims his recorder at the waves collapsing on the shore. I’m about to take a bite when a seagull flies just above my head.
Before I’ve had a chance to react, another one swoops across the beach and snatches the entire protein bar out of my hand.
I sit there completely shocked for a moment, then start to laugh, in spite of myself. René’s missed the whole thing. Which should be a relief, except I can’t wait to tell him all about it.