Chapter Six
Monica’s phone vibrated long before daylight that morning. She shoved her hand under her pillow and turned it off. Fully awake and dreading the day, she tiptoed out of his condo, walked up the stairs to her place, and got dressed to leave.
She thought about waking him up to say goodbye properly, but she knew it would be too hard.
They had agreed to only a casual vacation fling.
There could be no future for them, but even still, Monica’s heart quivered at the thought of leaving him.
He had told Monica that he loved her, and she’d told him the same.
But sometimes love wasn’t enough. Monica knew that, and now it was time to go home.
Get back to her real life and stop living in this fairy tale.
A single tear flowed down her cheek and dripped off her jaw onto her shirt, leaving a round dot.
The wind swept her hair across her face, and the ocean waves sounded angry rather than calming when she went through the office and gave the lady her room keys.
Even though she and Spencer had practically lived together, they had never exchanged room keys.
That had to be a sign that what they had was not meant to last forever.
She slid behind the steering wheel and glanced up at the third floor.
No Spencer, which was a good thing. Had they said goodbyes in the parking lot, she would have cried like a baby.
His last memory of her should be with a smile on his face, not holding her while her heart broke.
After a while the sun would rise slowly, but she would already be at the airport for her early-morning flight.
Arrive in the bright sun. Leave in darkness.
To Monica’s way of thinking, it should have been the other way around.
When she reached the end of a long bridge, she pulled off to the side, laid her head on the steering wheel, and sobbed. “Okay, Monica, your five minutes of feeling sorry for your decision is over. Straighten up and get on with life.” She parroted her mother’s tone perfectly.
She straightened up and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. “But, Mama, I want a lifetime like this week has been.”
Life does not work that way. It’s not all golden sunrises and sunsets. Sometimes there’s rain and storms.
She whipped around to see if her mother was really in the back seat, but the only thing there was a suitcase and a carry-on bag.
She was going home with the same things she had brought—except with a desire to turn around and go back to the hotel and tell him that she had changed her mind about going home with him.
“Okay, Mama, I hear you, but I don’t have to agree with you,” she muttered, and drove across the bridge over to Panama City.
The flight was right on time at the small airport, and there was no problem with liftoff. An elderly woman sat beside her and immediately took out her knitting. She must have been doing it for years because she didn’t even look at the needles.
“I’m Glenda. What’s your name and where are you going? Your red eyes tell me that you have been crying. Want to talk about it?”
“My name is Monica, and I don’t want to go back home. I’ve had a wonderful week on the beach,” she answered.
“What is his name?” Glenda asked.
“What makes you think …”
Glenda butted in before she could finish. “Honey, only a man could make you cry so hard that your eyes still look like that. I probably will never see you again, so tell me all about it.”
“I met him the first day,” Monica blurted out. By the time they landed in Austin, she had told Glenda the entire story.
“I’m going to give you a word of advice,” Glenda said as they deboarded. “Fate brought you together one time, and it can do it again. My grandmother often said, ‘What will be, will be. What won’t be, might be anyway.’”
“Not this time. We didn’t even exchange last names,” Monica said, “but …”
“You are not old enough to remember this line, but it goes like this, ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ I believe in your case, you will always have the beach.”
“Yes, we will,” Monica agreed. “You have a good day now.”
“You, too, and remember what I told you about fate.”
“I promise I will.” Monica waved as she headed toward the next gate that would take her from Austin to El Paso.
I’ll remember, but fate, like lightning, doesn’t strike in the same place twice.
Spencer’s alarm woke him at eight o’clock.
At nine o’clock, he wanted to kiss Monica goodbye and ask her one more time to go with him.
If she wasn’t ready for that, then he needed her phone number and last name.
He hit the snooze button and rolled over to face her, but she wasn’t there.
He took a deep breath, expecting the aroma of coffee to hit him—but that didn’t happen.
He threw back the covers and started toward the bathroom.
If she was taking a shower, he intended to join her.
She wasn’t there or in the kitchen. Maybe she had gone back to her place to do some last-minute packing.
He went back to the bedroom, jerked on a pair of shorts, and padded barefoot up to 414.
A housecleaning lady was in there, but no Monica.
He tried to convince himself that she had gone for one last walk on the beach, but when he looked down over the banister, her rental car was gone. His breath caught in his chest, and his eyes flooded with tears.
Monica was gone, and all he had was her first name.
He went inside and slumped down on the sofa and put his hands over his eyes.
Men did not cry. They sucked it up and went on with whatever life threw at them.
He repeated what his grandfather told him when Zoe left him, but this time he didn’t believe him.
He went back to the bedroom, finished packing, and headed for the front desk to turn in his keys.
“Checking out?” the lady behind the desk asked.
“Yes. Room three fourteen.”
“Spencer Hamilton?”
“That’s right.”
She handed him a copy of his bill and an envelope. “The lady who checked out of room four fourteen left this for you.”
“Thank you,” he said around the lump in his throat. “Could you give me her last name, please?”
“I shouldn’t, but …”
“Please?” Spencer begged.
“She checked in under Monica Smith,” she answered.
“Thank you so much.”
“You are welcome. I thought y’all were engaged,” she said.
“Not yet.” He smiled and went straight to his truck.
He tossed the invoice in the back seat on top of his suitcase and held the envelope close to his chest for a full minute. Then he opened it carefully to find a note:
Spencer, everyone in my family hates goodbyes, so we just say “until next time.” This week has been a fairy tale for me, and I will hold each moment we spent together deep in my heart forever. So …
Until next time,
Monica
He closed his eyes, and a slideshow in living color played through his mind.
There she was on the beach that first day in her denim shorts and halter top.
And later that evening in the cute sundress.
Then there she looked shy in his shirt the next morning.
He went through each memory, up to and including their lovemaking the night before.
If only he had caught some of those on camera, but most of the time they both left their phones in their rooms. She had said that she didn’t want calls interrupting their little piece of paradise.
“Until next time,” he said around the lump in his throat as he backed out onto the highway.
The GPS woman’s voice told him to go to Oleander Street and make a left.
He was thinking about Monica so hard that he almost missed the turn.
Less than a mile up the road, he made a right and was on the westbound highway.
“Monica Smith,” he whispered. “I will find you, and we will meet again.”
With the last name of Smith, and only knowing that she came from Texas, it would make for a tall order to track her down. But he was determined to find her, and he had the money to pay for the resources to do just that.
An hour later, he started his playlist to help pass the time.
The first song that came up was “Tennessee Whiskey” and brought up the memory of dancing with Monica.
He could feel her body close to his and imagined that he was burying his face in her dark hair again.
He sucked in a lungful of air, but the coconut scent wasn’t there.
The next song on his playlist was “Sand in My Boots” by Morgan Wallen. Every word hit home except that Spencer wasn’t from Tennessee. But he was sure enough riding down the highway in his Silverado like the lyrics said.
He pulled over at the next exit, parked in a Love’s lot, and got out of the truck.
He opened the back door and picked up a pair of Hey Dudes he had worn on the beach.
He carefully shook the sand to the back side in both of his boots and dumped it in a small plastic bag.
“This is all I’ve got of you right now, but darlin’, I intend to find you.
After all, how many Monica Smiths can be out there in this world? ”