It Takes Two to Mango

by Carrie Doyle

  A man in a light-blue blazer and tie sat down on the stool next to her and spoke. It took Plum a beat to understand that he was addressing her.

  “Señorita, are you a guest of the resort?” he asked, in a deep, unaccented voice.

  Plum stared at him. He was somewhere in his early forties, with a full head of graying black hair, chocolate-brown eyes fringed with thick lashes, and dark eyebrows. There was something so masculine and assured about his manner that Plum felt instantly off-balance. She thought him the best-looking man she had ever seen. And in her drunken state, she felt it important to tell him as much.

  “You know, you’re very handsome.”

  He smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

  “There are a lot of handsome guys here,” said Plum, taking a swig of wine. “In New York, they’re unicorns.”

  “You’re from New York?”

  “Yes. And the men there don’t like me. Why don’t they like me?” she asked plaintively.

  “I’m sure that is not true.”

  “It is! They say I’m high-maintenance and bossy. Like it’s a bad thing! An insult. I think it’s good to know what I want and to be assertive, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” he said. “I appreciate a strong and confident woman.”

  “Thank you. It’s just like this,” she said, her head bobbing with all the alcohol inside it. “I’m a sensitive person. I have feelings too. But I am not a pushover.”

  “I think that’s admirable.”

  “Are you just saying that?”

  “No. I don’t like to say anything I don’t believe,” he said, becoming serious. “I come from a long line of strong women, and I would not be who I was today if not for their resilience.”

  She adored that he answered her question that way. He was growing handsomer by the minute. “Do you think I could be lovable?”

  “I’m sure you could. I’m sure you are.”

  “Because, yes, I’m ambitious, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings! People don’t understand that about me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And I have a lot to give to the right person. And I want someone to love me,” she slurred.

  “May I ask, how long will you be staying with us at Las Frutas?”

  “I would have said temporarily a few hours ago, but now that I met you, maybe longer,” she said, gesturing with her hands in the air. It caused her to spill her wine. “Oopsy.”

  “I’m so happy you enjoy our resort. But if I may say this delicately, perhaps you should cease your celebration for the evening. Maybe we can entice you with some food from our restaurant?”

  Plum was watching the man’s mouth as he talked but couldn’t decipher what he was saying. “You have beautiful lips.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stuck out a long finger and touched them. “Fleshy, nice.”

  “You are too kind.”

  Plum started to move towards him, but the effort was too much, and she began to slowly slide off her barstool. The man caught her in time.

  “Will you allow me to take you back to your room?”

  “Why, I don’t even know your name!” she said, doing her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

  “My name is Juan Kevin Muñoz,” he said, as he put his arm under hers and helped her stumble through the sand toward the parking lot. There was a golf cart with the resort’s name and SECURITY emblazoned on the side. He hoisted Plum into the passenger seat.

  “Are you arresting me?” she slurred.

  “No. I am merely returning you to your room.”

  “My town house.”

  “Your town house. Now do you know where it is?”

  “Um…it’s…by the tennis courts.”

  “Wonderful. Do you know what street?”

  She vigorously shook her head. “I can’t remember. Oh well. I’ll have to sleep in your bed!”

  He smiled. “I think it’s best if I take you back to your house.”

  “Why, are you married?”

  Plum suddenly had a passionate hatred for this man’s wife.

  “I’m divorced,” he said.

  “It’s great that you’re tall. So many men are too short for me.”

  “That’s good to know.” He picked up a walkie-talkie. “I will call the front desk and find out where they booked your house. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Plum Lockhart, but I didn’t book through the hotel. I live here!” she squealed. “I have moved to Paradise!”

  “Really?”

  Plum suddenly felt queasy. She crumpled into her seat and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I work for Jonathan Mayhew. He rented me the town house.”

  “Oh, you’re the American! I heard about you. I know where you live.”

  He started the cart and set off. Plum’s eyelids became heavy, and she found herself dozing off. She felt a surge of vomit in her throat but quashed it down. The rest of the night floated by like the scrambled visions in a kaleidoscope. She could see hazy patches of her town house, the man giving her water and toast, and the ceiling fan in her bedroom, though it was as if she were not in her body but outside, looking in. She fell asleep in her clothes and did not wake until the sun was streaming through the windows.

  Chapter 4

  The morning after Plum’s evening of drunken debauchery caused her great mortification. When she rose, she walked all the way down to the beach to retrieve her golf cart and was dripping in sweat by the time she made it there. It must have been at least three miles. The humidity had caused her hair to frizz and stick out all over the place, but fortunately the beach was still deserted, save for a man pulling a boat out of the water.

  The heat was beginning to rise off the water, the air was heavy, and the tantalizing blue sea seemed irresistible. Plum glanced around. The man with the boat was dragging it to the other end of the beach. No one would notice if she quickly slipped off her dress and went for a dip. And besides, her bra and panties were matching and could pass for a bathing suit. She quickly discarded her clothes, leaving them on a beach chaise, and waded in, avoiding the pebbles that dotted the powdery sand.

  The water was calm and soft, and Plum felt as if she were swimming in liquid velvet. She dunked under and then did the breast stroke all the way to the rocks that enclosed the wading area. Even though it was deep, it was clear enough that she could still see her feet swarmed by tiny, incandescent fish. This is what the doctor ordered, she thought, glancing up at the puffy clouds skimming along the sky. This was exactly why she had moved here.

  She dressed, collected her cart, and returned home to change into an embellished tweed minidress with a mandarin collar, epaulettes, and a gold waist chain before heading to the office. Arming herself in a power outfit gave her the semblance of control. As the day wore on, the toll of the previous night returned. Plum suffered greatly from the paranoia that comes with a hangover and was suspicious of everyone who addressed her, as if they knew what had occurred. She also had to make frequent trips to the bathroom to splash her face with water. On one such trip, she heard a man’s voice out in the hall. It sounded somewhat familiar, so she opened the door slightly. When she spied the security guard from the night before, she quickly shut the door, heart thumping anxiously. Plum stared at herself in the mirror, and her mind raced. She did not want to see this guy, not when she looked like this, not ever. It was not like Plum to lose control. What must he think? She waited what seemed like an eternity until he left and then sauntered out of the bathroom.

  “Juan Kevin Muñoz stopped by to see you,” said Lucia.

  Mercifully, Damián was out of the office and did not witness her face turning beet red.

  “Who’s that?” asked Plum, feigning ignorance.

  Lucia gave her a quizzic
al look. “He is the director of security at Las Frutas. He said he met you last night.”

  “What else did he say?” asked Plum, practically lunging towards Lucia.

  “Nothing else. He came to see how you were adjusting to Paraiso.”

  “That’s all?” asked Plum suspiciously.

  Lucia nodded. “Did you expect something else?”

  “No, no,” said Plum, sliding into her chair. “He’s the director of security? Not just a guard?”

  “That is correct.”

  “It’s an usual name. Juan Kevin.”

  “His father is from Paraiso, and his mother is Irish. He grew up here on the island.”

  “Oh, nice guy?” she asked casually.

  “Very nice,” Lucia said before adding, “single.”

  Plum pretended to be busy with her work, but when she glanced up, she saw Lucia eyeing her curiously. She was about to ask a follow-up question when Jonathan returned and asked to meet with Plum to discuss publicity plans. She went through a list of publications she was reaching out to, but all she could focus on for some reason was the director of security. She could barely remember him—she had been very drunk after all. And yet, he left an impression on her. He was gallant and had really sexy eyes.

  After a day of fantasizing about having a wild affair with the dashing Juan Kevin Muñoz, Plum returned to reality and the work at hand.

  Plum decided to lay low the rest of the week. She spent her nights at home, lamenting the lack of delivery food options and her inability to cook, and subsisted mainly on scrambled eggs. (The only bonus was that she had dropped the pounds she gained during her unemployment.) She found herself watching Spanish game shows out of boredom. She downloaded the Spanish for Beginners app on her phone and started to learn the language.

  During the day she spent every hour that Jonathan was out of the office sending out her resume and trying to engage with potential employers. She updated her LinkedIn profile countless times. Now that she had embarrassed herself with the director of security, she was more eager than ever to return home. In the meantime, she threw herself into renovating Casa Mango.

  Plum was excited at the transformation. It was amazing what a few coats of paint, some fresh bedding, new curtains, and a thorough cleaning could produce. Not to mention a gardener who had transformed the outdoor area. Because she was short on time and couldn’t fix everything, she had ordered large clay planters that she scattered around the house atop every cracked surface and in every dingy corner. The result was a success. She took Lucia with her for the final inspection, and while her colleague marveled at her work, Plum commissioned a photographer to take some glossy shots and then uploaded them to the Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes website.

  Her excitement was palpable as she eagerly awaited queries through the website.

  “Anyone rent Casa Mango yet?” asked Damián, what seemed to be every hour.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “I knew it would be impossible for you.”

  “I am juggling many interested parties,” Plum retorted, although that was a lie.

  There was no interest. The silence was deafening. Plum dropped the price. Nothing. She became creative with her descriptions of the “idyllic” villa, promising that it boasted “dramatic” art work and “a shimmering garden with flowering trees and ample room to work on your tan.” A few people reached out, but no one booked. Lucia kept giving her more and more sympathetic looks.

  “Call my friend Charlie Mendoza. He’s in charge of all of the entertainment at the resort. Maybe he has musicians coming to perform that need accommodations,” said Lucia.

  Plum called Charlie, and he was very nice, but he said that he’d already reserved a villa for the band and ballet troupe that were booked for Presidents’ Day weekend. He very generously promised he would definitely reach out to her next time. But next time would be too late for Plum.

  She dropped the price again. At last she received a query and burst into Jonathan’s office with excitement. She was extra thrilled to note that she was interrupting his afternoon tea with Damián. It riled her that she had never been invited to partake.

  “I have a client who wants to rent Casa Mango for Presidents’ Day weekend!” she said gleefully.

  “Brilliant,” said Jonathan.

  “You better get the paperwork before they change their mind,” sneered Damián.

  “I already sent off the contracts,” she said smugly.

  “Contracts? Plural?” asked Jonathan.

  “Yes.”

  A wicked look flashed across Damián’s face. “Do you mean more than one person is renting the villa at a time?”

  “Yes, is that a problem?”

  “Definitely,” said Jonathan in his clipped tone. “It is our policy to only rent villas to single families. It’s why we are the most exclusive broker on the island.”

  “I’m sure these people are reliable,” said Plum, although she had absolutely no proof of her contention. “It is a groom and his two groomsmen coming down before the wedding.”

  “It’s a bachelor party!” roared Damián, before gleefully spewing out phrases in Spanish.

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, we cannot do it. Simply cannot.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?”

  “Bachelor parties or group rentals that visit our beautiful resort do not take care of our properties,” said Jonathan patronizingly. “They trash the houses, and the cost to repair by far outweighs the money we make.”

  “Well, first of all, Casa Mango is hardly a marquee property,” insisted Plum. “And I am happy to ask them to sign some additional insurance forms to prevent that from happening.”

  “Jonathan, I told you that she doesn’t understand this business,” Damián said as if Plum were not even in the room.

  “You may be right,” conceded Jonathan.

  “Are you kidding? This is unprofessional. Damián—you’re intentionally sabotaging me.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Mi amor, I would never do that.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Calm down,” Jonathan said.

  This made Plum even more irate. What was it with men telling her to calm down? She stood up. “Fine, I will find someone else to rent it to. But for the record, this is ridiculous!”

  She saw Jonathan and Damián exchange conspiratorial looks, which incensed her. As she made her way out of the room, Damián yelled to her, “And remember, by Presidents’ Day or you owe me a drink!”

  “You’re not my boss!” snapped Plum.

  ***

  Plum did her best to find someone else to rent Casa Mango, all the while keeping the bachelor party dangling in case she was able to change Jonathan’s mind. She approached him one more time to beseech him to reconsider his policy but was met with an abrupt dismissal. It was clear he regretted her presence. To make matters worse, her proximity to Damián’s desk was increasing her frustration as she could see the scoundrel looking over her shoulder and eavesdropping on the phone conversations where she was pitching travel agents.

  “I am sorry you failed in your attempt to rent out Casa Mango,” said Damián one evening. He was on his way out; a buxom brunette stood waiting for him at the door.

  “I still have time.”

  Damián snorted. “The weekend approaches. You will find no one.”

  Plum was unable to think of a snappy comeback. When he had left, she glanced over at Lucia, who was watching her carefully.

  “Don’t let him bother you.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t. He’s quite…pedestrian.”

  “He doesn’t think with his brain.”

  “Lucia, how bad would it really be if I rented it out to a bachelor party? No one would have to know.”

  Lucia shook her head. Behind her glasses, her eyes loo
ked worried. “Don’t do it.”

  “But why?”

  “It will lead to trouble.”

  “There’s only three of them, how much damage could they do?”

  “They could make trouble,” Lucia warned. “I have a bad feeling.”

  “I’m not governed by bad feelings.”

  “Don’t do it,” pleaded Lucia.

  But in the end, Plum did it. She had no choice. It would’ve been unbearable if Damián had won this challenge. Plum told Jonathan she had found a nice family to rent the villa, and Damián looked at her askance and interrogated her, but she dismissed him. Lucia remained quiet, but Plum could see she was distressed. Oh well, thought Plum. You don’t become a success without risk.

  On Thursday at noon, the door to Golf Villa Twenty-Four banged open. Everyone was at lunch, which would be followed by a long siesta, another aspect of Paraiso work life that annoyed her to no end. Plum was so engrossed in writing a query letter to an online media company that was seeking an editorial director, she didn’t even glance up until she heard someone clear his throat.

  “I’m here for the keys to Casa Mango.”

  One look at the wiry, pasty man in front of her and all Plum could think was that a trip to the Caribbean was just what the doctor ordered. In his early thirties, with brown hair, eyes shielded by large, impenetrable wraparound mirrored sunglasses, he had beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. There was an air of impatience that engulfed the pale man.

  “Oh, you’re Nicholas Macpherson?” Plum said, standing and extending a hand, which he took with reluctance. “I thought your group was coming in tonight!”

  “Yes, well, plans changed,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sure this will be a fun last hurrah before the wedding.”