by Didi Oviatt
Glancing down the shoreline I spot a familiar man. Correction, a familiar man-boy’s back and swim trunks. He’s running toward a beautiful young girl in a sun-gold bikini, the same girl who checked us in at the hotel, and my stomach sinks at the sight of them. I freeze in my tracks and look frantically in all directions for something I can hide behind. There’s a huge shade umbrella only a few paces away, so I make a run for it. I don’t know why I feel like I need to hide from him. Maybe it’s because of my embarrassment of Tina’s silent tease, or because I don’t know if my nervous chest can handle another intense stare down and adorable wink. All I know is that my body seems to have an electrical pulse that’s pulling me to him like a tractor beam, and all I want to do is disappear into the background.
Luckily, the owners of this shade umbrella seem to be missing. I kneel behind it, careful not to wrinkle my favorite lacey white swim dress, as it covers the navy one piece hugging my small curves. I should go back to my spot, to my kids. I know that if I turn now, he’ll never see me. Never recognize me from behind. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. Our moment wasn’t even a moment, just my drooling all over myself like a kid in a candy shop. Why am I obsessing, and why haven't I gone back to my rightful spot yet?
Rather than turning and standing with my face and body opposite his direction, like I know I should, I peek my head slowly around the umbrella. Just one look won’t hurt, I convince myself. I watch as the man-boy finishes his charge at the girl. He scoops her over his shoulder and races into the waves, packing her like Bradley used to our children when they were little. He called it a sack of potatoes and it made them laugh so hard that once Marsha even peed on him. Right down his shoulder and chest. As much as I want to laugh at the memory, I can’t. I’m too introverted into myself as I watch the water work its way through this guy’s swim bottoms. I can’t believe I’m actually hiding and spying on a man-boy. Who are you, Carla?
A small child squeals next to me. I look over to see her pointing at me, “Daddy, Daddy, I think we’re being robbed!” She shouts with her accusatory finger a few inches from my face.
“No, no, I, I…” I stand and fidget with the hem of my dress. “Sorry, I just.” I’m trying to keep my back to the man-boy as the father to this little squealer stares at me with his eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline and an amused grin on his face. Clearly, he thinks my discomfort and stutter is funny. “Sorry.” I finally say and let out a sigh. “I wasn’t stealing, I promise. I just tripped.”
For the second time today, my cheeks are flushed. The child’s humorous father dismisses me with a friendly wave, and I storm off, back toward my family so that I can wallow in my embarrassment in peace. I refuse to look back over toward the water line and can only pray that I wasn’t spotted spying. Not sure if I can admit to myself, let alone a complete stranger, that I’ve allowed myself to daydream of him yet again today.
The rest of the time on the beach is spent sipping lemonade and being lost in my thoughts. For a moment, I consider the possibility of turning back for home and tossing this entire summer vacation to the wind. What if the man-boy did see me watching him again? What if he lives here, is only dating the girl from the hotel rather than staying there, and I see him all the time over the summer? But then again, he clearly has a girlfriend, so it shouldn’t matter if I ever run into him. One that he’s comfortable enough with to toss over his muscular shoulders like a rag doll. I wonder what it would feel like - to be tossed around like that - and in other ways. I can’t weigh any more than that little tart, and he didn’t even hesitate or struggle. I wonder what other parts of him don't hesitate or struggle? The thought makes me flush, again, and I take another sip of my drink.
“Mom!” Marsha intrudes on my sweaty thoughts as she plops herself down into her chair next to mine. “What’s the deal? You’ve been staring into space for like twenty minutes. I don’t think you’ve even blinked.” She reaches into the cooler and pulls out a bottle of water to sip on. “You were weird this morning, too.” She points out.
“Yeah well,” I sigh, “I guess I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with my life. I’m getting old, Marsha.”
“Nope.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, I said nope because that isn’t it. Spit it out, Mom, what’s weighing so heavily on your mind? Don’t lie either, I’ll know.”
“Ugh,” I groan. She’s right, of course, so before I can even give it a second thought, I blurt, “Are you pregnant?”
Marsha spits her water all down the front of herself and then sits up, nearly doubling over in her seat with laughter. “What!?” she shouts, wholly amused at my question.
I explain the dream, and my lingering accusations of them wanting to get rid of me. As I say the words out loud, I realize just how silly it all sounds. I leave out everything about the guy I’d been caught watching twice today. Marsha doesn’t need to know anything about that huge embarrassment.
She assures me that I have nothing to worry about in terms of becoming a grandma any time soon. She’s even agreeable that it could easily be years down the line that I’m dreaming about, and more than anything else, she’s excited about my dream. “Now we know that at least one of us is destined to procreate, right?” she says, bringing us both a strange sort of ease.
I relax into my chair and push away all thoughts other than those of my family, and my blessings. Marsha is right, I have nothing to be worried about. Even the unnerving daydreams of the young guy with a gorgeous girl and sexy back are brushed aside. I think I’ll give the summer on the beach a chance after all.
Chapter 4
I do love Sarah, and I love the condo even more. Meeting Stephany’s parents is a delight, and the full medley of Italian dishes she’s prepared is divine. As Italy is where they’ll be spending the summer, she thought it appropriate to serve linguini with clam sauce, freshly baked bread on the side, and nocciolini di canzo for dessert.
When our dinner is finished, I inform them that I’ve made up my mind and will be accepting their offer to house-sit for the summer. I let them know that I should be able to come back in less than two weeks to stay for the long haul.
“Perfect timing,” Sarah announces with a gleaming hop. “We’ll be catching out flight in just a couple days. We can always have a neighbor water the plants if it takes you any longer than make it back. Otherwise, that would work out just right!”
My twins are only slightly surprised to hear that the paperwork for an extended leave from the bank had already been started, the dirty schemers. Sarah and her husband are relieved to hear the reassurance that they wouldn’t have to scramble to find someone else last minute.
Together, the two of them give me a full tour of their home, welcoming me in with open arms. I’ll be staying in the guest room, and although it’s a spare, it’s even more spacious and friendly than the master bedroom in my own home. It has a walk-in closet, its own bathroom, and even a reading nook, cozied into a bay window that reaches the full height of the vaulted ceiling. It’s picture perfect, making my own bedside reading bench seem nothing more than cute in comparison. The colors are a complimenting pink, teal, and ivory. A perfect fit for the walkout patio that overlooks the ocean. The condo is beautiful, but I think it’s safe to say that my own summer bedroom is the best spot of the entire home.
They leave me alone to make myself comfortable in my new space while they work together to clean up dinner. I offer to help, but Sarah won’t even hear it. Insisting that until they leave, I’m a guest and will be treated as such. I walk out onto my own private patio, stretch my arms into the air and glance down the row of beachside condos that are in line with this one. They’re all just as gorgeous with lots of space between each to offer plenty of privacy and comfort. I strain my eyes into the horizon. It’s faint, but from here I can catch a glimpse of the stunning peer that stretches impressively into the water, darting out from the center of the city. The view is breathtaking, and I’m starting to
get the feeling that once the summer is over, I won’t want to go back home. I already don’t.
After a comfortable chat to accompany a couple glasses of wine with Stephany and her parents, the kids and I retreat to the hotel. Marsha and I both sleep like babies and judging by the energy protruding from Dean and Tina the next morning, they did too. We pack up our bags and hit the road just as check-out time chimes.
Monday proves to be blissful, as I hand Mark my papers first thing in the morning and he passes along the news of its approval by the end of the workday. HR didn’t mess around or waste any time in my case. I suppose Mark’s conversation with Danika really did go exactly as he said it would. He let me know that her meeting with the board went well, and they were all in a prompt agreement to this being my final pre-leave week, before returning at the end of the summer.
Having such a soul-warming trip to the condo and being approved for my leave so quick and seamlessly, kind of makes the rest of the week drag on. My bags are packed by Wednesday, aside from the toiletries that I need to use throughout the remainder of the week. Marsha and Dean both ace the bulk of their tests, leaving only a few more to take before the school year comes to a close. We celebrate the week’s success and my summer-to-be on Friday night, and I don’t waste any time hitting the road. I foresaw myself being a little bit more hesitant to take off, maybe even staying home for a few days without work, but I found myself getting antsy. By Sunday morning I’m telling the twins my goodbyes and blowing a heartfelt kiss to them out my car window before watching my house shrink in the rearview.
I drive straight to the condo in Cayucos, no pit stops, no potty breaks, no meandering around anywhere between. The garage door opener that Sarah had given me is clipped to my sun visor, making the press of its button feel like home. The door lifts smoothly and silently, much different from the clanking of my own as it struggles to make the round each time. I sigh and close it behind myself. The mud room entrance from the garage leads directly into the kitchen where I set my purse down on the thick slab of granite covering the middle island, next to an unopened bottle of Moscato and a note addressed to me.
Carla,
We’re thrilled that you decided to stay in our home for the summer! I usually water the plants three times a week and there are plenty of cleaning supplies to last the duration of your stay in the mud room. I didn’t leave much food, as I assume you have your own preferences. We usually box up most everything in the fridge the day before we leave and donate it to the local food drive for children in need. There’s a hide-a-key inside the hanging azalea plant on the front porch, just in case there’s ever an issue with the garage or your spare set. Help yourself to anything and everything. Our home is yours. Or, as they say in Italy, la mia casa e ta tua casa! Please let us know when you’ve arrived. Have a wonderful summer!
-Sarah and Timothy
My God, they’re nice, I think. I pick up my phone and send Sarah a quick text, letting her know I’ve made it, as well as thanking her again for everything. Then I slip off my shoes and mosey through my new summer living space, quietly absorbing every room in all its serenity and grace. They’d given me a tour just over a week ago, but this feels different. I run my fingertips softly across the lacey throw-over that’s draped on the back of a cozy sectional in the living room, before stopping at the entrance of Timothy’s study.
The door is open, inviting me in, and although crossing the threshold feels a little strange as one man’s office is never a place for peering eyes, he’d urged me during my tour to help myself to his bookshelves. I hadn’t actually gone inside this room last weekend, but now that I’m here to stay, I can’t help but let my curiosity and love of books keep me away. At a snail's pace, I step inside and an involuntary gasp escapes my lips. What Timothy had played off as a few humble shelves of both hard, and paperbacks is nothing short of an in-home library fit for royalty. Each wall is lined from ceiling to floor, and the room is rounded, making the slide ladder glide a full room’s loop with ease. His desk is mahogany, fairly small, and in addition there’s a standalone printer, and two plush, extra cozy looking armchairs to read in. The entire office seems to be built to hold only books.
What makes this in-home library even better, if that’s possible at all, is that it isn’t categorized by genre or title and author, but by color. Compliments of Sarah no doubt. I’m beginning to realize just how impressive this couple really is. No wonder Stephany is always such a delight. I close my eyes tightly and stretch my neck from side to side, before dropping it backwards and spinning myself in a small circle. I don’t even know where to start, so I decide that a short game of Spin-the-Carla will point me toward an amusing section of color.
I stop, plant my feet after jumping up and down a couple times and shaking my hands to my sides for luck, and then open my eyes. “All shades violet it is,” I tell myself as it’s the first color I see. I glance through the titles on the shelf that first pulled my attention, and after skipping over a few thriller and fantasy novels, I settle on a critically acclaimed, The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Why not something so historically rich and compelling to bury myself in on the first few nights of my stay?
The rest of the condo is just as gorgeous as I remember it being. I unload my bags, filling the closet, bathroom, and empty dresser with my things. I’d packed pretty much every item of clothing I own, although now I’m thinking that the sweaters and hoodies may have been a bit of an overkill. It takes me hours to arrange my stuff and to water all of the plants. The condo has only been completely empty for a couple of days now, so it’s perfect timing to keep them hydrated and healthy. I smile to myself, affirming the choice to come sooner than later before grabbing my keys and heading for the door.
An adorable grocery store, owned by locals rather than a chain, is a mere five-minute drive from the condo. I walk through the aisles slowly, familiarizing myself with it as I fill my cart to the brim. I’m not a big fan of eating out, aside from pizza night, but now that I’m so far away from the delivery guy that I adore seeing so often, I have no intention of keeping up such an unhealthy routine.
The young girl at the checkout counter is friendly, she smiles at me with her full red lips. “Thanks for shopping here, Ma’am,” she says in a kind gesture.
By the time I get back, put everything away and scarf down a sub sandwich, the sun is beginning to dip into the horizon. So, I slip on something a little more comfortable, grab my book and step out of my room onto the patio overlooking the waves. The lighting that comes out from the opened curtains of the bay window is the perfect amount to see the pages clearly, yet I’m comfortably concealed in the darkening evening from any possible onlookers in the line of other condos along the beachside.
I’m instantly sucked into the story and before I know it the sun has completely disappeared, and the stars now shine as far as I can see. Practically all of the neighbor's lights have gone out, except for one, and I can hear a very faint voice coming from beneath it. I can see the silhouette of a man and hear in his raised voice that he’s yelling angrily, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. It’s three condos down, and I can’t help but to wonder what he’s so mad about. Which isn’t like me at all. I’m hardly ever nosey - to each their own. However, this is going to be my home for the next three months. If there’s a man with a raunchy temper or terrible nighttime habits, then I might want to know about it. Prepare myself to avoid any kind of a run in, if need be.
I’d seen a pair of binoculars on one of the shelves in Timothy’s den, so I go inside, fetch them as quickly as possible, and hurry back out, hoping that I haven't missed anything from the ranting man down the way. I sit back in my seat, crossing my fingers and my toes that I can get a good look at the guy’s face.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest as I witness him hold the phone that he’s yelling into away from his ear to scream an audible “Eat shit!” into the receiver before tossing it onto a chair. He picks up a bottle of rum, chugs the last
few swallows remaining in the bottom of it, and then throws the empty bottle as hard as he can against the concrete. It shatters, and I gasp, the blood pumping through my veins speeding up a notch. I pull the binoculars away from my face and hold my hand on my chest to steady the pounding inside of it a little.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, before taking another look.
The second I place the circular glass ends back up against the skin around my eyes, my heart stops beating completely, for only a second though before slamming back to start like a kickdrum. He’s looking right at me, and it’s the man-boy from the hotel and the beach last weekend. His eyes are glassed over, his face sagging in my direction in his drunkenness, and his chest rises and falls in shallow breath. I’m busted, and he’s a maniac, a temper tantrum throwing menace. A handsome angry man that has totally caught me watching him, yet again, this time much less pleasant than the first. My first thoughts are of those rippling muscles and the way he’d carelessly thrown the girl on the beach over his shoulder with such ease. If he were to come at me for spying, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Naturally, I panic and run, my bare feet padding through the condo in a speedy race to double check that every single door and window is locked. I grab my phone and type out a text to Sarah asking if there are any psychopaths on the loose in her neighborhood, but then I delete it. The last thing I want to do is alarm them on the first night of my stay, or to make them second guess their choice of a house sitter. Especially after we’ve been phone friends, keeping tabs on each other's children for so many years. I call each of my kids, and they don’t answer. So, I type out a second message. It’s to both of them, in a group text, telling them to check in with me tomorrow morning, first thing, and if I don’t answer then it’s because I’ve been killed by Stephany’s psychotic neighbor three condos down.