Honeymoon for One

by Beth Orsoff

  Chapter 4

  I REACHED ROW 8, STILL panting from my sprint to the gate, and found Michael seated next to the window. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and reached for my bag. “Let me help you with that.”

  What was with this guy and my luggage? “I can manage,” I said, shoving the bag underneath the seat in front of me, even though there was plenty of room in the overhead bin. I didn’t think Michael was a criminal, but no sense tempting fate.

  “I thought you were in row nine?” I asked, buckling myself into 8C.

  “This seat was empty so I switched. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” Actually, I’d been hoping for an empty row so I could lay down and sleep.

  We both read the in-flight magazine through the safety lecture and take-off. Michael waited until the beverage service began before resuming our pre-flight conversation.

  “You never told me where you’re staying.”

  I knew if Jane were here she’d tell me to lie, but I couldn’t think of a good reason to. “At the Blue Bay Beach Resort.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows, but didn’t respond.

  “What? Have you heard bad things about it?” All the reviews I read were raves. The only negative comment I could find was a complaint about the mosquitoes, but that was during the rainy season, which was still a month away.

  “Are you meeting someone there?” he finally asked.

  “No, why?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always heard that hotel was popular with honeymooners.”

  He must’ve read the guidebooks too. “Yes, I know.”

  Michael waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, he pulled his paperback out from the seat pocket in front of him.

  I searched my beach bag until I found the book I’d packed for the plane. It was a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, but I gave up after five pages. “It was supposed to be my honeymoon.”

  Michael looked over at me, a confused expression across his face.

  “That’s why I’m staying at the Blue Bay. This trip was supposed to be my honeymoon.”

  Michael folded down the corner of the page he was reading and closed his book. “Did he die?”

  “Did who die?”

  “Your fiancé?”

  “No, why would you think that?” My white jeans and hot pink t-shirt didn’t exactly scream ‘I’m in mourning.’

  “That’s the only reason I could think of not to go on a honeymoon with you.”

  Talk about cheesy. “Does that line usually work for you?”

  Michael laughed. “It’s my first time. I heard it in a movie once and always wanted to try it out myself.”

  I was glad I’d missed that flick. “Did it work in the movie?”

  “Yup.”

  Figures.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Did you catch him cheating and give him the boot?”

  By the time we landed in Dallas, Michael knew the complete rise and fall of my relationship with Steven and I learned that he had a serious ex-girlfriend who I suspected he was still in love with. Michael waited until we were sipping coffee in the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport Starbucks before he offered to marry me.

  Chapter 5

  “YOU WANT TO WHAT!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Michael said. “Most people are still sleeping at this hour.”

  “Sorry, but did you just offer to be my husband for eight days?”

  “No, I offered to play your husband.”

  Even my pretend husband doesn’t want to marry me. What was I doing wrong? “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Just think about it,” he said. “You don’t want to spend the whole week having to explain to everyone why you’re there alone and tagging along with honeymooners on all your excursions, do you?”

  “No.” I was dreading all that.

  “So I’m offering to play your husband for the week. You can even call me Steven if you want.”

  That’s the last name I wanted to hear. “And how exactly would this work?”

  “I’ll pay my own way if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Good to know, but, “No, I meant where would you, um, sleep?”

  I could feel my cheeks heating up. Thankfully Michael had the good manners to focus on prying the plastic lid off of his coffee cup. “I assumed I would sleep at the Tortuga Inn and join you in the daytime, but if you have other ideas—”

  “No, the Tortuga Inn works for me.”

  “Then we’re set?” Michael asked.

  “I didn’t say that.” Jane would kill me if she knew I was even considering it. Of course, she’d never have to know. But I did promise to keep my guard up . . . . “Michael, please don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s in it for you?”

  “Besides the obvious—getting to spend the week with a beautiful woman?”

  Aah, the Latin charm. “Yes, besides that?”

  “That’s it.”

  I stared at him.

  “Honestly,” he said. “I’d like the company.”

  I continued staring him down. There had to be more to the story.

  “Remember when I mentioned that I broke up with someone recently too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well she was supposed to come on this trip. I couldn’t cancel because I have business in Belize, but I really don’t want to spend the week alone either.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Mayan antiquities.”

  “Mayan what?”

  “Antiquities. Jewelry mostly, but some pottery too.”

  “I thought you were an anthropologist.”

  “I am,” he said. “I’m an associate professor at Cal State. But the pay’s not great and I do a little antiquities dealing on the side. I’ve made more money in three trips to Belize than working the entire year at the university.”

  “Then why bother teaching? Why not just deal, or whatever you call it?”

  “Because I love it.”

  I understood. I love what I do too. Not every minute of every day of course, and I’ve definitely questioned my career choice on more than one occasion (when researching the mating habits of migrating geese, for example), and the pay—let’s not even talk about that. But overall, I love being a freelance journalist. I not only get to spend most days working from home in my underwear, I get to learn all sorts of new things (besides that geese mate for life, did you know that Teri Hatcher’s father was a nuclear physicist?) and then I get to share that information with millions of other people (or at least the handful that actually read my articles). I can’t think of a more rewarding career than that. Okay, maybe heart surgeon. But since I barely passed high school biology, that one probably wasn’t going to happen.

  “So do we have a deal?” Michael asked.

  I was saved by the bell, or rather the announcement that Flight 309 to Belize City was boarding at Gate 82.

  Chapter 6

  LUCKILY THIS FLIGHT WAS packed and Michael was stuck sitting ten rows behind me. It gave me time alone to think. Could I really spend a week with a stranger pretending to be my husband? I’m a big one for lists, so pulled a pad and pen from my purse and started writing down the pros and cons.

  Pros:

  • Don’t have to spend the week explaining about Steven

  • Someone to go sightseeing with

  • Someone to eat meals dinner with (Note: Find out Michael’s schedule—if working, how much free time?)

  Cons:

  • Can never tell Jane

  Three to one in favor, I had to say yes.

  The humidity smacked me in the face the minute I stepped off the airplane. I could practically feel my curly hair frizzing up. There was no point in fighting it, so I pulled my long mane into a pony tail and stuffed the stragglers up inside my straw hat. Between the hat, the bag and the outfit, no one was going to mistake me for anything but a tourist.

  I met up with Michael in baggage claim and he immediately embraced the role of attentiv
e new husband. He dragged my huge suitcase off the conveyor belt and lugged it with his small one into the customs area. Then he unzipped both of our bags for the agent, who barely searched them before waiving us through.

  “Maya Air or Tropic?” Michael asked, as I followed him into the main terminal of the Belize International Airport.

  I pulled out my packet of travel vouchers from Honeymoons Express. “Maya Air.”

  Michael rolled our luggage over to the ticket counter and checked us onto the next inter-island flight to Camus Caye.

  “That’s our plane?” I asked as we walked out onto the runway. I’d flown commuters before, but this one couldn’t have had more than ten seats.

  “Twelve,” Michael corrected, “if you count the pilot and the flight attendant.”

  Good thing Jane hadn’t come. She’s a nervous flyer even on jets.

  Twenty minutes later we landed at the Camus Caye Municipal Airport. Michael went to retrieve our bags while I searched for our transportation. The travel agent assured me that a driver would be waiting for us at the airport. He wasn’t difficult to spot, since he was the only one holding up a sign with “Mancini/Schwartzfarb” scrawled across it.

  “Your fiancé’s name was Schwartzfarb?” Michael asked, although is sounded more like an accusation.

  I nodded sympathetically. “Better get used to it. You’re Mr. Schwartzfarb for the next eight days.”

  The driver tossed our bags into the back of the van and suggested we sit in the air-conditioned interior while we waited for the second couple to arrive.

  “Do you think it looks odd that we’re not wearing wedding rings?” Michael asked after the driver slid the door closed behind us.

  I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. I’d always planned on leaving my rings at home. Jane says traveling with expensive jewelry can make you a target.” And I knew that wasn’t just her paranoia, because all the guidebooks said so too.

  “Wedding bands aren’t expensive.”

  “How do you know?” He hadn’t mentioned that he was divorced.

  “I think I’ll go into town this afternoon and buy us some. Do you prefer fake silver or fake gold?”

  “Neither. I’ll tell people my wedding band’s diamond and I left it at home.” Which would’ve been true if I’d married Steven.

  “Okay Mrs. Schwartzfarb, have it your way.”

  Michael certainly seemed to be taking his new role to heart. I hoped he realized the charade stopped at the bedroom door.

  Ten minutes later we were joined by John and Cheryl Kelley, newlyweds from Chicago who were also staying at the Blue Bay Beach Resort. John immediately started talking sports with Michael, and Cheryl insisted on telling me about their fabulous wedding on a rented yacht on Lake Michigan. Besides depressing the hell out of me, I realized pulling off this fake marriage for a week wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought. Michael and I would have to come up with a story and stick to it. We could explain away why we didn’t know each other’s favorite flavor ice cream, but not a discrepancy over where and when we’d gotten hitched.

  Chapter 7

  THE HOTEL LOOKED EXACTLY like the picture on-line. A long wooden dock really did stretch across clear, calm, turquoise water, disappearing into a pearly white beach. Blue lounge chairs dotted the sand, and behind them a row of thatched roof bungalows formed a crescent moon.

  “May I have the name of the reservation?” the desk clerk asked in heavily accented English. Her name tag identified her as Maria S.

  “Mancini,” I said. “Elizabeth Mancini.”

  Maria S. typed away at her computer. “Ah Ms. Mancini, congratulations! You and your husband are staying in the Papaya Bridal Suite. Is he here with you?”

  I scanned the lobby, pretending to search for Michael. We’d decided on the walk to the lobby that it would be better if I checked in myself. I knew the reservation was under my name, but I didn’t know if the hotel had Steven’s information too. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Probably looking for the bar.”

  Maria S. smiled. “I’ll need both your passports to check you in.”

  Damn! I gave my purse a cursory glance before I said, “my husband must still have them” and went outside to look for Michael. I found him parked in a lounge chair, eyes closed, shaded by a palm tree. “I need your passport, and if you could change your last name to Schwatzfarb in the next ten seconds, that would be really helpful too.”

  Michael pulled his passport out of his knapsack, but instead of handing it to me, he grabbed mine. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Relax Mrs. Schwartzfarb. You’re about to become Mrs. Garcia.”

  Michael handed Maria S. both passports and gave her his best smile. After a few seconds typing, Maria S. stopped.

  “Is there a problem?” Michael asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Your wife’s information is correct, but yours is all wrong.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve got me listed as Steven Schwartzfarb?”

  “Si,” Maria S. answered. “How did you know?”

  Michael laughed and shook his head, then started talking to her in Spanish with the occasional English “travel agent” thrown in. At first Maria S. seemed confused, but soon she was chatting Michael up in Spanish, typing away. When she finished, she handed Michael both of our passports and told us, in English, to have a seat. “Ramon will be back shortly to show you to your room.”

  “What did you say to her?” I asked, when we were side by side on the sofa.

  “I told her my bride was a very modern woman who insisted on making all the reservations in her maiden name. But somehow, instead of my name being listed as the second person, your travel agent, Steven Schwartzfarb, ended up with that honor.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “I told her I thought Mr. Schwartzfarb secretly had a crush on you and that maybe he did it on purpose to make me jealous.”

  He certainly was fast on his feet. “Are you sure you’ve never done anything like this before?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well you’re a pretty good liar for an anthropology professor.”

  “Thanks. You’d be surprised at the excuses my students give me.”

  Obviously he was learning from them too.

  They called it a suite, but it was really just one large room. The sitting area, which was populated by orange cushioned rattan furniture and nubby purple rugs, was separated from the bedroom area, which held a king-sized four-poster bed and two nightstands, by a cherry wood dresser. It didn’t have the luxury of a Four Seasons, but with its interesting mix of color and décor, it definitely had character.

  “You want some champagne?” Michael asked, when we were alone in the bridal suite.

  I looked at my watch. It was still morning in Los Angeles, but it was afternoon on Camus Caye. “Sure,” I said and flopped down on the rattan chair, immediately overcome by exhaustion. I never did get my nap on the plane.

  Michael lifted the sweaty complimentary bottle from the ice bucket leaking a ring of water onto the coffee table and popped the cork. “A toast,” he said, handing me a glass. “To new beginnings.”

  “And relaxing vacations,” I added, clinking my champagne flute against his. It tasted like bubbly grape juice, and not the expensive kind, but it was cold and I was hot.

  “What do you want to do first?” Michael asked, topping off both our glasses.

  “Sleep.” I knew I shouldn’t, that if I slept now it would take me days longer to recover from the jet lag, but my eyes were literally closing on me.

  The last thing I remember was standing up to walk to the bed, but thinking the couch was so much closer. I woke up three hours later, shivering, alone and incredibly groggy. The air conditioning had finally kicked in, but Michael and my suitcase were gone.

  Chapter 8

  AFTER A FEW MINUTES of frantic searching, I finally found my suitcase. Someone, presumably
Michael, had moved it to the top of the closet. As soon as I lifted if off the shelf, I knew it was empty. But I didn’t panic. I could see my sundresses hanging in the corner and figured the rest of my stuff must be in the room somewhere. I checked the dresser next and sure enough, Michael had unpacked my clothes. I didn’t know whether I should be grateful for saving me the trouble or outraged at the invasion of my privacy. What sort of person, especially a guy, does something like that?

  My passport, money and credit cards were all still in my purse, so clearly Michael wasn’t a thief. But he’d disappeared without a word, or even a note, knowing I had no way to reach him. I noticed that his luggage was gone too, so it was at least possible that he left to check into his own hotel and planned on returning later. I decided to call the Tortuga Inn to confirm my theory, but after two minutes of fruitless searching, I remembered that the Blue Bay’s guest rooms had no phones. Part of the ‘getting away from it all’ experience. It had seemed like a good idea when both my land line and cell phone were ringing simultaneously.

  I knew what Jane’s answer to ‘what sort of a guy does something like that?’ would be, so I checked the bras and panties next. They didn’t look like they’d been fondled, but since I actually remembered to pack the travel-sized bottle of Woolite Jane insisted I bring, I figured I might as well use it.

  After I’d wrung the suds from my underwear and still no Michael, I decided to hell with him. I changed into my bathing suit, locked the door behind me, and headed to the pool. I was surprised to find it practically empty. Despite the perfect weather, only two other couples were sun bathing. The first, who looked like they were barely out of college, were pressed up against the wall of the deep end, sucking face. Definitely young newlywed behavior. The second couple, who I guessed were mid-thirties, were reading books and tanning themselves on side by side lounge chairs.

  I dumped my beach bag on a lounge two chairs over from the thirty-something woman and went in search of a towel. The hut next to the deep end looked promising. I could see a stack of blue towels folded on the rear shelf, but there was no one manning the desk. I waited a few seconds before I tried the door, but it was locked. I could either wait around hoping the towel person showed up this century, or I could hop up on the counter and grab the towel myself.