Honeymoon for One

by Beth Orsoff

  I gripped the counter in the most ladylike way I knew (butt in, face out) and jumped. After several failed attempts, I abandoned ladylike and tried facing in. My hip bones were clinging to the edge and I was just swinging my left leg over the top when I heard, “May I help you?”

  I managed to turn my head around while swinging my right leg up too, leaving me stomach down, face out, staring at a perfectly sculpted bronze chest. It was a nice view to have while I caught my breath, and it got even nicer when the chest lowered itself down to reveal muscled shoulders, followed by a firm jawline, a bright pink sunburned nose and two blue-gray eyes peeking out from under a thatch of wavy blond hair.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, attempting to roll over onto my back without falling off the edge. “I just need a towel.”

  The chest walked around to the side of the hut, unlocked the door, and handed me two.

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling myself upright on the counter. I hesitated for a moment, trying to figure out if there was any way I could lower myself back down gently, before accepting that there wasn’t and leaping off. The landing wasn’t quite as smooth as I’d hoped. I’m not what you’d call a natural athlete.

  “Are you hurt?” the chest asked, running around front to join me.

  Only my pride I determined as I involuntarily inhaled his scent—Coppertone mixed with something I couldn’t quite place. Something briny and masculine. The opposite of Steven’s fifty-dollar-a-bottle Armani aftershave.

  “I could’ve sworn we had a first aid kit,” he said, scanning the shelves of the towel hut.

  “No need,” I said, brushing the pebbles from my skinned knee. “It’s hardly even bleeding anymore.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble. I have to go back to the boat for the rest of the gear anyway.”

  “What boat?”

  I followed his finger until I spotted the skiff tied to the end of the dock. “I’m the scuba instructor,” the chest announced.

  For the first time in my life, I had an overwhelming urge to dive down to the bottom of the ocean wearing giant flippers and a fifty pound air tank strapped to my back.

  Chapter 9

  “MY NAME’S JACK,” HE said, extending his hand.

  It was calloused but very warm. “Lizzie,” I replied. “Lizzie Mancini.”

  We both stood there, smiling awkwardly and nodding our heads, until he finally said, “I should get back to the boat,” and turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  He turned back.

  “What if I want to take scuba lessons? Do I talk to you about that?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking a step towards me before reaching over my head to grab a brochure from the rack above the counter. He had to be over six feet tall. “All the information’s in here. The new session starts tomorrow. We meet here at ten a.m. Are you sure you don’t want that band-aid?”

  “No,” I said, ignoring the trickle of blood running down my leg. “I’m fine.”

  “Then I hope to see you tomorrow, Lizzie.”

  I watched him walk past the thirty-somethings still reading, and the twenty-year-olds who had moved from the pool to a single lounge chair where the husband was massaging his wife’s thighs with sunscreen, before I lost sight of him behind a clump of trees. I knew I should’ve packed that vibrator I’d gotten as a joke gift at my bridal shower—at least I thought it was a joke. It looked like it was going to be a hot and lonely week.

  If only I’d been that lucky.

  Chapter 10

  I WAS CONTORTING MY upper body in ways that would surely require a chiropractor visit when I returned home in an attempt to spread suntan lotion on my own back, when I heard a familiar voice.

  “You need some help, honey?”

  I flipped over and watched Michael, now in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, stride toward me. “Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Buying you a present.” He winked as he sat down on the edge of my lounge chair. “The rings,” he whispered and held up his left hand, which was now sporting a plain gold (colored at least) wedding band. “Yours is in the room. And what happened to your underwear? They’re all over the bathroom.”

  “How did you get into the room?”

  “With the key, of course,” he said, producing it from his pocket.

  The bell hop must’ve given him two. “We really need to talk.”

  Michael groaned. “Nothing good ever comes after that statement.”

  My anger immediately turned to depression. Steven used to say the very same thing.

  Michael followed me back to ‘our’ room where we spent the next hour and a half working out the ground rules of our pretend marriage:

  1. No kissing.

  2. No hugging.

  3. Definitely no sex.

  4. Hands off personal items.

  5. If you’re going out, leave a note.

  Everything else was negotiable.

  Michael said he could live with that. He’d already checked into his hotel in town and planned on sleeping there (at least that’s what he told me). He’d also rented a golf cart, the predominant form of transportation on the island, to drive himself back and forth.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Your schedule. I know you’re working this week, so does that mean you’ll just be around in the evenings?”

  “Lizzie, I’m meeting with antiquities dealers. It’s not a nine-to-five kind of job.”

  “So you won’t be joining me for dinner?” I thought that was the whole point of this charade, at least for me.

  “We’ll just have to take it day by day.”

  Winging it wasn’t a concept I normally embraced. But this vacation was anything but normal. “Okay, just let me know in the morning if I’ll be seeing you that day.”

  “Why? If I’m not available are you going to set up a hot date?”

  Of course Jack was the first thought that popped into my head. And before you start judging me, just remember it was Steven who dumped me. If I was a guy, you’d be telling me to get back in the saddle and screw every woman in sight. While I had no intention of sleeping with every man I met, a one night stand (or a few nights if the sex was really good) with a hot scuba instructor that I’d never have to see again might be just what I needed.

  “Lizzie, it was a joke.” Michael interrupted my reverie. “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s only six o’clock.”

  “That’s dinnertime on Belize. Most restaurants won’t seat you past seven.”

  “But we haven’t even figured out how we met yet.”

  “C’mon,” he said, standing up. “I can be much more creative on a full stomach. Do you like conch stew?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never had it.”

  “Good, then you can cross this off your vacation to do list. Tried traditional Belizean dish.”

  His sarcasm actually made him more attractive.

  Over dinner at a tiny restaurant that wasn’t listed in any of the guidebooks, Michael and I concocted the story of our whirlwind courtship. The whirlwind part was Michael’s idea. He concluded that if people thought we’d only known each other for a few weeks, it wouldn’t seem odd that we were missing a few details. At the time it had made perfect sense.

  Chapter 11

  AFTER DINNER, MICHAEL DROVE us back to the Blue Bay where we wandered over to the hotel’s bar. Since neither of us wanted to watch Seinfeld re-runs on the satellite T.V., we headed to the billiards room. John and Cheryl Kelley, the couple we’d met on the ride from the airport to the hotel, were playing on the only table. We said we’d wait, but they insisted we join them for a game, which turned into four games, three of which we lost. Michael swore it was the pina coladas hindering his aim.

  “You’d make a great pool shark,” I said to Cheryl. With her chubby cheeks and her innocent blue eyes, sh
e could really clean up.

  “My dad owns a bar in Chicago,” she said, sipping her ginger ale. “It’s second nature to me.”

  The three of us and Cheryl (it turns out the blushing bride was actually two months pregnant) staggered back to the bungalows together. It was my unlucky night. John and Cheryl’s hut was right next door, which meant that Michael had to wait in my room until we saw their lights go out. It’s not that I found his company objectionable, but the room was swaying (or maybe it was me who was swaying) and I was ready for bed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Michael asked, before he followed with “I’m teasing,” and kissed me on the cheek.

  The fact that I’m not attracted to short Latin men probably saved my life.

  The next morning I found Michael in the lobby sipping coffee and watching CNN. He accompanied me to the hotel’s restaurant where the hostess seated us at a table on the shady side of the patio. I recognized the two couples from the pool yesterday, but I didn’t see John and Cheryl.

  “You’re not wearing your ring,” Michael said while we waited for our coffee.

  “I forgot.” Even though the cheap wedding band Michael had purchased looked nothing like the heirloom platinum ring Steven had given me (and promptly taken back), wearing any wedding ring right now was too painful. Besides, after breakfast I was heading over to my scuba diving lesson with Jack. Which reminded me that I still needed to find an excuse to ditch Michael, at least from ten a.m. to noon.

  “So what’s on your agenda for today?” I asked.

  “I have some business to take care of this morning and a meeting this afternoon. Would it be okay if I picked you up here around six? We could go to dinner and then out dancing if you’re up for it.”

  “Perfect.” I didn’t even need to lie to Michael to get rid of him. Obviously my fling with Jack was meant to be.

  I arrived at the pool at five minutes to ten and, except for the woman manning the towel hut, it was empty. “This is where we meet for the scuba class, right?” I asked, while I signed for two towels.

  “Yes,” she said, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Jack’s always a few minutes late.”

  I took my towels to a lounge chair and lathered up with sunscreen while I watched the other couples arrive. First came the twenty-year-old newlyweds I’d seen at breakfast and the pool the day before. They must’ve recognized me too because they said hello as they walked by. The second couple looked like new arrivals. They were both tall, blond, and milky white. They sat down next to me and immediately started applying SPF 50 to every uncovered inch of their bodies.

  Jack arrived ten minutes later carrying two mesh bags—one filled with masks and snorkels, and the other with foot fins.

  “Are you all here for the Discover Scuba class?” he asked, as he dropped the bags by the side of the pool.

  We all nodded our assent.

  “Excellent. My name’s Jack Traynor and I’ll be your instructor for the next two days.”

  I stopped listening after that. Jack had peeled off his faded t-shirt and all I could focus on was the narrow band of blond hair that started just below his chest, continued down the center of his very taut abs, and disappeared into the top of his low slung shorts. God it was hot out here.

  Watching him walk across the pool deck, I was in full fantasy mode when the woman next to me said, “Do you think he’d let us pay at the end of the class?”

  “Huh?”

  “For the class. He said we had to sign up now, but do you think that means we have to pay too?”

  I forgot about the paying part. I’d locked my wallet in the room safe before breakfast this morning. I told her I’d go ask and followed Jack’s path across the pool deck, catching up with him in the towel hut. The girl manning the counter greeted him with a grin much wider than the one she’d given me.

  “Excuse me, Jack.”

  He turned and smiled and when he said, “Hey Lizzie, I’m glad you made it,” I nearly melted.

  When I recovered the power of speech I said, “Thanks Jack. I really want to learn to dive, but I left my purse back in—“

  “No problem,” he said. “You can bill it to your room.” Then he bent down in front of the safe.

  “Do you need some help with that?” the towel girl asked, bending over so he was eye level with her cleavage.

  Could she be any more obvious?

  “Thanks Carmen, I’ve got it covered,” he said, but not before licking his lips as he caught sight of her boobs. I couldn’t really blame him. They were spectacular.

  Jack grabbed a stack of forms from the safe and slammed it shut. “Just fill out the top section and sign underneath,” he said as he handed the first one to me.

  I wrote “end of the row facing the beach” on the blank line next to room because I couldn’t remember the number and I certainly wasn’t going to write down Papaya Bridal Suite. I assumed I was the only Lizzie Mancini staying at the resort this week so they’d figure it out.

  “Ah, the bridal suite,” Jack said when I handed him back the form.

  Damn!

  “Doesn’t your husband want to learn to dive too? Most couples take this together.”

  The exact conversation I was hoping to avoid.

  Chapter 12

  I PRETENDED I HADN’T heard the question and followed Jack back to the shallow end of the pool where the rest of the couples were waiting. After we filled out our medical questionnaires, Jack collected the forms and returned them to the towel hut while the rest of us waded into the water.

  We spent the next two hours learning how to use BCs and regulators, clear our masks, stabilize our ear pressure, and stay buoyant, but not too buoyant, in the water.

  “You all did great today,” Jack said when he ended the session fifteen minutes late. “Tomorrow we’re going directly to the dive site, so we’ll meet at the dock. Ten a.m. and don’t forget to bring your towels. We won’t have any extras on the boat.”

  I made sure I was the last to return my equipment so we could have a moment alone.

  “Do you really not have any extra towels on the boat or were you just trying to scare us?” I asked, as I struggled with the clips on my BC, the scuba diving equivalent of a high-tech life vest.

  “Why?” Jack said, unhooking the last clasp for me. His shoulders looked even broader now that they were only six inches away. “Are you planning on forgetting your towel?”

  “No,” I said, slipping out of the vest and handing it to him. “Just wondering.”

  He placed the vest on top of the pile and gathered up the remaining fins. “I always have a few, but I prefer people bring their own.”

  “Why? Are you afraid we’ll steal them?”

  He smiled, revealing a deep dimple in one cheek. “You wouldn’t ask that if you saw them. Mine I have to wash. Yours go back to the hotel laundry.”

  “Don’t you work for the hotel?” I assumed he did.

  “No, I work for Belize Divers.”

  I could’ve come up with more questions—How long did he work there? Did he like it? How did someone who sounded like an American end up working for a dive shop in Belize?—but Jack had finished packing up the equipment. He called out to someone in Spanish and two hotel workers sauntered over and began carrying the equipment out to the dock.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lizzie,” Jack said as he picked up his mesh bags and followed the men out.

  Clearly he wasn’t interested in flirting with a married woman. If I were looking for a relationship, that would be a good thing. But since all I wanted was one night of great rebound sex (or maybe a few nights if it was really good), I found it quite frustrating. Yes, I realized that it might be that he just wasn’t attracted to me. But my ego had taken enough of a beating lately, so I decided to believe it was my marital state that he found objectionable rather than just me.

  After class, I ordered lunch poolside, which was much less uncomfortable than eating alone in the hotel’s dining r
oom, then headed out to the concierge desk. Maria R. (there really were two of them) walked me through the activities book. Since none of the tours I was interested in—visiting a Mayan ruin, cave-tubing, and a shark and stingray snorkeling excursion—were available that afternoon, I left with brochures for each and told Maria R. I’d be back.

  I was still planning my week from the beach chair in front of my bungalow when I heard, “Don’t waste your money on the snorkel trip.”

  I looked up from the brochures to find Jack's shadow, backlit by the sun.

  “I’m surprised to see you. I would’ve thought you’d be sick of us tourists by now.”

  “You tourists pay my salary. I try to remember that. Besides, we’re all tourists some time.”

  Mr. Easygoing. Definitely the opposite of Steven, who used to fly into a tizzy if his Wall Street Journal didn’t arrive on-time. I grabbed my beach bag from the empty chair next to mine. “Here, sit down.”

  “I can’t,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have to get the boat back by four to prep it for a night dive. I just stopped by to pick up my check.”

  “I thought you don’t work for the hotel.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “You pay the hotel, they take their commission, then cut a check to Belize Divers for the rest.”

  “And if you forget to deliver the check to your boss you don’t get paid?”

  “No, my Dad would probably pay me anyway, but I’d have to listen to him complain about it for the next week, or until I screwed something else up.”

  He works for his father and is constantly disappointing him. So much to explore. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”