“Let’s not joke,” I said, glancing at Charlotte, who looked awfully green. “Did you check your blood sugar?” I asked quietly.
“Before we left,” she said, and I was grateful that the edge I’d heard earlier was missing from her voice. “I feel fine, Mom. Just tell me when it’s over.”
“Soon,” I promised. Through the window, frothy waves were cresting nearly as high as the ferry. But if we could all just hang in there a little bit longer, the ocean would calm and Vieques would appear before us like a glittering promised land. And then, finally, things would take a turn for the better.
TWELVE
“This is it?” said Isa, pressing her face to the window as the ferry approached the shore.
Through the glass, the dock was a bit more weathered than I remembered, and the overcast skies were making the marina look especially dingy. Yet the sight of the island’s northern coast filled me with excitement. It was a good feeling, one I hadn’t had since . . . well, roughly a minute before the last time I realized my husband wasn’t going to be making love to me after all.
“Hold tight,” I told Isa. “You’re going to love it.”
But as we shuffled to the back of the boat to collect our luggage, Charlotte whispered, “I thought you said Vieques was magical.”
“Sweetheart, please don’t be so quick to form an opinion based on the first thing you see,” I said, resisting the urge to sigh as I glanced around. Vieques had been one of the last areas to receive aid after Hurricane Maria. Maybe that explained why the garbage cans at the marina were overflowing and the chain-link fence around the waiting area was in desperate need of replacing.
“I hope you’re right, Mom,” said Isa, trailing behind me. “Because this place? It’s kind of a dump.”
If they were trying to bleed my enthusiasm dry via a thousand tiny cuts, they were doing a bang-up job. “Please find something nice to say, and if you can’t, bite your tongue. Look—chickens!” I pointed to the fence, where several hens pecked at the ground as their chicks swarmed behind them.
“You know they’re chock full of salmonella, right?” said Isa.
Charlotte eyed them skeptically. “What about the horses?” she asked, referring to the couple thousand horses that roamed the island.
“We’ll see them soon enough,” said Shiloh, shooting me a look of solidarity. I smiled at him. The kids were just kids; maybe they wouldn’t enjoy themselves, but he and I definitely would. “Happy to be here?” I asked.
He smiled back at me. “You know I am. You?”
“Never happier,” I said, because although that wasn’t technically true, I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was.
After Maria hit, Shiloh and I had read the news reports and watched videos of the destruction in Vieques—hundred-year-old trees that had been completely uprooted, the promenade that had crumbled after being battered by record-breaking waves, entire neighborhoods flooded by water or worse, mud. Over time, those reports and videos—as well as Milagros’ updates—assured us that the island was on the mend. Still, hearing that wasn’t the same as seeing it for ourselves. After we picked up our Jeep from the rental agency and headed out, I nearly wept with relief as the countryside came into view. The rolling hills were lush and green again; the winding roads were paved and clear. The same pastel cinder-block homes dotted the landscape, and in the distance, the Atlantic met the Caribbean, forming a swath of bright blue beauty. It was almost exactly as I’d remembered it.
We’d just passed a schoolyard when Shiloh hit the brakes.
“What is it?” I said, but just then four horses emerged from the field to our left and began ambling across the road. There were two adults and two foals, all brown except for one of the mares, who was cream colored with a dark mark on her nose. The island was teeming with horses—some wild, others fed and groomed by locals who let them roam free. Though we’d seen dozens, if not hundreds, on previous visits, they never ceased to steal my breath.
The girls were quiet, too. I swiveled around, excited to see the wonder on their faces.
But there were no faces to see—just the top of their bent heads as they moved their thumbs with the frenetic energy of a couple of professional gamers (or, you know, twelve-year-olds).
On instinct, I snatched their phones out of their hands.
“Hey!” protested Isa, crossing her arms over her chest.
“That’s my phone!” said Charlotte, glaring at me. “Give it back!”
“Oh, I’m going to give it to you, all right!” I hissed. I don’t know what had come over me; it was like all of the negativity I’d been keeping bottled up was slithering right out of a tiny crack I’d forgotten to seal shut. “And when I’m done, you’re going to be begging to have my phones back, because guess who pays for them? Now look. At. The. Gosh. Darn. Horses.”
I was staring right at them, but I’d forgotten how blinding rage can be; it took a few seconds for my eyes to inform my brain that my daughters were staring back at me like I was the ghost of Joan Crawford, waving a wire hanger at them.
Beside me, Shiloh looked nearly as shocked. And no wonder—one tiny disappointment and I’d instantly morphed into Momzilla. I needed to pull myself together before my daughters started making the kind of memories that they’d later parse with a mental health professional.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. My father had always said that the faster you apologized, the faster you moved on. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s already been a long day, and I just wanted you to pay attention and look at the horses.”
But as I pointed out the window, the only horse left to look at was a foal’s backside, disappearing into the wooded area on the other side of the road.
“We’ll see more,” Shiloh assured me, but before I could respond, raindrops started to ping the Jeep.
Behind me, Charlotte sighed deeply. “So much for the horses.”
“And so much for the beach,” muttered Isa.
“It’ll pass,” I said, trying to make up for having spewed acid all over everyone’s mood. “Storms never last long in Puerto Rico.”
But as we drove south to Milagros’, the rain grew heavier and heavier until the windshield wipers could barely keep up. I wish I could say that’s why we drove straight past Calle Rosa, the dirt road Milagros’ house was off of. The truth was, we were looking for a picturesque dirt road with a handmade wooden sign—and it never appeared. It was only after we rerouted using our GPS that we realized the road had been coated with asphalt, and the cute sign was now a standard metal plaque. If he noticed it, Shiloh didn’t say as much, so I decided not to share that I sure hoped it was the only thing that had gotten a charmless makeover.
I sighed with relief as we pulled into the driveway. We were finally here.
Milagros’ house was still the same shade of pale pink, and her yard was dotted with the plastic flamingos that had been there on our last several visits. Except she wasn’t waiting for us on the porch, as I guess I’d been expecting her to. In fact, only a rooster seemed to notice our arrival as the four of us clambered out of the Jeep and ran through the rain.
Shiloh knocked once, twice, and then a third time. I was just pulling out my phone to call her when a man appeared in the doorway.
He had deeply tanned skin and a gleaming white smile; if I had to guess, he couldn’t have had more than five years on Shiloh. His guayabera was starched, and his slacks were pressed. He smelled of cologne. Milagros didn’t have children, but maybe this was a nephew or some other relative who’d come in from the big island to visit.
“You must be Shiloh and Libby,” he said in a booming voice. “Mucho gusto.”
“Mucho gusto,” said Shiloh, reaching out to shake his hand.
“I’m Hector.”
“You’re—” I stopped myself before I could say what I was thinking: This was Hector? He was too young and too good-looking, and . . . well, not what I’d envisioned when Milagros said she’d taken a lover.
Shiloh didn’t blink an eye before he began chatting with Hector in Spanish. But where was Milagros?
Then I heard her yodel my name from inside the house and I smiled. A moment later, she appeared on the porch, whose broad awning was shielding us from the rain.
“Mija,” she said, opening her arms to me.
“Milagros.” All of my troubles evaporated as I inhaled her citrusy scent. Her arms were tight around me, and though I normally didn’t like prolonged hugs from anyone other than my nuclear family, I could have stayed there all day. Milagros would know how to fix me, just like she had the last time I’d been here. In fact, based on the way my mood had lifted, she was already working on it.
As she let me go, I stepped back to examine her. My initial reaction was worry, because her legs, which were sticking out of the bottom of her yellow dress, were as thin as a small child’s, and her face was more lined than it had been the last time I’d seen her. But as I looked at her pink cheeks and shining brown eyes, I realized she was glowing . . . the way people glow when they’re in love.
Just for a moment, I had the most terrible, sinking feeling.
I was jealous.
Get a grip, Libby Ross-Velasquez, I commanded myself. Milagros had four decades on me, and after so many unsuccessful relationships, wasn’t it wonderful that she’d found love and all the energy and enthusiasm that comes with it while she still had the chance?
Hector smiled at us, then said, “Milly, do you want me to get your glasses?”
“Hector, you know they don’t make a difference. Estoy ciega,” she said, batting a hand in his direction.
“Blind?” I said with alarm. I knew she’d been having vision problems, but she’d said she’d been taking eye drops that were helping. “Milagros, are you serious?”
“Legally, sí. It’s just the glaucoma—I can see un poco right in the middle of things, but not on the sides.” She laughed and looked up at Hector as he linked his arm through hers. “But I can still see what’s important.”
“Milly,” said Hector, bending to kiss her.
“I’m sorry, Milagros,” I said, glancing at Shiloh. If he was surprised by their May-December romance, he didn’t show it; instead, he stood there like he didn’t have a care in the world. Good! I thought. Vieques was working its magic on him, which meant it wouldn’t be long before we embarked on the Libby and Shiloh reunion tour.
“Don’t be sorry,” she scoffed. “There are worse problems to have. Y dónde está Charlotte? And Isabel Milagros?” she said, smiling at her namesake.
The girls stepped forward. “Hi, Milagros,” squeaked Charlotte.
“Hi,” said Isa, standing there like a deer in headlights. I nearly leaned in to whisper for her to be warmer to the woman from whom she got her middle name. I knew she and Charlotte were too young to remember their visit to Vieques, but they’d heard me talk about Milagros for years, and they’d spoken with her on the phone many times. And though Shiloh and I had probably made a whole host of parenting mistakes, one thing we’d taught them was to hold their own during conversations with adults. Especially adults as important as Milagros.
But now they were staring at Milagros and Hector like they were dumbstruck. I was about to nudge them when Charlotte blurted, “You guys are in love?”
Milagros laughed and gazed at Hector adoringly before turning back to Charlotte. “Sí, amiga. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. Ask your parents—they fell in love right here,” she said, gesturing toward the guesthouse. “Isn’t that right, Libby?”
“That’s right,” I said, meeting Shiloh’s eyes.
The rain had slowed, and he was standing at the edge of the porch, leaning against a dry section of stucco. Warmth spread through my body as he smiled at me. How silly of me to worry. Of course he was still attracted to me, just as I was to him. And if all went according to plan, we’d soon have an opportunity to act on that attraction, just like we had thirteen years earlier.
THIRTEEN
Milagros had told me that they’d updated the guesthouse, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t gobsmacked when I walked inside and saw that the kitschy island decor had been replaced by myriad shades of gray. Gray sofas, gray walls, gray rugs—and for a little variation, a trio of white glass vases on the gray stone counter, which Charlotte and Isa would be sure to shatter at their earliest possible convenience. Didn’t anything stay the same?
“¿Qué te parece?” asked Milagros, who had followed us inside. “Hector’s been working on it. We just put posters up, and our rentals are almost back to what they were before Maria.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I felt like I’d just stepped into a rain cloud, so I glanced at Shiloh. “It looks great, Milly,” he said, taking the hint. “And I’m glad business is booming.”
“Me, too,” I managed, because at least Hector’d had a solid financial motive for erasing all semblances of whimsy and personality. I shook my head; it wasn’t my guesthouse, so what did I care? It was like I was turning into . . . Paul, I thought with a shudder. As much as I loved my brother, I had no interest in taking a page from his worst-case-scenario handbook.
“Libby? You okay?” said Shiloh.
“Great,” I said. “Tired but thrilled to be here.”
“We’re happy you’re here, too, mija,” said Milagros. “I’ll let you get settled, but you holler if you need anything, okay? Oh, and drinks are at six—rain or shine.”
I smiled, because at least her old ritual remained. We’d spent many a happy hour on her patio, talking about love and life and making the most of the hands we’d been dealt. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assured her. “You sure you don’t need me to help you back?”
Milagros, who’d already retrieved her umbrella and opened the door, turned to look in my direction. “Gracias, pero no. I know every step like my own face.” She smiled broadly and said, “That’s why I’m leaving this place in a body bag.”
“Milly,” I said, laughing nervously. “Don’t even say that.”
“No one makes it out of this life alive, mija,” she called as she stepped outside. “Not saying that doesn’t make it any less real.”
Maybe not, but I still couldn’t bear the thought of losing her—not so soon after my father.
After Milagros was gone, Charlotte threw herself down on an armchair. “This place is so small, Mom.”
“It’s not huge, but it’s lovely.” At least, it had been. Were it not for Milagros herself and the beach just outside our door, it could have been any rental in any town. But how lucky you are to be here, I reminded myself. And you’re not even paying for the privilege.
“Just look at that view,” I said, pointing through the large windows of the sunroom, where Isa and Charlotte would be sleeping on a pull-out sofa.
“I’m not going anywhere near ‘that view,’” said Isa, using air quotes. The water on the south side of the island was no less choppy than the north side had been, and the sky was almost as dark as if it were sundown. She scrunched up her nose. “I wish we were still at the hotel, so we could go use the pool. Jellyfish don’t do chlorine.”
I would have scolded them for complaining if I hadn’t been partially to blame. There was no way that my little meltdown in the car hadn’t left a dent in their mood.
“Please find something—anything—to like, okay?” called Shiloh, who’d just opened the side door that let out onto the patio. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “The patio’s wet, but the outdoor shower’s still here.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, smiling at him. “How soon do you think we can use it?”
“Not anytime soon, unfortunately,” he said, pulling the door closed. “The storm’s picking up and they’re predicting more of the same for the next few days.”
“It could change, though.”
“Definitely,” he said, finally smiling back at me. “And if it does rain, we’ll just have to find ways to stay busy.”
This was a welcome
one-eighty. “Want to go nap before we head to Milagros’ for drinks?”
He tilted his head. “You know, I’m suddenly bone tired.”
My stomach did a little jump. “Girls,” I called, following Shiloh as he headed for the other room, “your father and I are going to lie down for an hour. Find something to do that doesn’t involve trying to murder each other.”
The bedroom had been subjected to the same monochromatic makeover as the rest of the place, but Hector hadn’t replaced the old rattan bed frame. This struck me as a good omen, as it was where Shiloh and I had conducted the first of many chemistry experiments. I lay across the mattress, watching him undress on the other side of the room. “You remember that night after the bay?” I asked. Vieques’ bioluminescent bay was one of only a few in the world; Shiloh had taken me to it thirteen years earlier so I could see the water, which was filled with tiny organisms that lit up when they were disturbed. It was the first time after my diagnosis that I’d felt truly hopeful about my future—and not coincidentally, it was also the night I’d realized just how strong my feelings were for him.
“Of course.” He tugged his T-shirt over his head and discarded it on the dresser. “Like it was just yesterday.”
“Me, too. Do you remember what you were thinking?”
He grinned at me. “If I had a thought in my head, I couldn’t have identified it. Well, other than maybe that it was totally unexpected.”
“Unexpected! You left Milagros’ but then came back to kiss me! You knew exactly what you were doing.”
He held my gaze, and all my worries disappeared. How ridiculous, how shortsighted, how very pessimistic of me to think that after thirteen years he’d suddenly lost interest. “I knew I wanted you,” he said in a gruff voice.
I was trembling with anticipation, and sweet mother of pearl, was it ever a wonderful feeling. It was almost as though someone had turned back the clock, and I was falling for him all over again. “I wanted you, too,” I said. “I may have told myself otherwise, but I did.”
Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around Page 8