Page 48 of Pick-Up
He takes me through the lighting system, which looks like a motherboard in a James Bond movie. I know I will never retain any of what I am told about how it works and will instead press every conceivable button and pray.
In the bathroom, the walls are a mosaic of iridescent metallictiles. It feelsfancy. The bath products are scented like lemongrass and basil. And there is a tube of sunblock that I uncap and sniff. It smells like abandon.
He references a sundry drawer, lit from within, which I peek in as he moves on: organic cotton balls, a recyclable shower cap, bamboo Q-tips, aloe after-sun gel, neon pink earplugs, orange blossom and neroli essential oil pillow spray—even the condoms are hipster and fair trade! Some brand called RAW.
I squeal internally, then rush to catch up.
Guiltily, I realize how thrilled I am to have a beautiful space that’s mine and mine alone for a few days. Where no one will leave their dirty socks on the floor or smudges of bubble gum toothpaste on the wall.
“There’s also an outdoor shower shared by all the guests in this villa,” Michael explains, “but the entrance is at the back of the common room.”
“An outdoor shower!” I exclaim, startling the poor man. “My favorite!” I really love an outdoor shower.
“Now, if you have everything you need, I’ll leave you to get settled,” he says. But he demurs when I offer money.
“This is a no-tipping hotel,” he says proudly. “We’re paid full salaries.” The subtext is clear: this is not your mama’s resort. We’re not in Kansas anymore. Or even Saint Thomas.
Unable to show my appreciation in cash, I thank him profusely, probably embarrassingly, as he escapes, leaving me to my bliss.
I close the door to my bedroom behind him and take stock. By some miracle, I use the appropriate remote and raise the shades on the floor-to-ceiling front window. They glide upward to reveal a layer cake of boundless sky, aqua sea, white sand and chlorinated crystal. There is a David Hockney–blue pool, minus the humans, and, beyond it, the ocean, tie-dyed with teal where plant life and coral reefs sway beneath the surface. Below a crisp umbrella, two minimalist loungers are sharply angled, an obligatory invitation.
Nothing is round here. Everything is too beautiful to touch.
On my honeymoon with Cliff, we went to Costa Rica. It still seemed a bit wild in those days. The nicest hotel we stayed at was a former Smithsonian observatory, overlooking an active volcano in the midst of the largest eruption in fifty years. At night, after Cliff passed out, I would lie—propped up by a similar abundance of fluffy white pillows—and watch molten lava race downward in fits of neon orange. I am both reminded of that place and time now and struck by the difference, in the setting but also in me. That was stunning in its unpredictability. Frightening like a dare. It matched our bravado and our rapport—even our attraction. Agitated, frenzied, rushed.
This place is so calming; it feels like the antidote to my current angst. Like what I need. And, of course, there is no Cliff, which is always a win. I am almost afraid to ruin the view with the less precise curves of my human form, but I’ve got to take a closer look to believe it’s real. And I don’t have much time before cocktails and dinner.
When I slip out my door a few minutes later, I am wearing a tank top, jean shorts and my jaunty straw hat. I’m not surprised to see Stephanie lounging on the couch in a Natalie Martin muumuu. Living the bohemian dream. Her bare feet are propped up on the coffee table, and she’s drinking a generous glass of that complimentary wine. This woman isn’t afraid to take up space. I look around for Jackie, likely our third roommate, but she has not yet arrived.
“Oh, hi!” Stephanie says, at once upbeat and lazy. “Where you headed in that cute hat?”
“Just down to the water. Wanna come dip your toes?” I hope she does not want to come dip her toes, but I’m being friendly.
No offense to Stephanie. I actually think she seems fun. I like anyone who’s that enthusiastic about hanging out with me. The more time I spend around her, the more I’m impressed by the way she moves around the world without apology. But I need a second to wrap my mind around my current circumstances. The Demon Dad of it all. I need to walk down to the beach. Feel sand between my toes. Try not to lose my shit.
“Nah,” she yawns. “I think I’ll dip my whole body in the pool instead. Come!”
“I think I don’t have time to swim, then make my hair presentable.”
“Oh, keratin treatment, baby!” She tosses her hair from side to side like a L’Oréal Paris model, and it does look smooth despite the humidity. “Remind me to send you the info. I got a guy.”
I don’t doubt it.
I step out the front—and I’m a bit like Lawrence of Arabia trekking through the desert. The stretch from our villa to the shore is farther than I thought. But the sand is warm and malleable beneath my feet, and it’s been ages since I felt that sensation, that give. I sigh. Whatever else is happening, this is a giant gift.
As I near the water’s edge, I realize that, impossibly, it’s as clear from this vantage point as it was from up above in the plane. There’s barely a ripple on the surface. Definitely no waves. Tiny yellow fish swim by in schools. I give them an A-plus. I test the temperature with my toes, and it is bathtub warm. Suddenly, I’m regretting not wearing my bathing suit. Who cares about my hair?
I wade in to just above my knees. And, for a moment, I stand there, basking in the beauty of my surroundings. For one thing, it is as silent as any place I have ever been. Since the resort hasn’t opened yet, the island’s entire population is comprised of our small crew and the hotel staff. The photographer, Charlie, is arriving late tonight. There are no cruise ships, no sailboats, no rowboats or kayaks. No additional hotels. There are no swimmers, no surfers, no children splashing or collecting shells. There are no cars, no musicians, no playlists playing, no shouts or laughs between friends. This might be the quietest moment of my waking life.
Unfortunately, that means I can hear my thoughts loud and clear. And they come rushing in, anything but subdued. About my mom’s memory, about the kids, about money—or lack thereof.
Most of all, about Ethan.
Just when I was entertaining the idea that he is decent, I am hating him again. I have to ask myself: Why am I so thrown off?Arguably, he did me an enormous favor. He searched me out, gave me a shot, got me hired on this incredible job. And yet, I want to grab him by his tan neck and throttle him.
Part of me knows I am feeling foolish. One-upped. Like my upper hand got handed to me. But there is something else too, insidious and nagging: I thought Iearnedthis job. I thought they chose me on my merit. On my charming disposition. On the really cute, yet responsible, Rachel Comey sample sale sweater I wore to our meeting. Now, I feel like I’m getting a handout. Did he force them to hire me? Do the others believe that? That thought makes me want to hide under my hotel bed in embarrassment. Which is challenging because it’s a platform.
But also, I feel tricked. Why didn’t he mention he was putting me up for a job? Why didn’t he ask me if I was interested before he went ahead and did it? Why did he take ownership over my life without my permission? How dare him! How dare all the men!
