Page 11 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

I know these things because I spent just as much time at her house growing up as I did at my own. She’s like a mother to me, always sincere, always warm and welcoming, so I’m willing to indulge her. I don’t see her very often anyway.

When I’ve finished walking Molly and Mrs. O’Malley around the perimeter of the building, we return to where Wes and Mr. O’Malley are waiting for us. They’re exactly where we left them, red-faced and hands fanning.

“You said there was a waterfall around here, right?” Wes says, his cheeks pinker than ever. A sheen of sweat has settled on his skin, and the hair around his hairline looks damp. He could clearly use some cooling off.

We all could, for that matter. The sun is high in the sky now, and even though it’s December, I’d guess we’re sitting at a very humid eighty degrees right now. Hiking in this is like wading through a sauna. So I nod to Wes.

“Yeah,” I say, pointing to the paved drive coming from the direction opposite the way we came. “If we head that way I can get us there.”

“A waterfall?” Molly says, smiling—first at Wes, then at me. It’s another one of those smiles I don’t need to see, beautiful and brilliant. Every now and then you’ll meet someone who smiles not just with their face but with their whole body; that’s her. Her lips stretch, but her nose also crinkles and her eyes squint. Her shoulders rise up toward her ears and she claps her hands together, dancing on her tippy toes a little.

Like I said: a full-body smile. It’s the kind of thing I’d normally find adorable on a woman, but that’s not an option here. So I just nod at her before looking away, turning my mind to other things.

“Is everyone set to go?” I say.

I get a chorus of assent in varying degrees of enthusiasm. Molly and Wes seem particularly excited, but even the quiet Mr. O’Malley is rubbing his hands together and looking interested. Mrs. O’Malley is already pressing forward on her own, power walking like it’s Thursday morning at the local mall, her arms swinging impatiently at her sides.

I better keep up. Can’t be outstripped by my best friend’s mom.

The paved road is more comfortable to walk than the dirt path through the trees. I’m accustomed to setting the pace and people following my lead, but I keep having to remind myself that Mr. O’Malley has a bad knee—something Mrs. O’Malley visibly reminds herself of as well. She’s initially gung ho to get to the waterfall, until I notice her look over her shoulder at all of us, her eyes softening when they fall on her husband. After that she slows down considerably.

It takes us about ten minutes to get to the point where we branch away from the road and move into the trees again, and another fifteen minutes of hiking from there to get to the waterfall. The nice thing about a small island, I guess, is that no matter how slowly you’re moving, it still doesn’t take terribly long to get anywhere.

And I’ve been here multiple times now, but it never ceases to catch me off guard when I arrive. You’re enmeshed in the trees one second, and the next—boom.Waterfall, right there.You step out into the clearing, the ground fading from dirt into rock beneath your feet, to find yourself looking up at the cliff face. It’s covered mostly in tangled, choking vines, but the overhang creates a little cove where the water laps at your toes and then gradually deepens to a few feet at the base of the waterfall. The only warning you’re about to stumble upon any of it is the sound of rushing water, white noise in the background that sneaks up on you.

Wes exclaims loudly as we step out of the trees, and Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley do the same. Only Molly is silent; I watch as she looks around, her eyes wide, her jaw dropped. She seems to be speechless, and even though growing up she didn’t say a lot, I get the feeling that silence is no longer her natural state.

I glance around too, because this sight isn’t something I’ll ever get tired of or take for granted. The spray of the water, the rich green surrounding, the sun overhead, beaming down in rays like golden spotlights…it’s perfect. Paradise on earth.

And nature favors Molly, it seems, because several of those spotlights hit her perfectly, working magic with her skin and her hair—milk and fire, rosy lips, freckles like constellations. I watch for a second as she continues to gape at the scene around us, her feet aimless and absentminded as she moves.

“Careful,” I murmur when she steps into the water without looking. My arm shoots out to grasp her elbow just in time as she slips, the wet rock dangerously slick.

“Whoa,” she says, her eyes flaring as her other arm flails. She regains her balance and then says, “Thank you.”

“Pay attention to where you’re going, please,” I say stiffly.

“Yeah,” she breathes, staring at her feet, still looking shaken. “Sorry.”

And yet—and yet—not ten seconds later, off she goes again. Plunging recklessly into the water, wading further out, her arms outstretched as she airplanes for balance. It looks a little silly, but it’s probably for the best; I can already tell that balance is not this woman’s strong suit.

Neither, apparently, is listening.

I shake my head, forcing myself to turn away. I don’t need to be worrying about her. She’s managed to survive this long; she’ll be fine.

“Watch your step,” I say to Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley—yes, maybe a little louder than necessary, but it’s just so that Molly will hopefully overhear and be careful.

Mr. O’Malley nods, slipping his Chacos off and lining them up neatly on the rock. Mrs. O’Malley takes her shoes off too—a pair of glittery sandals that are far less sensible than Mr. O’Malley’s shoes—and puts them next to his, though neither as neatly nor as carefully. Together they step into the water, shuffling forward until their ankles are submerged. I hesitate, wondering whether I should say anything, when Wes speaks up.

“Should we keep our shoes on?”

He’s smart to bring it up. Molly, I can’t help but notice, didn’t evenneedto ask; she already knew the answer. I saw her shoes earlier in the day, yellow Chacos similar to Mr. O’Malley’s, perfect for when she walked into the water.

“I would,” I say. “If you’ve got the right shoes. Mr. O’Malley, you can keep those on”—I point to his Chacos—“and they’ll protect your feet in case you step on anything. Mrs. O’Malley…” I grimace. “You’re better off barefoot. If your shoes get wet, they’ll just make you slip.”

Mrs. O’Malley looks sheepishly at me, but I just smile. Then she and Mr. O’Malley move back to where their shoes are sitting, and she crouches down, helping him get his feet into his sandals as they whisper back and forth.

“I told you last night to wear good shoes,” Molly calls to them, and I look at her. She’s waded far enough that the water hits just above her knees; now she looks down at her clothes, seeming to debate with herself, before turning and heading back in our direction. “It’s gorgeous out here, isn’t it?” she says as she moves, speaking to no one in particular. “So dreamy and romantic. This is the perfect place to fall in love.”

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