Page 4 of Husband of the Year
“Excuse me?” My head tilts. “Not even close. You were literally just inside me.”
“No, I mean a virgin margarita,” Olan says.
“Of course.”
I nod to grab the waiter’s attention, and Olan’s cell, resting on the turquoise-tiled table, buzzes. When we arrived four days ago, I was told to stash my phone in the in-room safe and forget about it. The only person who’d need to reach us here is Isabella, and she has Olan’s number.
“Maybe Gonzo isn’t eating. He does that sometimes when he misses me.” Worry coils within me, tightening its grip. “Let me talk to her. I can give her some tips. And talk to him. Tell her to put me on speakerphone. He might just need to hear my voice.” I reach for Olan’s phone, but he pulls it away.
“It’s my mother.” Olan’s lips purse as he blinks rapidly a few times. I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say. “I should take it.” He stands. “I’ll be right back.”
His brow wrinkles as he heads for the hallway leading toward the beach exit.
Olan’s relationship with his family is complicated and, honestly, I can empathize. They talk on the phone every few weeks, but on my end, all I hear from Olan are a lot of ums, yeahs, and okays. When I’ve tried to push him for more information on Rebecca and Erik Stone, his willingness to offer anything beyond surface-level facts remains minimal. I know they still live in the south side Chicago home where Olan and his brothers were raised. They’re retired, but Rebecca managed caretakers at a nursing home, and Erik was a city bus driver.
Communication with his brothers is even more sparse. Gabe, two years older, is married, with two boys slightly older than Illona. He sells huge industrial cooling units, which requires him to travel often. Then there’s Liam. The youngest. I know he struggles with drinking, but Olan has never filled in the details. They don’t talk often—maybe once a year since we’ve been together, but he gets sporadic updates from his parents.
Olan usually calls his mother. Why would she be calling him? And while we’re in Mexico. I wonder if something’s wrong. Did somethinghappen to his dad? Olan exits the building, and I’m momentarily mesmerized by the twinkling lights hanging above.
My mind wanders to my mother. Crap, when was the last time I called her? I didn’t even inform her about this trip. She’d worry. And want every detail about flights, hotels, island dynamics, and hotel safety protocol. Chances are she’s seen aDatelineabout someone being murdered on an island and that’s all I’d hear about. I’m certainly not calling her now. Or while we’re here. Maybe from the airport. Maybe when we’re back. I’ll tell her all about it after. Once I’m safely home.
“Is this seat taken?”
Blinking out of my mini-spiral, a white woman, probably around the same age as my mother, smiles at me with ruby red lipstick. She has bright orange hair, and I admire both the tenacity and effort it must take to keep it so vibrant.
Before I can tell her, yes, the seat is taken by my gorgeous fiancé and he will be right back, she’s hanging her purse on the back of the chair and sitting.
“Elise.” She extends her hand, and I instinctively take it. But she doesn’t want a shake. She uses me to steady herself, while her other hand grabs the bar as she hoists herself onto the stool.
“Marvin,” I say.
There’s some wobbling as Elise sits, and I do my best to clasp her hand firmly until she settles.
“Marvin.” She repeats my name, pursing her lips, mulling over the sounds or perhaps considering it before nodding her approval.
“And what’s a handsome man like you doing here all by yourself??” Elise taps the wood counter, and the bartender appears. “Chardonnay, please.”
The bartender nods. His long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, has a few stray wisps that tickle his face.
“Did you want anything?” Elise asks.
“No, I’m good.” I raise my seltzer, the lime hanging on the rim for dear life. “But thank you. Wait. Yes. A margarita. Virgin.”
“One virgin margarita,” Elise repeats, and the bartender nods and busies himself making our drinks. “Now, tell me why you’re here alone.”
“I could ask the same of you.”
A wide smile cracks Elise’s face in half as her head tilts back, and a loud, shrill cackle takes over the entire bar area.
“Me? I’ve been coming here for years.”
“By yourself??”
“Well, for the last…” She looks to the sky, searching. “Six years, yes. Since my husband passed. Richard and I honeymooned here over thirty years ago.” Another smile spreads on Elise’s face. “He brought me back every February for our anniversary, and I figured he’d want me to keep up the tradition. So here I am.”
“Wow. That’s so sweet. And thirty years.” I press my lips together, and a gentle smile slowly curves onto my face.
“Now, what’s your excuse?”
