Page 7 of That Birthday in Barbados
I half expect to blink and find Madeline gone in a poof, as if she is a figment of my imagination. Her bulletproof optimism seems too perfect to be real, but despite my cynicism, I can’t deny being glad to see that it still exists in the world, even if I can’t imagine myself ever feeling it again.
The driver stops the van at the main entrance, and two young men in hotel attire step out to open the back and removeour luggage. The driver opens the sliding door and offers a hand to help us out.
Pink is the hotel’s signature color, splashed about on chair cushions and table umbrellas, on the accent pillows propped against white chairs. It’s not the pink of cotton candy and ballerina slippers, but a deep vibrant fuchsia that brings to mind Florida bougainvillea and the dragon fruit of Central America.
The main entrance offers us a view clear to the Atlantic Ocean. It is breathtaking. I have not forgotten this. I have a sudden yearning to run straight in, swim to the platform bobbing peacefully on the aqua water and lie there face up with the sun blazing down on me. Maybe it would finally chase the coldness from my bones, thaw the frozen stone where my heart used to be.
A beautiful young woman greets us at the entrance, bringing me back to reality. She is dressed in pink and carries a tray with icy glasses of anequally pink, fruity drink. She hands us each one, and waves us to the reception desk where two attendants begin to check our reservations.
Madeline finishesfirst, and another pretty young lady in a pink dress steps forward to walk her to her room. “I am sure we will see each other,” Madeline says, giving me a quick hug. “Enjoy, my dear.”
I watch her walk away, feeling a little sorry to see her go. Or maybe it’s that I fear all the positive energy she has doused me with will go with her. The attendant continues typing something into her keyboard, assuring me it will only be another minute.
Steps sound on the marble floor behind me. I glance around, my gaze colliding with a pair of beautiful eyes. I hang there for a moment, thinking how similar they are to the sea Ifelt so tempted to throw myself in. Realizing I’m staring, I drop my own eyes, and then there’s a voice.
“Welcome to the Sandy Lane. Spin class tomorrow at eight o’clock. Hope to see you there.”
I look at him fully, and wilt a little beneath the smile accompanying the words. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It’s a great way to justify the indulging,” he says, his voice low under an American accent.
I try to place the region and come up with a somewhat neutralized New York.
“Which I assume you’re planning to take advantage of?” he adds.
“Yes. I imagine I will.”
He’s standing right in front of me now, sticks out his hand. “Anders Walker.”
“Catherine Camilleri.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says and then tips his head, a question crossing his face. “Wait. Camilleri. You started ActivGirl?”
For a moment, I’m too surprised to answer. “I-yes. How did you-”
“I remember when you filed to go public a few years ago. I used to work on Wall Street.”
“Oh.”
He hears the question in my voice, smiles, and says, “And now I’m teaching a spin class in Barbados. Yep, there is a story attached. You come to my class tomorrow, and I might tell you sometime.”
I smile at his teasing, surprising myself with, “You’ve piqued my curiosity. How can I not show up now?”
“Right. Because you definitely won’t get away with saying you don’t have anything to wear.”
I laugh a light laugh, the sound strange to my own ears. How long has it been since I laughed unexpectedly? I no longer think of myself as someone who laughs. I think of myself as someone for whom that is a thing of the past. I sober, as if he might pick up on this, find the laughter false. “Ah, okay. I’ll try to set my alarm to get up in time.”
“And I’ll look forward to seeing you there,” he says, backing up and then with a wave, heads out the front entrance and jogs toward the spa that sits just across the paved road.
The young lady who greeted us with drinks walks up and says, “Ms. Camilleri, your room is ready. I’ll be happy to walk you there.”
“Thank you,” I say, picking up my purse and laptop bag and following her across the off-white marble floor.
“You’ll notice the wet floor signs,” she points out as we head for the hallway leading to the stairs. “We have quick showers that come and go and can make the marble quite slick.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re on the third floor with a wonderful view of the beach,” she says.
