The Noel Stranger Page 9

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have a nice Thanksgiving,” she said. “And thank you again for the cookies. They look exquisite. Bryan will be delighted.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  I walked back home thinking I would like to be more like her.

  I called Andrew around midnight to see if he’d made it back to Salt Lake. Far from it. He told me that the roads had been worse than anticipated and he had just passed Rock Springs, so he wouldn’t be home until well past three. He said he’d still be at my house by ten. I told him to be careful.

  I woke the next morning feeling anxious. Was it too soon? They say if you really want to get to know someone, you should travel with them. What if Carina was right and he was nothing like I thought he was? What if we didn’t get along? I’d be stuck there with him and my flattened heart.

  I pushed my worries from my mind. It’s just a trip, I told myself. And, worst case, at least I’d be out of Utah and the cold. I should have left town long before then.

  Anxious or not, I was happy to be leaving town.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  They say that if you want to get to know someone, travel with them. Do I really want to know him that well?

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  Andrew pulled up to the house a few minutes before ten o’clock. I was sitting in the front room waiting for him. He got out of his truck wearing only a light denim jacket. I put on my ski parka, turned off the lights, and opened the door as he walked up to my porch.

  “You’re not going to need that coat in Cabo,” he said. We kissed.

  “I better not,” I replied. “It’s supposed to be in the nineties.”

  “I’m ready for it,” he said. He opened his jacket. He had on a colorful Hawaiian shirt.

  I locked my door. “I’ll be ditching the coat the second we’re on the plane.”

  Andrew grabbed my bag and we walked down to his truck. He opened the door for me, put our suitcases in the back seat, and walked around and got in.

  Even with slushy roads, the drive to the airport took only a half hour. We parked in the long-term parking lot and Andrew carried both of our bags to the nearest shuttle stop.

  There was one other person at the station—a man standing on the west side of the structure talking on his cell phone. He wore a herringbone peacoat, a long wool scarf wrapped around his neck, and one of those faux fur hats with flaps that fall down over the ears and ties under the chin. His nose was nearly as red as his scarf, and between talking he kept sneezing into a ratty tissue. I felt bad for him. I also kept my distance. I didn’t want to get sick on my trip.

  We had only been waiting for a few minutes when the shuttle arrived. Andrew grabbed both of our bags and carried them over. The shuttle bus was less than a quarter full, and there were two seats together near the back.

  “You’re quiet,” he said, after we’d sat.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I said. “But I’m excited.”

  “When was the last time you took a vacation?”

  “Like a real vacation, out of Utah?” I had to think. “About three and a half years ago. Clive went to New Orleans on business and I went with him.”

  “I love New Orleans,” he said. “Best food in the world.”

  “I wouldn’t know; I only had room service. I never left the hotel.”

  The shuttle dropped us off at the second terminal. The airport was slammed with pre-Thanksgiving traffic. We walked past most of the travelers to the priority access.

  “I’ll need your passport,” Andrew said as we waited for an agent. I fished it out of my purse and handed it to him. A few minutes later we checked our luggage and got our boarding passes. As Andrew turned from the counter, he said, “If you want, I can keep your passport with mine.”

  I remembered Carina’s paranoid comment about holding my own passport and felt a wave of annoyance. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  We still had an hour, so after passing through security, we stopped for coffee, then made our way to the D terminal. When we got to our gate, there was already a large crowd gathered around the entrance to the Jetway. We had been there for only a few minutes when the flight attendant called for boarding for those with premium seating.

  “That’s us,” Andrew said.

  “We’re in first class?”

  He handed me my boarding pass. “Life is too short for economy. You deserve a little pampering.” Then he added, “Maybe a lot.”

  “I don’t know if I deserve it, but I like it.”

  “You deserve it,” he said.

  I shed my jacket as we walked down the Jetway.

  “Would you like the window or aisle?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll let you take the window so you get a good view of Cabo.”

  The plane was crowded, but I wasn’t. The only other time in my life that I had flown first class was seven years ago when Clive was meeting with a client in Pittsburgh, and since it was over a holiday, his client had offered to buy me a ticket as well.

  “Did this cost a fortune?” I asked.

  “About fifty Christmas trees. But you’re worth it.”

  I settled back in the wide leather chair. “I like the way this trip is starting out.”

  “Good. It’s just the prologue.”

  I took out my phone. “Here’s something else I won’t need.” I shut it off. “I’m truly unplugged.”

  A minute later a flight attendant came by to ask if I wanted anything to drink. I ordered a cranberry juice with 7Up, then looked out the window. The snow was still falling and the plane’s window was covered with slush.

  “We’ll probably have to deice the plane,” Andrew said.

  “How long does that take?”

  “It depends on how many planes are ahead of us. Probably about fifteen minutes.”

  Andrew was right. The plane needed to be deiced. The process sounded like we were going through a car wash. When our plane finally lifted off, Andrew reached over and took my hand, then lay back in his seat. I liked it. I wondered if we would be holding hands on the way back.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  Cabo is beautiful. My body and soul have gone from dismal cold to cheerful warm.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  The flight to Cabo took just under three hours. Andrew and I talked for most of the first hour while we ate breakfast. After our trays were cleared, Andrew read the Wall Street Journal while I reclined my seat and fell asleep. I woke as we began our descent and the flight attendants prepared the cabin for landing. Andrew had put a blanket over me. It made me happy.

  I looked out over the blue sea churning with white foam against the rim of the peninsula. “It’s beautiful,” I said. I kissed Andrew on the cheek.

  We landed a few minutes later. As I emerged from the plane, I was surprised by the intensity of the heat. Even without my coat I was overdressed. The air was warm and humid and smelled of flowery perfume. The landscape around the runways was rugged desert with the jagged silhouette of mountains rising in the distance.

  We exited the plane from a mobile stairway attached to the back of a truck, walking carefully down the rutted metal stairs and onto the hot tarmac below. Andrew paused near the base of the steps and took a deep breath. “It’s good to be back.”

  “When was the last time you were here?” I asked.

  “A year ago,” he replied.

  An airline employee directed us to immigration, which was located in a modern and air-conditioned building, and we claimed our bags. Several other flights had landed about the same time as ours, and there was a lengthy queue.

  It took us half an hour to get through immigration. As we walked out into the main terminal, we were mobbed by English-speaking salesmen. Andrew just waved them off, saying, “No estoy interesado, gracias.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I told them we’re not interested.”

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p; “Are they taxi drivers?”

  “No, they’re selling time-shares.”

  We picked up our rental car, a cherry-red Mercedes convertible.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Is the condo far from here?”

  “About a half hour. It’s a nice drive.”

  We drove with the top down to the condo at Las Cascadas de Pedregal, a hillside community built along Pedregal beach. We drove past a security guard into a gated complex. The road was dark cobblestone and the grounds were carefully landscaped with exotic desert vegetation. I hadn’t been expecting anything this nice.

  “This is where we’re staying?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Casa, dulce casa.”

  “It’s ritzy.”

  “Sí.”

  We parked our car in a reserved space in the parking terrace, carried our luggage inside the main building, and took an elevator to the third floor.

  Standing in the doorway outside the condo, Andrew said, “It’s going to be warm inside. We don’t leave the air conditioner on. Electricity is too expensive.” Andrew unlocked the door and opened it. There was an immediate loud beeping.

  “Sorry, that’s the alarm.” He stepped over to a panel and dialed a number into it, then flipped on all the room’s lights. A half-dozen white enamel ceiling fans began to turn. The far windows were concealed behind drawn drapes.

  “Come in,” he said. “I’ll get the bags.”

  I stepped inside while Andrew retrieved our luggage. He shut the door and walked to the far side of the room, where he pushed a button on the wall. The drapes parted, revealing a large patio with a panoramic view of the Cabo San Lucas marina and bay.

  I literally gasped. “Oh my.”

  He smiled. “Not bad, right?” He unlocked the glass doors and opened them. “Best view in Cabo.”

  I walked outside to the edge of the patio. “That is breathtaking.”

  “You’re going to love the sunset,” he said. “Then, after its gone, the city lights look like a little galaxy below us. Day or night, there’s never a bad view.”

  The spacious patio had tile floors and a stainless-steel railing along the balcony. Waist-high, brightly colored pots spilled over with equally brilliant bougainvillea. The breeze from the ocean delivered a crisp, briny smell.

  It was hard to believe that just six hours earlier I had been shivering beneath dark cloud cover. “What a beautiful day.”

  “It’s always beautiful here,” he said, walking up close to me. “That’s Medano Beach below us. No SAD here.” He looked at me, then added wryly, “Someday we’ll find a cure for that.”

  “I think we just did,” I said. I took his hand and looked up at him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Thank you for coming.” We kissed, then he pulled back, his eyes excited. “Let me show you around.”

  Holding my hand, he led me back inside. There was an L-shaped suede leather sectional next to a long mahogany dining table.

  The kitchen was new and modern, with granite countertops and backsplash and stainless steel appliances. There was original art on the wall—colorful, abstract pieces that chromatically popped from the textured, off-white walls and tan tiled floors.

  “I thought we were going to be roughing it,” I said. “This is nicer than my home.”

  “It’s a nice little getaway,” he said modestly. “They call this area the Beverly Hills of Cabo. The villas around here sell for several million dollars.”

  “Your friend must be rich,” I said. “How long has he owned this?”

  “It’s been about five years. It was one of the first condos purchased in the development, which is why it has the best views.”

  “It looks more like five weeks,” I said. “It looks brand-new.”

  “Well, it only gets used a few weeks out of the year, so for all intents, it is.” He grabbed my bag. “Your room is back here.”

  I followed him down a short hallway to a spacious room with a king-sized bed and an ivory-colored, tucked-leather headboard with mahogany trim. He walked to the side of the room and pulled back the drapes, exposing another gorgeous view of the harbor.

  “This is the master suite. The bathroom’s behind that door right there.” He turned on the lights and I walked over and glanced inside. The bathroom was immaculate, with a tile and glass shower and dark cherrywood cabinets. The sinks were two alabaster bowls partially nestled into the counter with gold fixtures. I turned to him. “You should take this room.”

  “You’re my guest,” he said.

  I walked around the room, then sat on the bed. It was firm but comfortable. I lay back, sinking into the lush padding.

  “Passable?” he asked.

  I almost laughed. “It’s perfect.” I sat back up. “Where’s your room?”

  “It’s on the other side of the condo.” He looked around. “I need to go to town for groceries. You’re welcome to come with me or stay.”

  “I’ll come,” I said. “When are we going?”

  “No rush. When you’re ready. You need time to unpack and freshen up. I’ll be out here when you’re ready.” He walked out of the room. I shut the door behind him, then undressed and got into the shower. I shampooed my hair with a sweet-smelling Mexican shampoo, then sat down on the floor of the shower and let the water wash over me.

  Suddenly I began to cry without knowing why. Maybe it was a release, but I hadn’t felt this free for as long as I could remember. There was no pain, no shame, no one—besides Andrew—who knew or even cared who I was. I was better than free. I was anonymous. I felt the shame wash off me like the foam running down my body and into the drain.

  Best of all, I was with someone who cared about me. Why did he care about me? I couldn’t remember the last time I had been that happy.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Two

  Andrew speaks nearly fluent Spanish. I keep being reminded how false my first perceptions of him were.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  I unpacked all my clothing into the room’s empty armoire drawers, then changed into something more appropriate for the Mexican heat—a bright-blue off-the-shoulder romper with a tie at the waist.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. It was the first time I had worn the outfit and I thought I looked pretty cute, even if I felt a little self-conscious. Normally I was more conservative in my dress—not that I was prudish; rather, I had just spent too much of my life being noticed by men. But Andrew was different. I wanted him to notice me. I hoped that he would think I looked cute too.

  I pulled my hair back over my shoulders and walked back out to the front room. Andrew was sitting on the couch reading a business magazine, and he looked up as I walked in. He stared at me for a moment and said, almost reverently, “Estás preciosa.”

  I smiled. “Gracias. I think.” I stepped closer, then spun a little. “What do you think? You like this?”

  “Yes. I especially like you in that.”

  Andrew had also changed his clothes. He was wearing shorts and had changed his Hawaiian shirt for a short-sleeved white linen shirt. He looked very handsome.

  “Sorry I took so long,” I said.

  “There is no rushing in Cabo,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s an ordinance against it. I’m reminded of that every time I go into town.” He stood. “Shall we go?”

  We walked back down to our car and drove about three miles to where the seaside town sat below us. There was a white-sand beach lined with palm trees and saguaro cacti. In the distance, a cruise ship was anchored just outside the harbor. We pulled into the market’s parking lot.

  MERCADO ORGANICO

  Between the two words was a colorful round sign that read:

  CALIFORNIA RANCH MARKET

  ENJOYING NATURAL AND ORGANIC FOOD

  There were several well-used rattan tables and chairs in front of the building with menus on them, which I was glad for, since I hadn’t e
aten anything since breakfast on the plane. The store was well-stocked and air-conditioned. Most of the product packaging was in English, though there were products I’d never seen before, and the pricing was in both pesos and dollars. We purchased several cases of water, along with fresh fruit: mangoes, peaches, and some strange-looking produce I couldn’t identify.

  To my surprise, Andrew had a fairly lengthy dialogue in Spanish with the woman at the register ringing up our groceries. She put all our purchases in plastic sacks, and a lanky teenage boy took two of our three bags in his arms.

  “How much Spanish do you speak?” I asked Andrew as we walked out of the store.

  “Just a little,” he said.

  “You speak more than a little,” I said. “How often do you come down here?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Your friend doesn’t use his condo very much?”

  He shook his head. “No, he hasn’t been here for several years.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “More than you can imagine.”

  Andrew opened our car’s trunk and the young man, who had followed us out, put the groceries inside. Then he just stood there.

  “Does he want something?” I asked.

  “Yes; it’s different here than in America,” Andrew said. “The baggers are volunteers. So we tip them.” He took out his wallet and extracted a couple of dollar bills, which he handed to the boy. The boy said gracias and ran back to the store.

  “They take American dollars?”

  “They want American dollars,” he said.

  We walked back to the store and sat down at one of the tables in front. “I took the liberty of ordering us something to eat,” Andrew said.

  A few moments later a young woman brought out two fruit drinks in tall, narrow glasses, a bowl of shrimp ceviche, and tortilla chips with a small bowl of guacamole. She said to Andrew, “Aqui está. Ahorita regreso con su pedido completo.”

  “Gracias,” he replied.

  Andrew handed me a drink.

  I looked at him. “What is it?”

  “Just try it,” he said.

  I took a sip. “This is yummy. Mango?”