Chapter Text
It’s December, but Isabel’s silk cami clings to the dampness of her chest as she twists her hair back into a chignon. She feels as though she's been pushed into an oven.
“Shit!” she gasps, nearly stabbing the nape of her neck as her vehicle hits a mound in the dirt road. Dust rises up around her.
“Sorry, miss,” David turns his head over his shoulder for just a moment; his tan hands grip the steering wheel. He tilts his head down and peers over his wrap-around sunglasses and gives her a wide, toothy smile.
“Would you like the air turned up?” he asks, his attention back on the road in front of them.
She nods graciously, securing the pin in her hair.
“That’d be great, David. I’m still getting acclimated. It was -6°C when I left Boston this morning!” She peels her camisole away from her skin as it begins to dry.
Thirty minutes later, David and the staff at Villa Morabeza are pulling her bags from the back of the SUV as Isabel slowly turns 360° taking in the private villas stepping down the hillside: terracotta rooftops, wrought iron lanterns, stone paths disappearing into golden grasses.
The air is different here, hot and dry and salt-laced, carrying the faintest smell of waxy plumeria. The Pacific glitters in the afternoon light like hammered bronze, and the bay curves so gently away in both directions that it looks like a painting whose artist knew exactly when it was complete.
A path edged in bougainvillea leads to the villa; hot pink blossoms contrast with warm white stucco walls. A pergola of slatted dark wood filters the last hard angle of sun into a hazy glow as she passes beneath it, throwing thin bars of gold onto the stone path at her sandaled feet.
One of the staff pushes open the door to her villa and the outside simply continues inside. The same warm stone underfoot, the same gold light. There are low rattan chairs, a wide leather daybed in tobacco brown, unglazed pottery on an étagère, and a woven textile in sage and ochre draped across the foot of the bed. The bed itself is enormous and white, canopied in gauze that flutters with the breeze from the sliding doors that open to her terrace.
Her terrace hangs out over the hillside, and a plunge pool waits for her to break the surface. Its infinity edge dissolves at the far end into clear blue sky. Beyond it there is nothing but the long bleached slope of the coast, so clean it looks drawn.
∞ ∞ ∞
Her phone's chime pulls her back into reality. A glossy smirk and caramel fringe fill her screen.
“Jeremiah and Tom will be there this evening.” Taylor’s voice loudly announces. “Have you met Fernanda yet?”
“Hey Tay, no,” Isabel swallows.
She eyes the pitcher of citrus water on a mango-wood table. A thick, cream notecard and a small bouquet of white hibiscus and red ginger blossoms sit next to it.
She walks over to the table and lifts the notecard, nodding to herself.
“But she left me a note in my villa. And I’ve got about ten emails from her during my flight. She wants to meet later this evening–told me to take my time getting settled–that everything is ready for the final tasting tomorrow. And I’m meeting the flower vendor on Saturday.”
“I don’t know, babe. This is our first time working with her. We need this wedding to go well. I need you to send me all of the pictures. The least I can do is tag them and post them,” Taylor pushes back. “You know I’d be there but–”
Isabel interrupts. "You are eight and a half months pregnant with my niece."
“I’m so over it. I can’t sit up. I can’t lay down. I’m living in sweatpants. Sweatpants, Iz. God help me if she has the punctuality of your brother,” Taylor mutters.
Taylor barely takes a breath. “Speaking of brothers, Tom warned me that Jere’s doctor brother is already there. Conrad, I think his name is? I think I saw his name on the guest list. Tom says he’s stubborn. Not exactly on board.”
“What do you mean?” Isabel furrows her brow. “He can’t possibly have an issue with his brother being gay–”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Taylor interrupts. “You know how Jeremiah asked for a memorial candle and program note for his mom? Well it hasn’t been that long since she passed, and his brother seems to think he's rushing into this.”
“I mean, they did meet six months ago.”
“It’s a whirlwind romance,” Taylor replies.
“Or the brother is right,” Isabel counters.
“Hey. No talking like that. Like Lucinda would say, it’s bad ju-ju.” Taylor scolds her.
“Anyway,” Isabel takes a breath, pouring a glass of water. “I just got in. I’m going to put some things away, shower, and walk around a bit.”
“Call me if you need anything. I’ll literally be here. Your brother won’t even let me walk around the block. He’s catastrophizing over the snow. He’s afraid I might slip on some ice,” Taylor huffs.
∞ ∞ ∞
She meanders through an open-air market with a few hours to kill before meeting Fernanda.
Faded turquoise and dusty red canvas tarps are strung between wooden poles, filtering the fierce sun into a dappled half-shade. Long card tables under the tarps are buried in carved balsa wood, painted toucans, sea turtles, crocodiles, their brushstrokes visible up close. Beside them hangs a cascade of hammocks in sunset colors, their knotted fringes swaying. A woman sits cross-legged at the next stall, fingers moving absently as she weaves a bracelet from waxed thread. Across the way, soap bars made with local honey and coconut oil are stacked in neat pastel rows. The smell of woodsmoke from a grill draws her away from the goods and makes her mouth water.
She finds herself sitting on a plastic chair with a paper plate on the orange metal table in front of her. Carne asada is laid over gallo pinto, the rice fried in oil with onion and sweet pepper to a warm reddish-brown, a spoonful of salsa fresca bright on top of the meat, and two slices of maduros, their edges caramelized dark and sticky.
She's forking food into her mouth while drafting a text to the wedding band's management when a radio nearby jumps in volume, a fútbol announcer's voice, electric with excitement.
A few yards away, a tall man whose dark hair falls in slightly unruly layers around his face is standing at an open-air bar with a palm-thatched roof. His jaw is sharp, and he appears to be holding back a smile as a man behind the counter animatedly gestures with his hands.
The fork doesn’t quite make it to her mouth because when he turns and his eyes catch hers, her stomach does a surprising, unexpected little flip. A flush immediately rises to her cheeks and she flicks her eyes back down to her plate, her phone still clutched in one hand. A smile she tries to stifle pulls at her lips.
When she looks up a moment later, he’s pushing cash across the counter and walking towards her with a beer in his hand.
“American?” he smiles faintly, barely a foot away from her now.
She squints, her head tilting up towards his.
“Your shirt.”
His eyes are the color of sea glass, pale and muted and oddly arresting, framed by wispy dark lashes. He is, without a doubt, one of the best-looking men she’s ever seen; more refined than any of the Southies she has met on a night out with Taylor as wing-woman. He's a lean kind of muscular, with long limbs that make his posture look casual. A black tank top clings to his chest beneath an open linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms; she can see his tendons shifting faintly under the skin as he gestures.
She sets her fork down and looks down at her chest, Boston Body Pilates is printed across her tank.
The message to the band's management sits unfinished, cursor blinking on her screen.
“I guess so,” she’s smiling again, not holding back now. “You?”
“Grew up in Boston, went to school in Rhode Island, and California for a bit. I moved back to Boston a few months ago.” He sets his hand on the chair across from her— a question she doesn’t miss.
She dips her head with another smile and a nod.
∞ ∞ ∞
She learns his name is Beck. He’s just finished a week-long volunteer experience with IFRE, further down the coast, south of San José. He’s got another week left before his winter break is over, and he’s looking for some good surf.
“And what about you?” he asks, his eyes sparkle with curiosity, but he’s rubbing his palms on his pants like he might be nervous.
“A business owner, event planner, and crisis-averter.”
“Do you encounter many crises?” His brow lifts a fraction.
She can’t mistake it now. He’s definitely flirting. They’re openly staring at each other.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” she retorts without breaking eye contact. She’s afraid she’s sweating through her linen shorts. “You got somewhere to be?”
He shakes his head and moves to follow her to a leather goods vendor nearby.
The raw, rich scent of tanned hide mingles with the musky scent of neatsfoot oil. He follows closely as she browses hand-stitched coin purses, belts with rope patterns, and keychain fobs stamped with the silhouette of a ceiba tree. She’s drawn to a crossbody bag hand-tooled in a floral design. As she traces her fingers over the design, she feels him watching her. The fine baby hairs across her forearms and up the back of her neck prickle. When she looks up, he glances away, staring at a table of wallets. A faint smile, still detectable.
The artisan, a middle-aged man with a straw hat and calloused hands, politely engages her in negotiation. When she offers to pay cash, he agrees. She’s utterly pleased with herself when she grabs Beck by the arm and pulls him toward a juice vendor.
∞ ∞ ∞
“You know it’s amazing we haven’t met,” she insists, as she pulls the plastic cups of horchata, already gathering condensation, towards her. “The Boston night scene isn’t that big.”
“I don’t really do the night scene,” he replies as he whips out his wallet and pushes a few perfectly crisp bills towards the cashier. His other hand rests on her shoulder, holding her back from trying to pay for herself.
Isabel licks at her bottom lip as she watches the plush curve of Beck’s lips wrap around the straw.
The horchata is a welcome relief. Icy-cold rice water, sweetened, and warmed with cinnamon, it coats her tongue and lingers. She closes her eyes and moans. When she opens her eyes he’s staring at her slack-jawed.
Her eyes widen and she coughs. Embarrassed, she drops her face to her cup.
“I uh…” she scrambles for words. “I used to drink these all the time. Or something like these. In Valencia when I did a semester abroad,” she clears her throat and continues.
He’s watching her carefully now.
“But in Spain it’s made with tiger nuts. I used to sit at my favorite café in the afternoon and dunk these spongy little sugar-glazed pastries into the horchata,” she explains.
He narrows his eyes and cups her chin. His dark brows wrinkle, giving him an air of seriousness.
“Open your mouth.”
She’s confused, but she does. Her face is beet red and pieces of her hair have fallen out of her chignon and are sticking to the sides of her face. She wants him to touch other parts of her.
God, he is beautiful, she thinks.
“It’s incredible–”
She pulls her face back slightly, but he’s still holding her chin.
“-- that you have all your teeth!” he jokes.
She squeaks in astonished surprise. Her lips accidentally graze his wrist as she turns her face and he pulls away to take a sip.
“Too sweet,” he winces, but takes another sip.
“Oh, c’mon,” she chides, bumping her hip into his. He wraps his free arm around her shoulder playfully, but she pulls away, self-conscious. Their arms remain touching.
“I’m so sweaty,” she bemoans.
She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, but he’s looking straight ahead. The straw skims his mouth and he licks his lips.
“I don’t mind.”
∞ ∞ ∞
They’re walking back up the hilltop towards Villa Morabeza and a cluster of other rental homes and villas. Two men are coming down the hill, holding hands, in matching Merino t-shirts and quick-dry shorts, sunglasses atop their heads. A moment later she recognizes them as Jeremiah and Tom. She goes to raise her hand towards them, bumping into Beck as she edges towards the center of the road to greet them.
“Connie!” Jeremiah calls, a blindingly white smile on his tanned face. They stop in front of one another. Mildly amused, Jeremiah turns to Isabel. “I see you’ve met my brother, Conrad.”
Isabel turns to Conrad with a dubious expression, her brows knitted and raised.
“You said your name is Beck?” she squeezes the plastic cup still in her hand. Now empty, the plastic crackles.
“Conrad Beck Fisher.” His smile is tight, and he steps back to put distance between them.
Tom coughs. “Good to see you, Isabel. Glad you made it. This place is as gorgeous as I remember it being!” He’s being sincere, but his eyes flicker between Conrad and Isabel like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Jeremiah is also standing back, staring at his brother, a bemused expression on his face.
“Conrad,” Tom continues when Jeremiah doesn’t jump in, “this is our wedding planner, Isabel.”
Conrad sighs. His expression turns stony. He starts walking again, his pace speeding up as he passes them.
“Conrad, wait,” Jeremiah yells. “You came here, can’t you just support me?”
Conrad pauses, turns, and shakes his head. His jaw twitches before he opens his mouth and closes it again. “It’s been two months, Jere. Since mom died. You’re rushing into this. Both of you. You’re making a mistake.”
Jeremiah’s fists ball up. Tom stands behind him and wraps both arms around his waist.
“I’m happy!” Jeremiah practically screams. His bright blue eyes are glassy.
Isabel stands frozen. She knows it's not her place to intervene. But she also has Taylor’s voice in the back of her mind. You’ll be able to pay off those student loans, Is, with this one wedding.
“Why don’t we all calm down? Let’s go back to the villas, have a drink…” she glances at her watch. She’s supposed to meet Fernanda in an hour.
“You.” Conrad points to her. His hand shakes.
She feels an entirely different kind of intensity from him than what she’d felt that afternoon.
"You're in on this,” his voice shrill, breaking mid-reply.
“Well, I’m being paid for a servi–”
“I thought I’d come up here,” Conrad lifts his arms up into the air, his face tilts towards the sky, “get you guys out on the water, surf. And you’d come to your senses and joke that this was all a crazy plan contrived at Burning Man!”
“Conrad.” Isabel interrupts. Her voice is firm. “I realize I’m not in this.” She flicks her hand between the three men. “I’m here for a job. But that is a fucked-up thing to say,” she admonishes.
“Why can’t you just move in together—rescue a dog? What’s the rush?” Conrad asks, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “What would mom say?”
Tom is holding Jeremiah by the hand now. Jeremiah's fists have unfurled, and his shoulders sag.
Jeremiah’s tear-streaked face wobbles. “She’d want you to be happy too.”
Conrad turns back, shaking his head, and walks towards the villa.
“I’m going to fix this.” Isabel’s hands press together as she looks between Jeremiah and Tom. “I promise. This wedding is going to be the most romantic time of your life,” she smiles, trying to convince them.
Tom nods, his fingers playing with the curls at the back of Jeremiah’s neck. Jeremiah kicks at a stone and doesn’t meet her gaze.
She moves to pass them, meaning to catch up with Conrad.
“Thanks, Isabel,” Tom mumbles.
She has no idea how she's going to fix this.