Beach Glass (15 page)

I WAKE UP THE next day to a pair of intense green eyes staring at me. “Hi,” Carson says, kissing my forehead. Pleasantly groggy after surfing yesterday and then another late night of passionately kissing and rolling around in my bed, I murmur, “What time is it?”

“Who cares?” he asks, snuggling next to me. “We have all the time in the world now.”

Carson tells me that while I somehow managed to sleep through the howler monkey wake-up call, he made a trip to the front office to take the week off. The next group of surf campers is a small one, so Evan and Randy can handle them. “And I get to be with you,” he says, giving me one of the two cups of coffee he was wise enough to get while he was out. “Tell me, what do you want to do with your extended vacation?”

“Be with you.” My answer is automatic. Carson’s openness makes it easy for me to be direct and honest, something I’ve always found so difficult.

“Goes without saying,” he answers between sips of coffee. “You’re not getting rid of me for a second. But I don’t want to be selfish and keep you prisoner in your own bed or make you go surfing if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I don’t mind either, believe me. I mean, I know which I’d choose between the two, if I had to.”

Carson smiles back at me. “You don’t have to choose. You can have both,” he says, taking my free hand. “But the water’s flat today anyway, and there are so many beautiful parts of Costa Rica, things I love that I want to share with you.”

“Then that’s what I want to do.” I sit up, drawing the bed sheet around me, still a little shy about being nearly naked in front of Carson. Part of the thrill of being with him is a feeling I haven’t had in a long time, a sort of exciting discomfort that comes with being with someone new. I’m careful the way I eat around him, fretting over whether there’s something between my teeth. I can’t lounge around in my underwear in front of him yet. With Daniel, I could have black beans between my teeth and be in my comfiest, ugliest pajamas, and he’d still say “Hey, pretty Katy” and look at me like I was the queen of his world.

“You make our itinerary,” I tell Carson, easing out of bed so I can go brush my teeth before we kiss. “I want to see what made you fall in love with this place.”

“WELCOME TO MY backyard,” Carson says.

He waves his hand to indicate a majestic waterfall cascading over a rocky hill formation green with flowering bushes and lush mosses. Thick, jungle-like trees frame the waterfall, and there are small rainbows arcing through the misty air. The rushing water roars as it gracefully drapes over the rocks, becomes a living column, and crashes down into a pool in an endless white torrent. It’s more than beautiful and exciting. It’s something that makes me aware of my spirit, which feels like it’s soaring on that water right now. I look at Carson, eager to share in this wonder with him. After a few moments of being spellbound, I remember the dream I had on the way to the volcano. “Is there a cavern behind that waterfall?”

“I don’t know,” Carson says. “Let’s get closer.”

“Can we?” I ask, though my question is really,
Should we?
The hill is steep, and the falls are pretty powerful looking.

“Sure,” he says, taking my hand. “Come on.”

Carson leads me to a stairway I hadn’t seen before, a narrow, steep passageway carved in the stone of the hill. The steps are uneven and slippery from the mist of this rainforest terrain, and the handrail is a wobbly rope. Even though he’s only wearing flip-flops, Carson takes the steps two at a time with the ease of someone merely stepping onto a curb. I’m wearing my sneakers, and I’m still mincing along like I’m in a minefield. Carson’s holding my hand, though, and he slows down for me.

Several steep sets of stairs later, we get to a wooden deck that fits in with the natural surroundings but looks like it was built from sticks and reeds, meaning not very stable. “Are you sure this is safe?” I call out over the roar of the falls.

Carson laughs. Instead of trying to answer me, he lifts me up in his arms and carries me onto the deck while I shriek with surprise, my voice totally lost in the sound of the rushing water. He brings me to the edge, and I hold on to him for dear life until he gently puts me down. Then he takes my hand and extends our arms toward the falls. His fingertips graze the edge.

I hesitate like a child being told she can actually touch something amazing and awe-inspiring. Tentatively, I hold out my hand. Cool mist covers my skin. Carson is beaming at me, and he puts his free arm around me so I can lean out a little further. At last, my fingers touch this incredible natural creation. It’s exhilarating and so beautiful, a feeling that goes all the way to my soul. Carson reaches for my hand, our fingers entwining within the falls, and we become a part of this natural wonder.

On the way down, when we can hear each other again, Carson says, “Well, what did you think?”

“That’s some backyard you have there,” I say, unable to put into words what I felt. “There’s nothing like that back in Jersey City.” We walk to the beat-up Volkswagen Beetle that the three surf instructors share. “Well,” Carson drawls, like he’s warming up to something, “If you stayed here, it could be your backyard, too. You can write from anywhere, can’t you?”

He opens the passenger side door for me, and I agree that I probably could, though I try to think of the last time I saw
Costa Rican correspondent
under anyone’s byline on
Now News
or the other media outlets I’d want to work for. Well, he’s just talking. And it doesn’t hurt to have fun relocation fantasies, especially when you’re being dazzled by an incredible force of nature. And a waterfall.

Our next stop remains a mystery until we pull into another national park, this one an orchid garden. I look at Carson, amused. “I didn’t have you pegged as a fan of botany.”

“Not generally,” he says, “but this will blow your mind.”

He’s right. My mind can barely comprehend what I’m seeing, and it can’t be described by any previous concept of a flower. We see rows of tiny orchids that look like clusters of green creatures, and yellow orchids with grand beards of scarlet and tiger stripes. Some are delicate flowers with long pink spikes reaching from their tips, and some are minute explosions of fuchsia. There are varieties that sprout boldly from the sides of trees, and one type is so tiny five of them could fit on a fingertip. This art of nature is beyond anything I could have imagined. At one point I have to hug Carson for showing all of this to me.

The sun is starting to set, and I know we have to leave, but I wish I could take part of this day with me. Ah, the ubiquitous gift shop! “I’m just going to run in and get something for my mom,” I tell Carson. “I’ll be right back.”

I bypass the postcards and calendars of orchids, knowing my practical mother won’t be impressed by something she could get back home. I go immediately to the small pots of orchids for sale. There are some beauties, but still things that look very similar to what she’d be able to get, were she inclined to buy an orchid. She’s not much of a plant person, but surely she would tend to something as amazing as the tiger-like flower I’m happily holding now.

When I take my prize to the cash register, the clerk looks at the plant care tag. “Do you live in the area?” she asks.

“No. This would be going to New York.”

She nods, though her tan brow shows a crease. “This species thrives in an environment like the one here, very humid, lots of water, light but not too much direct sun, and not a big fluctuation in temperature,” she says. “It also needs a lot of food and care. Do you have much experience with orchids?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

She nods again, apologetically. “You might want one of the types that can transplant better, that are a little easier to manage.” She steers me back toward the orchids I can get at home. I thank her, leaving the exotic flower behind.

Outside the shop, I look for Carson. He’s not hard to find, even among all the people milling around the park’s exit. It’s not just that he’s taller and better looking than most of them. It’s the way he’s standing with his face turned up toward the sun, his eyes closed, smiling. Thriving in this environment.

WE EAT DINNER back at Emerald Cove, at a table for two, away from the new group of surf campers. Carson looks over his shoulder and waves at Evan and Randy, who wave back at us and give us the thumbs up. They’re sweet. “I’m enjoying your vacation,” Carson says, gazing at me as he takes a sip of wine.

I finish my last bite of linguini with summer vegetables, checking my teeth for food with my tongue before I say, “Most people want to get away from work on their vacations.”

“My work is an endless vacation,” Carson counters. His statement, and the smile that goes with it, are designed to tempt, just like the slice of mango pie he puts between us. “I never have any desire to get away from this. It’s always fun, it’s exciting, and,” he says, looking at me, “it’s beautiful.”

“I have something kind of un-fun and not very exciting to say.” I pause to swallow the sweet, tangy morsel of pie Carson feeds me. “I only brought a week’s worth of clothes, and I desperately need to do laundry.”

He looks at me with exaggerated sadness. “Oh, so sorry, there’s no laundry service here. You’ll just have to be naked.”

We go back to my tentalow to gather up my clothes, and then Carson takes me to Emerald Cove’s laundry room behind the main building. There are three large washers and dryers, all quiet. The brightly lit room smells of warm dryer sheets. Stacks of fresh bed linens and towels sit neatly folded on shelves, waiting to be used by new surf campers. It’s late, and aside from a few curious insects checking out the light bulbs, we’re alone. I quickly shove my dirty laundry into one of the washing machines and start it up. “You don’t have to do this with me, you know,” I say. “It’s kind of boring.”

“Being with you isn’t boring,” he says. He puts his hands on my waist. “Ready? One, two, three.” He lifts me up to sit on the washing machine. For once, I have the height advantage, though I’m still only an inch or two above Carson. He looks up at me, eyes sparkling as he moves in to kiss me. From the first touch of his lips, light as the petal of a flower then strong as the colors of those orchids, my body starts to sing for him. We’ve gone from seeing some of the most incredible displays of nature to a laundry room, and I feel the same excitement and wonder. This man makes everything amazing, even the dullest chore.

There’s an irony here as delicious as the taste of mango pie that still lingers in our mouths as Carson’s lips press against mine more deeply. I love that we’re doing something as mundane as laundry. So far, our time together has been like a fantasy. Being on vacation, doing things I’d never ordinarily do, like surfing and seeing waterfalls and exotic orchids, even being with the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, all feels unreal. It’s like a dream. But doing laundry is an earthbound activity, a part of daily living. I’ve always wanted to share things like this with someone. With the right person, ordinary things like this are wonderful.

Carson’s hips part my knees. His hands go to my waist and, with playful force, pull me closer, and now I’m pressing right up against him. Wow, he’s excited by this laundry adventure, too. I wrap my legs around him just as the washing machine clicks into the throes of the spin cycle. Carson breaks our kiss, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Have you ever made love on a washing machine before?”

I frown at him, though I’m giggling. “Is that another fun part of your job?”

He chuckles with me. “No, I have yet to experience that thrill.”

“Well, this isn’t my top choice for our first time together.”

“Mine either,” he says, smiling. “You’re just giving me ideas, that’s all.” He touches his forehead to mine. “I’m not pressuring you, Kate. I like everything we’re doing, and I’m fine with what we’re not doing. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. If you’re ready.” He moves away just enough to look into my eyes. “But is there something that’s making you nervous? I’m safe, I promise. I got checked out recently, and I haven’t been with anyone since. And if there’s anything you need to tell me, don’t be afraid,” he offers.

“No, nothing like that. I’m fine.”

“But there is something,” he says.

I know I can be honest with Carson. The way he’s so open with me, so fearless about showing his feelings, is teaching me to be that way, too. But I don’t want to go into the Daniel story and how I’m still hesitating because moving on is harder than I thought it would be, as beautiful as everything with Carson can be. And besides, there’s something else I’m just beginning to realize. “Yes,” I admit. “I am a little nervous.”

Carson caresses my back reassuringly. “We’re good together, Kate. It’s going to be amazing. I know it will.”

“I know it will, too,” I tell him, touching his face, feeling the angles of his strong jaw. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

While my clothes tumble around in the dryer, Carson holds me again, but his kisses are different now, slow and sweet, sometimes landing softly at the top of my head or on my temples. The moments are quiet and full of meaning as he cradles me in his arms. The way we look at each other is more naked than our bodies could ever be. I see things in Carson’s eyes that I want to see, but they seem so real. I have to remember that I’m just a visitor here, admiring an exotic orchid that I can’t take home with me.

When the dryer shuts off, Carson gives me another kiss before unloading my clothes. We fold in silence. I watch him carefully folding my jeans, smiling to himself about something good. “What?” I ask.

He shrugs, his smile remaining. “Nothing. Well, I was just thinking. I do laundry by myself sometimes. Other times, Randy and Evan and I all do it together with a couple of beers, some music. You know, make it bearable. It’s not my favorite thing in the world.” He puts my jeans in the small pile of clean clothes. “But this is so great. I’m just doing laundry, and I’m having the best time.” Still smiling, he shakes his head. “What’s that all about?” he says, more to himself than to me.