“What’s that all about?” Bebe asks.
“That bossy tweet-stalker wanted me to try this drink but I shot him down.” I take a sip of the drink and minty freshness invades my mouth. I swallow and it’s the perfect combination of comforting and cool. “It’s good, I guess,” I reluctantly admit. The bartender hears me and sends off another wink in my direction.
“Well, Steve and I are going parasailing today, wanna come?”
I scoff. “Are you crazy? I will be here at the bar if you need me.”
“You can’t stay at the bar all day. At least go out and beach-bum so one of those cute cabana boys can come serve you.”
I promise her I will as she trots off to a waiting Steve. They can defy the laws of gravity at their own peril, I have a good book and tonight’s tweet contest to get ready for. I hate that I don’t get to judge the winner tonight but I was ousted in the name of vacay. Bebe thinks I have a hard time letting work go. But that’s ridic. Everyone knows judging a dirty tweet contest is not work.
I have a good chuckle with myself and sip on my drink. It is delicious and when I’m done I order another. I watch Dewain add the ingredients and shake it up like a pro. I notice the bar is almost empty now that I’m not so self-absorbed in dirty tweeting.
“Where are all the people?” I call over to Dewain as he adds a slice of lime to my martini. “Why’s it so empty?”
“Private party this weekend,” he answers as he puts my drink down in front of me. “The entire west end of the resort has been rented out for it.”
“Wow,” I say as I take the first sip. Yum. “That’s pretty fancy. Must be moneybags, huh?” I reach into my purse to pull out some cash, but Dewain puts a hand over mine.
“It’s paid for. Mr. Buttinski left an open tab for you.” Dewain gives me another one of those winks and I flash him back some suspicion.
“What’s that mean?”
“Well,” Dewain says, throwing up his hands in an I-surrender gesture. “He wants to make a good impression, maybe?”
“Hmmm, I dunno. Did you see his face? Was he cute? I only saw his backside and while that was very nice, I’m a face girl first.” I shrug when he wags his finger at me. So I’m shallow? Sue me.
“I think many women think he’s cute.” And then Dewain laughs. “I’m not g*y but I think he’s cute.”
I gulp the rest of my drink down. These damn things really are good. “I think I’m gonna head to the beach. Thanks for the drink. And if you see key lime shorts, tell him I said thanks!”
I scoot off my barstool and make for the door and it only takes me a few steps to remember that I forgot the thing that goes on the top of every packing list. Underwear. I’ve got my bathing bottoms on today, but I figure I should pick up a few pairs as I stroll by a lingerie store.
“Good afternoon!” the sales lady calls out in a sing-songy voice from across the shop. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I’m good!” I call back. That’s something I would never get used to if I was rich. I’m not rich and since my job as an event planner doesn’t pay much before I got my new promotion, and pays only two grand more a year with that, I’m not even close to worrying about this. But having people bend over because you’re about to spend money makes me uncomfortable.
I peruse the rack of fancy underwear, check the price tag, and then promptly move over to another rack that says sale. I don’t know who spends hundreds of dollars on underwear, but it’s not me. I flip through everything, getting more and more desperate as the garments fly by. Nothing under fifty dollars? They call that a sale?
And then I spy some men’s tighty-whities in a basket on a shelf. I grab a pair and check the price. Fifteen dollars.
OK. Still ridiculous, but they are a size small, so they will have to do. I take them to the register and sign my name and room number on the charge slip as the sales lady folds my single pair of cheap men’s underwear and places them in a bag with real satin ribbon for handles.
I make a quick escape and head across the breezeway that leads to the private bungalows and I’m just looking up to see why it’s so quiet when I see key lime shorts talking to a security person. The security guy looks over lime shorts’ shoulder at me and I stop walking for a second.
Did I do something wrong? I’m staring at them when Mr. Buttinski walks off again.
Whatever. I have no idea what they are talking about, but I’m gonna go drop my stuff off and hit the beach so I can get back to work on my tweets. My flipflops smack my heels loudly in the stillness as I walk past the security guy, and I’m half expecting him to say something to me, but he just turns away and walks off.
Our bungalow is deep in the bungalow village as I like to call it. There are about twenty of them in a common area on this part of the resort and they have cute little winding paths surrounded by the most fragrant flowers and wispy palm trees. It almost takes my breath away. And the birds. Don’t even get me started on the birds.
When I get to our room I drop my stuff off and shimmy out of my shorts so I can exchange them for a gauzy white wrap. I study myself in the mirror. This is my favorite bathing suit. It’s peach so it makes my skin look a little more golden than it really is. I tie my hair up in a ponytail, grab my beach bag and stuff my tablet in there along with my phone, and then pull my shades down over my eyes and head out.
Just as I’m twisting the door handle I look down at my feet and stop in my tracks. An envelope has been slipped under the door.