Читать книгу Sunsets of Tulum - Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett - Страница 10

Arrival

The 737’s wings dipped on final approach into Cancún International, waking Reed from shallow, in-flight half-sleep. He rubbed his eyes, shifted position in the soft leather seat, and looked over at Laurel. For a moment, in that drowsy distance between dreams and waking, he saw his wife’s legs as a complete stranger might: how impossibly toned they were, taut and sensual, too long even for the added room of business class. That the modeling career she’d seemed born for never quite materialized still seemed unjust to him, to both of them; it was criminal to keep those legs hidden away beneath the Channel 3 anchor’s desk all day. She had draped herself across the window area with the entitlement reserved only for the dangerously beautiful, and—just for an instant—he saw those legs and felt a flicker of hope. That she’d agreed to come at all on such a last minute trip seemed like winning a small lottery. That she’d juggled her schedule and gotten the time off had to mean he wasn’t the only one wanting to find a way to reconnect. The deep discounts thanks to it still being hurricane season were what clinched it for her. Even Laurel, thrifty to a fault, agreed they were too cheap to refuse.

These marriage issues were pushed back by something less important but more immediate: Laurel had closed the shade and fallen asleep soon after take-off, and now that the seat belt sign was turned on there was no chance to get up and look out from another part of the plane. Despite his fear of the water, or perhaps because of it, Reed had been imagining what the Caribbean would look like from above. With Laurel’s pillow tucked against the opening, any attempt to lift it would involve waking her up, and waking her up would not end well.

Risking a reprimand from the flight attendants, Reed unbuckled his seat belt and lifted himself into an awkward crouch. Balancing so as not to bump his wife and disturb her, he reached toward the window shade until he could just barely hook two outstretched fingers onto the handle. If they’d been in coach it would have been simple, but the seats here were huge, and reaching over without placing a hand on Laurel or her chair took care and concentration.

With the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, he began to slide the plastic panel upward, behind his sleeping beauty’s pillow. A horizontal beam of searing bright light cut the cabin air like a blade, little dust particles dancing in and out of it. He pushed upward again and the shaft broadened.

Laurel’s face flickered, and she shifted position slightly. Reed froze. The awkward half-crouch he’d maintained was making his thighs hurt, but he stayed perfectly still until he saw her face drain of expression and relax back into whatever dream was drifting there beneath the eyelids.

This time Reed got the panel halfway open in one smooth push, enough that he could actually see something outside. As his pupils adjusted, the view below faded into focus like a photograph taken on Polaroid film. Reed leaned in over Laurel, and let out his breath so quickly that it was almost a gasp.

The plane hung only a few hundred feet above a spectacular swath of green-blue water with coastline so close he could count individual palm trees. The sand was smooth as a sugar cookie, its caramel edges crumbling into water too turquoise to be real. Vertigo swept over him. He inhaled sharply, as stunned by the brilliant azure below as by the chilling sensation that he was falling down into it, that he was somehow already underwater, sinking, down and down and down.

Craning his neck, Reed could see a long line of high-rise hotels lining the peninsula, the size of shoe boxes. Moments later he picked out the gold-and-black lion symbol that was the Grand Medallion’s trademark. A sudden gust rolled the plane to starboard, sending a crew member apologizing into a surprised passenger’s lap. Reed lost his balance and bumped Laurel’s empty cocktail cup. It fell off the armrest, scattering the half-melted cubes. The blue plastic swizzle stuck to the carpet like a broken compass needle.

Laurel sat up. “I was sleeping.”

“Look,” Reed whispered, pointing outside. “Our approach is going right over our hotel!”

She glanced out, disoriented. “That one? The pool looks tiny.”

“No, the other one, the one with the three big circles.” He laughed. “It looks like a big turquoise bio-hazard sign. Large enough to warn aliens away from space.”

“Fitting description from someone who will avoid it anyway.”

“I’m going to take swimming seriously this time. Learn to enjoy it.”

“You’ll treat it like it’s a puddle of Ebola.”

“You’ll be proud of me.” Reed let his hand drop to his wife’s thigh. He began walking two fingers gently toward her lap. “And who says we have to spend all the time at the pool, anyway?”

Laurel let the hand linger long enough to get his hopes up, only to dash them by flicking it away. She nestled back into the chair, closed her eyes, and readjusted herself against the leather. “Wake me up when we land.”

Reed closed his eyes and let the ocean’s electric blue linger in his retinas. Laurel wasn’t wrong to laugh about him learning to swim. How many times had he made that promise? Every trip to see her parents in Florida. Every visit they’d made to the Cape. Every time he signed up for the community adult education classes at the Y. Each time was going to be the time he learned to swim. But she didn’t know what he knew: this time would be different.

The plane seemed to rise up for a half-second, and then the tires screamed against the tarmac. The blue faded as the plane revved itself to a stop.

Mexico.

They were actually there.

As the plane taxied to its place on the tarmac and Laurel stabbed at her eyes with a mascara wand, Reed checked his cellphone, pleasantly surprised to see bars. He expected something from Dan already, the urgent scoop that only he could cover, but for once there was nothing. Maybe even his boss understood that he was serious about being here. Reed put the phone away and waited until the cockpit bell signaled it was okay to stand up.

As passengers filed out of the cabin, Reed pulled their Coach Boston bag from the overhead and put it on the seat between them. He wrestled it through the narrow aisle to the doorway and stepped onto the gangway into heat so intense that a restaurant kitchen at the peak of summer would have seemed refreshing. The air was a near tangible wall that smelled of citrus and cinnamon and flowers and salt and sunshine, so hot that it seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs.

“Oh. My. God,” Laurel gasped.

Holding the rail in one hand and the carry-on in the other, Reed descended and stepped onto asphalt that had the give of gummy bears. Passengers walked toward the customs entry in single-file groups of twos and threes like a line of Hawaiian-shirt-clad ants. Before they’d even reached the building, Reed broke into a sweat. He was glad when they opened the door and stepped into the polar chill of the air conditioning.

In the customs line, Laurel pulled out her phone and started reading Cosmo. Then she surprised him: She slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze.

Reed smiled and looked at her, trying to assess whether the warm hand in his palm meant they’d be making love at some point this week or if it was just familiar habit. They were in Cancún, after all. The most romantic place in the world. How could they be here for a week and not find a way to get a little crazy? The longer the hand stayed in his, the more he wondered if this was where they’d turn the corner and get beyond it all, get somewhere new and different and—he searched for the word—close. That was it. He hadn’t felt close to her in years.

As Laurel buried herself in the phone, Reed picked up a pamphlet about adopting from a table with piles of info on tourist visas, time-shares, and customs forms. Reed wondered what it would be like to just swoop in and save one of these disadvantaged children. They had thought about that once, years ago, before Laurel’s career took off and she’d decided on that over being a mom. Interested parties could call Sonrisa Children to set up an appointment. No commitment was necessary.

“Honey,” Reed said. “Look at this. They have an adoption agency right here in Cancún.”

She raised one eyebrow and stared at him.

“We could think about it,” he said.

“Let’s at least just make it to the pool, okay? Before we do any thinking.”

“I’m not saying we have to do anything.”

“Then fine,” she said. “Take the brochure, but don’t get any grand ideas.”

Reed folded it in half and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

When they’d gotten their tourist cards signed and passports back and collected their luggage and weaved their way through the horde of taxi touts offering “free” rides or timeshare opportunities, a young man in a crisp starched uniform was waiting for them outside the gate. He held a placard with their names on it, and in moments he’d ushered them through the crowd into the hotel limo-van.

He sat next to her for a few minutes, then slid to the other window where he could look outside at the town of Cancún as the van bumped and bounced toward the hotel zone. Busty women in bright colors led skipping daughters along the crowded sidewalks. Teens laughed or lounged on corners. Old hunched men in cowboy hats with toothless faces made their way in the hot sun. Dogs panted in the shade. A scantily dressed lady with too much makeup stood in the threshold of a door. A grandmother laughed as she held the hand of a toddler. As the van pulled up to a stoplight, a young boy balanced a soccer ball on his knees, looked up and caught Reed’s eyes, and waved, never letting the ball hit the ground. Reed waved back.

“Don’t,” Laurel said, “If you make eye contact, people will ask you for money.”

“Friendliness is part of the culture.”

“So is asking tourists for money.”

The van pulled forward and turned onto a wider, cleaner road. High-rise hotels towered in the distance. A manicured median strip separated the going and oncoming traffic with fifty feet of lush Kentucky bluegrass. Signs in English. Tourists with wide-brimmed sun hats and khaki shorts bumbled along the sidewalks, none of them looking happy or comfortable. As the vehicle pulled into the hotel’s parking circle Reed felt as if the trip to Mexico had already ended, and they’d arrived in Florida instead. He wondered if the adoption clinic was buried somewhere deep in the heart of Cancún proper and not in one of the hotels. Visiting would be a good excuse to see the real city again, if only from the window of a taxicab.

“Welcome to the Grand Medallion Cancún,” said the driver. “Let me get your bags.”

“Finally,” Laurel said, as they got out and entered the lobby. “I will be so glad to get into the pool.”

As the young man at the desk handed them two freshly minted keycards and a lovely young lady brought them each a welcome margarita in an ocean-blue, salt-rimmed glass, Reed felt a sudden ache for something undefinable, as if he were a caterpillar feeling for the first time that inexorable yearning for wings.