How to Honeymoon Alone

“Did you try turning off the video? Sometimes that helps.”

He looks at me with a patience that feels entirely put on. “Yes. I did try that.”

The grumpy five-year-old is back. “Take your calls in the lobby,” I suggest.

“I’ll have to do that going forward.” A frown appears between his dark eyebrows. “So, why are you in line?”

“I’ve booked a snorkeling cruise for tomorrow. It will probably be the highlight of my entire trip. I can’t wait to see the sea turtles and just want to double-check the pickup spot so I don’t miss it.”

“Is it a sunset cruise?”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

“Yes, should be. I think it departs from the Bridgetown Marina.”

“Have fun,” he says.

“Thanks. I’m planning on it. Oh, we’re moving.”

The couple with the large suitcases in front of us shuffles up to the sole receptionist, who welcomes them warmly. The woman speaks first. Her voice is loud and reverberates through the lobby. “Thank you. We’re so excited to finally be here. It’s our honeymoon!”

I can’t stifle the low groan that escapes me. Phillip snorts, and it sounds just as cynical as mine.

“Honeymooners,” he mutters under his breath.

I shake my head. “They’re everywhere.”

“It’s already knocked a star off my review,” he says darkly.

The deadpan delivery makes me laugh. It’s only a chuckle, really, but Phillip’s eyebrows rise at the sound.

“Oh no,” I say. “I bet this multi-million dollar resort will hate that.”

He looks away, but that curve of his lips is back. “They better. I can write very strongly worded reviews.”

The honeymoon couple wraps up their check-in, and is sent on their way with a cheery Welcome to The Winter, where it’s always summer. It’s cheesy enough that I’m willing to bet it’s a line the employees are taught during training.

“How can I help you?” the receptionist asks me with a wide smile. And just then, another employee appears out of the staff door, walking quickly to the front counter.

He locks eyes with someone behind me. Phillip, presumably. “I can help you right over here, sir. Sorry for the wait.”

I resist the urge to glance over at Phillip. I’m sure the look in my eyes would be shouting I told you so if I do.

I have a feeling that he hears the words all the same.

By the time I’m done with my questions, he’s gone, and the lobby is once again empty. I exit the lobby through the side door, leading to the garden and the wooden path beyond that snakes down to the ocean.

Only about half of the evenly spaced lounge chairs spread across the white-sand beach appear to be occupied. Without my sunglasses, however, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing thanks to the bright sunlight bathing everything in sight. The water is clear and turquoise, and just this side of choppy. It’s the first day I’ve seen the sea as anything but a mirror of perfection.

My lounge chair is still free. Not that it’s mine, but after a day, it’s already starting to feel like it is. Creatures of habit, aren’t we?

The thought sparks an idea.

Maybe two of the characters in my story would be arguing over something on the beach. Others will take note, and after the murder, suspicions will rise among them. But it’s just another red herring… because the argument was just over the lounge chair. This is mine. Yours? There was no towel here! No, but I always use this one. And how was I supposed to know that?

My poor book lies unopened beside me as I make notes in the notepad I’d remembered to bring today.

It’s been months since I felt this geared up, since my surroundings were a source of inspiration instead of frustration. Maybe all I needed was a change of scenery.

Becky calls while I’m still consumed by my manic scribbles. I’m fleshing out the side characters and trying to figure out the murder victim, but the couple meant to fall in love while solving the crime is noticeably absent. I can’t see the shape of them or their love story.

“Hey,” I say.

“Oh, that’s your focused voice.”

I chuckle. “I said one word.”

“Yes, and it was a very focused one. Is this a bad time?”

“No, of course, not. I’m on vacation. I have oceans of time.”

“Well, I’ve seen that guidebook of yours, and I don’t know if oceans of time is exactly the right description. You’re packing a lot into these two weeks.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve taken it very easy these first days.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. And I’ve even spoken to another guest here, at the hotel.”

Becky draws in a mock gasp. “Spoken? Oh my. Was it in an elevator? And was it about the weather?”

“No, and no, you smart-ass. I ended up sharing a table with him the other night.”

As expected, the conversation devolves shortly after in a flurry of details. I look over my shoulder to make sure there’s no tall, dark-haired, scowling man to overhear me, but he’s nowhere in sight. The people around me have all cleared out, too.

I realize why ten minutes later.

The sea had been disturbed before, but it’s positively choppy now. There’s not a single swimmer in sight. Above me, the clouds are heavy and moving fast, blocking out the sun and blue sky.

I gather my things and tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder. “How are you feeling? Feet still sore?”

“That’s the least of my problems now. Sore feet, the fiercest of heartburns, aching back, and I have SPD, which basically means my pelvis is ripping itself apart. And I’ve not even gotten to the giving birth part, yet.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Oh, it is. I highly recommend it. Patrick is so jealous that he can’t do it, too.”

I chuckle. “You’re almost at the end of it. I wish I could make it better, but-”

“But I did this to myself,” she says miserably, with the dry tinge of humor I love so much. “Well, Patrick helped, but I knew what I was getting myself into.”