Someone is playing a ukulele inside my room in the middle of the night. That can’t be right.
I reach for the cell phone on my nightstand and glance at the time. It’s three in the morning.
What is he doing?
Papi has as much musical talent as a cardboard box and Margo doesn’t strike me as the ukulele type, so it must be Diego.
I groan, falling back on the pillow. Why did I pick the room closest to the pool? Oh yeah, because I wasn’t expecting a ukulele-playing Spaniard to drop in for a visit.
All I can do is listen to the melody of strings floating in through my window. It’s the kind of music that transports you to a sandy beach on a remote island, waves crashing on the shore and palm trees swaying to a tropical breeze. The thing about ukuleles is that they make even the saddest songs sound happy. The kind of happy that swells in your chest and, against your better judgment, slaps a smile onto your face.
I get out of bed and walk to the window to watch him play. He’s lying on a pool lounger, cradling the ukulele in his arms, Beluga curled up on the floor by his side. Did he just get home?
I close my window shutters and sit on my bed, trying to talk myself out of walking down to investigate.
What would I even say? So, do you normally stay up all night playing island music? Or are you celebrating a late-night escapade? With my new friend!
My fist hits a pillow as I drop back onto the bed and stare at the white ceiling.
Why am I even considering walking down there? I mean, this is the same guy who, without even knowing my name, had the gall to try luring me to a cherry field. Who sauntered into this house, and—unlike me—instantly fit perfectly into this messy family. Who almost burned down the kitchen and ruined my flambé. And who just this afternoon took off with Lucia. Couldn’t he find someone else to date in all of Lyon?
I sigh—a deep, long sigh.
Given the solid argument against him, any practical girl would go back to sleep. But what is it about this guy that makes me wish I was more impulsive?
I can be impulsive, I tell myself. I don’t need a guy to be reckless.
So I get to my feet, slip my arms into a bathrobe, and tie the waistband tight.
On the way out, I grab the box of pastries and peel off the gift bow and delicate wrapping. The box, now a plain cardboard cube, is intentionally unassuming.
Hey, here’s an impersonal peace offering, like a plant or a basket of fruit.
I debate whether to get two glasses of milk as I round the kitchen but decide against it—he may interpret it as thoughtfulness on my part. And I’m not ready to go there.
“Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep,” I grumble, sitting on the lounger next to him.
He jolts up, surprised to see me. Beluga whimpers and raises his head.
“Did I wake you?” he asks, moving the ukulele aside. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t think anyone could hear.”
“Don’t stop playing. I’m already up.” I set the pastry box on a small table between our chairs. “I got these today, help yourself,” I say, opening the lid.
Diego’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed with my selection. I bite my lip as I watch his fingers dance inside the box, choosing carefully.
“Is this flan?” he asks, lifting the crème caramel cup and the little spoon that came with it.
“The French equivalent.”
“Thanks,” he says, holding the cup and spoon and pushing the box in my direction. I reach for a green macaron.
“Consider it an olive branch,” I say. “A really yummy olive branch.”
We exchange a smile and a new feeling flutters deep inside me. His dark brown eyes hold mine with an intensity I didn’t expect. I look away, uncertain of what this feeling is.
My attention darts from the water lapping on the sides of the pool to the patio umbrella someone forgot to close and finally to the now-snoring dog splayed on the ground.
“Did you get a new fortune?” he asks, bringing the ukulele back against his chest. One of his hands rest on the shiny wood surface as his fingers jump back and forth between strings.
“I did. Want to guess what it was?”
“Long life and riches await you,” he teases in a low-pitched TV-presenter voice.
“Not even close. It said: I cannot help you, for I am only a cookie.”
His fingers abruptly stop moving. He stares at me, one eyebrow cocked. “You have the worst fortune cookie luck of anyone I have ever met.”
“I intend to file a complaint with the cookie factory, first thing in the morning.”
“Put me down as a witness.”
I interpret the playful sarcasm in his voice as a sign that all is forgiven. I hold his gaze, conflicted by the divergent emotions rippling through my chest. Why do I feel so attracted to a guy whose mere presence aggravates me to no end? Someone who by all appearances is my polar opposite? It makes no sense.
This time, Diego looks away first. He shifts in his lounger, playing with the knobs at the head of the ukulele.
I let my head fall back against the lounger’s headrest, staring past the pool to the horizon. The hillside is dark with the exception of Bessenay’s streetlights flickering in the distance. During the day, you can see the rows and rows of cherry trees from where we sit, but now everything is dark. The only sign of cherries is the faint smell of ripe fruit in the air.
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the dainty sound of the ukulele as Diego plucks at the strings.
I want to enjoy the music and everything else about this unexpected night, but there’s a question I can’t seem to ignore.
What happened with Lucia? And why did he get home so late? I mean, how long does it take to eat tapas?
The thought of them doing God knows what vexes me more than I care to admit. Did she finally decide to have a good time instead of waiting for love?
I turn to face Diego, but my mouth can’t seem to form the right question. Instead, I’m transfixed by everything all those other girls see in him: the rich brown of his eyes, the long eyelashes that rim them, the tousled black hair, and the deep ridges of his collarbone. What would it be like to lay my head there?
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look like you have something on your mind.” He leans in slightly, a knowing look on his face. For the briefest of seconds, I consider what would happen if I just closed the gap between us and kissed him.
A warmth blooms in my chest and spreads in every direction. It reaches my neck and face in what I know are red blotches of heat.
But then I realize, as much as I want to be the “cool girl,” I’m not the type who jumps into something I don’t understand. That’s just not me.
“How was your date?” I finally ask. He inches backward, away from me, taken aback by the question.
He clears his throat before answering. “It wasn’t a date,” he says, riffing through the strings a few times.
“It looked like a date.”
“It wasn’t,” he answers curtly.
The mood shifts between us. Even the strings sound strained and awkward.
“Are you sure she knows that?” I say, remembering Lucia’s beaming face as she stepped into the sidecar. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but her eyes had the same determined expression I’d seen her wear in the kitchen.
“Why? Jealous?” His eyes cut to me, a sly grin on his lips.
“Ha! Jealous of what?” I reach into the pastry box and pull out a cream-filled Napoleon, biting hard into the flaky surface. “I’m not a fan of finger food dinners.”
Beluga stirs awake, lifts his head in my direction, and whimpers.
“What?” I ask the dog.
“He’s probably wondering why you haven’t offered him any food.”
“You really have spoiled this dog.”
Beluga walks toward the pastry box and nudges his pushed-in nose against the cardboard.
“He likes the blueberries,” Diego says.
“I thought dogs weren’t supposed to eat sweets,” I say, lifting a tart out of the box. Beluga follows the movement of my hand, then rests his head next to my feet on the lounger. His wide-set eyes are barely visible in the thick folds of his skin, but they’re begging for even the tiniest scrap.
“It’s only a few bites. Not like we’re feeding him an entire chocolate cake, although I’m sure he’d like that.” Diego reaches to pat Beluga on his side. But the dog’s undivided attention is on the tart in my hand.
Beluga tilts his head to the side, mouth drooping, and whines.
“Fine, you win.” I bring the tart to his mouth. He gorges it in one bite, then licks my fingers, searching for crumbs. When he can’t find any, he lifts his paws to the lounger and nuzzles my thigh.
“You only get one tart,” I say, softly patting his head.
“He wants you to scratch him,” Diego says. “He likes it behind the ears.”
“I have to feed him and scratch him too?” I say in mock irritation, my fingers already digging into the folds of Beluga’s thick neck.
“Think of it as penance for threatening him with a meat cleaver.”
Beluga leans against my hands, eyes closed, wagging the folded nub that forms his tail. I scratch him harder and he emits a low rumble, something like a cat’s purr.
“You found his happy place,” Diego says.
“You like that?” I ask Beluga. He barks in answer to my question.
“How long have you had him?” I ask.
“Since he was a puppy.”
“And just to set the record straight, I like dogs. I wanted one but my dad always said they were too much work,” I say, watching Beluga go back to Diego.
Diego taps an empty space on the lounger. The dog climbs on top and settles down, face planted on a cushion.
“He was a consolation prize,” he says, moving his legs so Beluga has more room to spread out.
“What? Your parents missed a birthday or something?” I chuckle awkwardly.
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
He keeps his eyes on the dog when he says, “I got him after my mother left us.”
“Oh . . .” I have no idea how old this dog is, but he looks fully grown to me. He must weigh at least fifty pounds. Diego must’ve been a kid when his mother left. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Ancient history,” he says dismissively, thumbing the strings hard. “What would you like to hear?”
I stare at him, confused. What just happened? You don’t bring up an absent parent and then burst into song.
“Don’t tell me,” he says while strumming a few chords, “you don’t know any ukulele songs.”
I want to press this mom thing, but a wall has gone up inside him. New creases appear on his forehead and his jaw is tight with tension.
“Something from Elvis?” I say to lighten the mood.
“Elvis?”
“You know, the King?” I ask with my best southern drawl.
“I know who Elvis is. I’m just surprised you’re a fan.” He cuts me an impish sideways glance.
“I’m not!” I laugh, hitting his arm. “He’s the only musician I’ve seen playing a ukulele.”
“There’s no shame in being an Elvis fan,” he says, rubbing his arm in pretend pain. The lines on his face soften and the wall seems to come down just long enough for me to get a glimpse of the real guy behind it. The recognition stirs a new wave of mixed feelings inside me. I wonder what it would feel like to bring his lips to mine.
“How did you get into Elvis?” he asks.
“I’m not into Elvis. My grandfather made me watch Blue Hawaii once. The Elvis character was always trying to pick up girls with his ukulele. He was kind of a womanizer.”
“I don’t know any Elvis songs, but what about something French?”
When he starts to play, I’m mesmerized by the fluid movement of his fingers on the strings. The unmistakable melody of “La Vie en Rose” springs from the instrument and floats around us. I find myself wishing I knew the lyrics so I could sing along.
When the song ends, I clap. “That was amazing,” I say. “Where did you learn?”
“YouTube. This lady in Hawaii has a tutorial channel.”
“I could never do that,” I say.
“It’s like learning how to cook. Just takes practice.”
He sets down the ukulele and reaches for a palmier from the pastry box. “These are better with milk. I’ll be right back. Save my seat.” He stands, careful not to disturb Beluga, then saunters off into to the kitchen.
I watch him disappear. After he’s gone, I realize how much the temperature has dropped. I fold my legs against my chest and wrap my robe tighter around me.
Diego returns carrying a glass of milk in each hand.
“Here you go,” he says, passing me one.
We both grab a palmier, dipping them into the milk at the same time. When I put it into my mouth, the buttery flakes mix with the crunch of caramelized sugar.
“Thanks for the pastries.” He polishes off the last of his palmier and drinks what’s left of the milk.
“I should get back to bed,” I say when I’m done with mine.
“Probably a good idea,” he says. He feeds Beluga another tart and this time I don’t protest.
“Some of us have a flight to catch in the morning.” I set both feet on the patio pavers and make to leave, but don’t stand.
“What big plans do you have this weekend?” I probe. Is there another non-date with Lucia in his future?
“Nothing big.” He shrugs and doesn’t offer any details.
“Tomorrow should be a perfect pool day,” I offer.
“Can’t stand the smell of chlorine . . .” His voice trails off.
“Huh?”
“This is my favorite ukulele song,” he says, abruptly changing the subject with music. “You may want to stay for this one.” Instantly, I recognize the tune of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
Raising my feet back onto the lounger, I rest my shoulder on the backrest and listen, completely lost in the melody.
Half a dozen songs later, the first rays of sunlight peer through a horizon of dark clouds.
“I have to get ready for my flight,” I say, standing to leave. “Papi will wake up soon and start pacing outside my door if I’m not packed. He’s such a stickler about being on time to the airport.”
“Have a good time with your mom.” He yawns, eyes sleepy. “Beluga and I are going to bed.”
He stands in front of me and I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. As tired as we both are, the space between us fills with a palpable electricity. Something like a living, pulsating force pushing us toward each other.
Behind us, I hear a door open.
“Have you guys been up all night?” Papi says, holding the patio door with one hand.
Diego moves aside nervously and nods at Papi with sleepy eyes. “Good morning,” he says, then snaps his fingers at Beluga to move. “Venga,” he tells the dog.
I hide my hands inside the pockets of my robe and walk to meet Papi.
He kisses me on the cheek. “Are you all packed?”
“I’ll be quick,” I say.
“I’ve heard that before,” he says, walking toward the kitchen, to get his coffee, I’m sure.
I step inside the house and close the patio door behind me, watching Diego and Beluga disappear into the cottage.
I don’t need this, I tell myself. He will just be a distraction. An unwanted complication.
I chastise myself for every reckless thought that entered my head tonight. For wanting to kiss him. For thinking there could be something more between us.