| |
Somnambulant night;
Shadows and secrets slither
Through wild lemon groves
-#87, In Blue Solitudes, S. Wilson-Osaki
––––––––
Seb plucked out a lonely tune on the plastic bands of the lounge chair as he stared up at a starless sky. The small copse of fig trees at the far end of the pool didn’t shade sun worshippers much during the day. At night they took on an otherworldly aspect, a circle of spindly ents whose poky, skipping movements stole away your sadness. Seb hummed and strummed a Quebecois folk song, hoping to entice them, but he couldn’t feel a tingle of their magic.
A second, richer voice chimed in. Maya, nightdress and braids by Cleopatra’s handmaids, shoved his legs aside to make room for her imperial majesty. She gave his thigh a squeeze and continued to sing, morphing the song into a gorgeous Creole hymnal as far away from Quebec’s winter landscape as the moon was from the sun. Seb shifted to his side to give her more room, propped his head on his arm to listen to his nightingale. Just what his sleepless night had been missing.
When at last her song died out on a note as full and regal as the lady herself, Seb embraced the silence. Maya, the glow of the streetlamps gilding the edges of her face, pressed his free hand between her own, waiting him out. Still unable to trace the map of his failure, Seb diverted.
“Now how does a girl from New Orleans know the words to Gilles Vigneault?”
“She doesn’t. But she’s a big fan of Rufus Wainwright.”
Seb chuckled. “So am I. Henry...” He scowled.
“Talk about him if you need to, cher.”
“But I shouldn’t. Not as much as I do.”
“Nonsense. Whoever told you moving on means forgetting the most important part of your life doesn’t know much about living.”
“Neither do I, lately.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? You’re trying. And don’t quote me that Star Wars garbage. There is such thing as trying.” Seb barked out a laugh, shocked. “Don’t give me that look! Twelve-year-old boys are not the only ones who worship Han Solo.”
“Han Solo or Harrison Ford?”
“I don’t see why I have to choose.”
A reluctant smile crept over his face. “Well, General Maya Organa—”
“That has a nice ring to it.”
“In this galaxy, Operation Stella self-destructed.”
“Aww, cher.” She tightened her grip with one hand, stroked the back of his with the other. “What have I told you about absolutes?”
“What do you mean?”
“If it doesn’t work out with your knight in shining SUV, try again with someone else. Operation Stella is about you getting your groove back. It doesn’t matter with who.” His expression mustn’t have been too convincing because Maya sighed, then gave his knuckles a smack. “Tell me what happened.”
Seb gave her the Encyclopedia Britannica version, from his Positano meltdown to the scuffle at the marina to their beachside dinner and stroll with a side of rejection. Even Seb couldn’t believe all those events had occurred in one day and had to agree when Maya exclaimed...
“Well, no wonder you weren’t up for it. You’d already tied yourself in more knots than you need for a merit badge.”
“That’s kind of my natural state of being.”
“Don’t think I hadn’t noticed.” For a long time, she stared into the shimmery waters of the pool, as if some divine, Busby Berkeley-type siren would burst out with the perfect solution amidst billows of foam and spray. “All right, time to get serious. Before you met your husband, were you a Matt or a Ben?”
“Er... pretty sure I’ve always been a Sébastien.”
She clicked her tongue. “Don’t be smart. Were you more of a one-man-at-a-time guy like Matt Damon, or a love ‘em and leave ‘em like—”
“Ben Affleck.” Seb laughed. “I think the gay version would be a Brian or a Michael.”
“Oh, from Queer As Folk? That’s much better. And so is the British version.”
“Agreed. I just assumed—”
“It’s all right, cher. I would have too.” Maya dragged over another lounger and propped her feet up. “So?”
“Michael, of course.”
She dismissed his self-flagellation with a brisk gesture. “The love of a good man can change a lot of wicked ways. But then your brand of loyalty can’t really be taught. And trust me, I would know.” Her smile eased something in him he hadn’t realized had been aching. “You need to ask yourself: Do you want this trip to be the final step in your recovery, or your first chance to move on? Don’t answer right away.”
Seb nodded.
“Next, what does moving on mean to you right now? Does it mean a little flirtation, a lot of fun, and the companionship of a very friendly someone? Or does it mean going full Stella? And remember, cher, there is no wrong answer. There is only the answer that is wrong for you right now.”
Seb gave her words the consideration they deserved, so much that when Ceri peeked through the entranceway, wiggled a bottle in their direction, and pointed to the upstairs patio, he almost didn’t notice. But he did catch her slouch-and-lean as she said goodbye to Lucia, who stopped on the landing to check out the pool, and possibly Ceri.
Maya nudged him with her knee.
“Therapist, social worker, or school counselor?”
“Foster parent. Twenty years. And a nurse for a decade. Now I’m the social coordinator at our local library, and I couldn’t be happier.”
“So you’re saying I’m no better than a delinquent teenager?”
Maya gave him one of the best stink eyes he’d ever witnessed. “I’m saying I know heartache. And there is another side. But you got to grab for it with both hands.”
Seb reached out and seized hers, grateful that, if nothing else, he’d found a lifelong friend in this fabulous lady.
“Those are some lucky kids.”
“Huh! I’ll tell them you said so, next time they come begging.” She shook her head. “Never even wanted to be a mother, and somehow I ended up with six damn squawking chicks.”
“At the same time?”
“Over the years. Still have one waiting for me back home. Saved the hardest for last, of course.”
“That’s what vacations are for.”
“You don’t need to tell me.” She eased up onto her feet, then offered him a hand. “Come on, cher. If you’re not sleeping, might as well be drinking with us.”
“Truer words, truer words.”
Seb took a long last look at his enchanted circle, saw the little forest for the trees. Maya’s words and wisdom had sunk deep, and as he followed her toward the staircase, he felt a metamorphosis stirring within.
Nothing in his life thus far had prepared Seb for waking up in bed with a woman. Fortunately Kath didn’t snore. Fully clothed and lying atop the comforter, Seb snuck back to his apartment before she could spoon him in her sleep, fairly certain his virtue was intact. Catching a glance at himself in the bathroom mirror as his shower heated up, the sun-kissed, tousled-haired merman who gazed back startled him. Neck and arms garlanded with seashell jewelry and torso taut with almost-defined muscle, his scaly blue towel disappeared anything below his waist. If you cut him in jade and sold him as a souvenir, he might even tempt a few tourists.
He smiled at himself, channeling a little Narcissus, but for a good cause: self-esteem.
A shower and a change later—his clothes from the day before possibly needing to be burnt after all that stair-climbing—he decided to play mum to the ladies who had been so welcoming to him. He set the coffee maker to grinding them up some espresso, heaped three plates with pastries, toast, and fruit, not forgetting a few packets of Splenda for Kath. He added a bowl of decorative lemons—this was Amalfi, after all—but decided against any hair of the dog. They’d all be into the G&Ts soon enough.
Checking the clock, Seb realized it was a bit too early to play rooster. He puttered around his apartment for a while, finally settling in when he came across Henry’s notebook. He flipped through the pages upon pages of recommendations, but nothing drew the eye.
Not today, when the sunlight dappling the aquamarine tiles seemed so much livelier than before. Not this particular morning, when a bite of strawberry was berrier than ever. Not here, in this place, where he had come to memorialize and to move on. The time has come, Seb’s libido said, to talk of shiny things. Of sculpted locks and ass and calves; of gray-green-colored rings.
Seb clicked open the apartment safe and slid the notebook inside. After a moment’s consideration, he slipped the chain that held his wedding ring from around his neck and laid it over the notebook. Today, he decided, was all him.
Which was how he found himself, four hours later, seaside at a five-star hotel. Owned by the same firm as the Villa Napolitana, Seb and the ladies had purchased a day pass for the pool and spa facilities at a discounted rate. Still, the Hotel Santa Caterina was possibly the least Henry-approved environment on the coast. Seb flicked thoughts of his husband’s disdain out of his mind—not hard when being served by a fleet of deep-tanned and short-shorted waiters who kept your side table jammed with bowls of fresh fruit, nuts, and chips as you worshipped the sun.
Spoilt for choice in the swimming department, Seb had tried the saltwater pool and the sea, which could be reached from a diving platform a few steps below their ivy-pillared lounge area. A glass elevator scaled the rock face behind them up to the hotel proper, where another lavish terrace and dining area with even more lavish prices awaited them. This was a place where guests couldn’t even spell the word “no.”
Just because she could, Ceri bid the waiters bring their lunch to the fleet of lounge chairs they’d commandeered. Feeling as sun drunk as a pirate king, Seb watched them spin quenelles of lemon cream pasta into bowls at the bar while he picked at his caprese salad. The unlimited free refill bar.
“Good?” Kath asked.
“Molto bene.” Seb grinned, feeling light as a cloud. “How did you find out about this place?”
“You haven’t been getting the flyers?” Ceri stubbed out a Gauloise to start on her lunch.
“Lucia mentions it every time we’ve called her,” Kath added. “I’m surprised she doesn’t make her little dog wear an ad board.”
Ceri gawked at her sister. “That’s a very me thing to say.”
“If it’s true, it’s true. This is a lovely place, but even for a discounted day pass, it’s not cheap. It’s not fair to rub it in people’s noses if they’re on a budget.”
“So worth it, though,” Seb chimed in with his mouth full, to which Maya added an “Amen.”
“Manners, hon,” Kath mommed him. But everybody laughed when he gave her the finger.
“Henry would have agreed,” Seb remarked, taking his ability to talk about him without the emotional crash and burn for a test drive. “He was all about affordable travel. Even gave talks about it to inner-city parents, organized field trips for underprivileged schools, and stuff like that. ‘Seeing the world is the best education there is.’”
“He was a keeper,” Ceri said. “And you’re here because...”
“This is my vacation. Even if it took me a while to figure that out. And—” Seb opened his arms to their surroundings, endless sea, soaring cliffs, hot waiters, and all. “—can you imagine if I’d missed out on this?”
“Cheers to that!” Kath toasted, and the four of them clinked glasses.
An hour later, having devoured half of one of Kath’s historical romances and deepened his tan, Seb heeded the call of the sea. Armed with a pipe-cleaner-like flotation device that he could hook under his shoulders, he charged off the diving platform and into the strong current. The push-pull of the waves from passing ferries and motor boats turned a simple swim to the outer buoy into a white-water rafting-esque thrill ride. Seb stabbed into the waves with each powerful stroke, kicked out against the undertow. No swimming pool propelled you up to body surf with your chest or splashed over your head while you tread water. Seb slammed his palm into the buoy as if hitting the buzzer in an Olympic trial, marveled at how far out he’d swum when he looked back at the shore.
Reclining back into his DayGlo pipe cleaner “chair,” Seb gave over to the mercy of the current. It took its time drifting him back to the diving platform. He watched ships small and large ferry tourists up and down the coast, trying not to think about what those boats might be dumping into the magnificent sea. He basked in this moment that was wholly his, in this most perfect union of sun, sea, and sky.
Salt on his lips reminding him of what might have been the night before, his woozy mind conjured an image of Andrea floating beside him, hair slick and black as seal skin; thick, wet lashes like smiles under his half-mast eyes; sinuous body disappearing into a pair of tight gym shorts, barely visible beneath the sun-sparkled waves.
Seb laughed out loud at the soft-core stylings of his imagination. Canting into the current, he let the waves lap at him with their silky tongues. Let Poseidon’s nereids surge and swell around him. Let the pleasures of the day bubble up within until he thought he might pop.
Dragging himself out by the ladder, Seb felt a little giddy and a lot drowsy. The warm spray of the shower mellowed him. He suppressed the urge to pinch the asses of the pair of hot waiters who escorted him over to his lounge chair, where a refill of his spiked granita al limone awaited him like a toast from Poseidon himself.