Heat Wave

As we head back to reception to grab my suitcases, he says, “I guess coming here is kind of like . . . another way to say goodbye. Communicate with the ghost.”


I know Charlie is speaking metaphorically but even so, a shiver runs through me. Juliet's ghost is here, all over the hotel and the grounds, in the memories of the people who worked here, the man who runs the place, in the trees and the birds that saw her. I'd always thought that moving here would be another way to connect with her, to get a glimpse at the place that occupied her heart and mind for four years of her life.

But already it seems like it will be more than that. Her ghost might become something I can't escape.

We grab my bags at reception, Kate on the phone with someone as we do so, and head back to my unit. Even though I try and stay fit by jogging every morning, I'm out of breath and sweating again by the time I bring my bag up to the second level. Charlie keeps insisting he can handle both, but since he warned me that we all have to act as bellboys at one point or another, I figure I can use the practice.

He swipes the key card at the pad on the side of the door and it beeps open.

I step inside my new home.





CHAPTER THREE




The unit is exactly what I pictured. Well, aside from the whole having to share it with someone aspect, though I tell myself I'll get over it soon.

There are tiles on the floor and thatched walls that look like they're made from palm leaves. The whole place is open air except for the bathroom to the right and a bedroom to the left.

“So Kate is in there,” Charlie says, hauling the suitcases across the floor and nodding to the door. “And let me tell you, she's one lucky bitch. I think Shephard has a soft spot for her because that's the only room any of us have.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, following him into the apartment. There's a kitchen on one side, small and a little dated but totally functional, and a large living area with rattan and bamboo furniture with palm-printed cushions. In front of that is an expansive balcony with chairs and a table, the view stretching across a wide lawn and finally to the ocean. Many of the condos face inward to the grassy area, like a courtyard, giving us all a partial ocean view at the very least, palm trees swaying in the wind. Even though the screen door is closed, I can hear the ocean clear as day, the chatter of a couple as they walk across the lawn in their bare feet, towels draped over their shoulders.

“This is your room,” he says nodding to a sectioned off corner of the living room, tucked behind the kitchen. It's only half-walled in, so there's no real door, just some partitions you can slide across.

“Uh, this is a room?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, running his hand over his jaw and nodding like he's contemplating it for the first time. “In the hotel units, this is where the kids sleep, I guess. It's where I sleep in mine. The bed is really comfortable, by the way. And Johnny doesn't get his own room like Kate does, it's kind of done up the same way as this. No privacy for anyone.” He runs his hands along the edge of the partition. “Except Kate. Like I said, she’s one lucky bitch. She can have all the dudes over and you probably won't hear a thing.” His eyes seem to darken momentarily at that before he snaps out of it and gives me a cheeky grin. “You, on the other hand…”

I roll my eyes. “I don't think that will be a problem,” I tell him. I'd pretty much sworn off men since I left Piccolo.

“Even so,” he says. “You're better off staying the night elsewhere if you want to get laid. Though since Kate actually has a door, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“Doesn't it bother you to live like you’re in a dorm?” I ask him, folding my arms. “I mean, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-six,” he says, raising his chin in defense. “And, this isn't living in a dorm room. This is just an affordable way to live in paradise. Not everyone can be rich here. The rich get the private condos and houses. We ain't rich and it ain't about that anyway. This is about really living life and finding out what's important. What's important to you, Ronnie?”

I'm half-pleased that he's called me by my nickname and half-ashamed that I sounded so snooty. I swallow hard. “I don't know what's important anymore,” I admit, my voice dropping a register. “I just know that whatever it is, it’s not back at home.”

He purses his lips, eyes studying me. “Hmmm. Honest. I like that. Well, maybe that's why you're here. To find out what's important. What makes your soul sing. I told you this place would shake you up, didn't I?”

“You did.”

He jerks his head into the room. “Anyway, you do have your own private bathroom, so if you must get busy, you can get busy in there. I can't tell you how many dates have ended up with a blow-job in the loo.”

“All right, Charlie, that's enough,” I tell him. “Or is it N' Sync?”

He scoffs. “I guess you heard Shephard dole out that one.”

“Is that one of your nicknames?”