They are at the pool, where the breeze is less intense, because of the thoughtfully placed fence. Lauren stands, yawns, and slips into the water, which can be done in an instant, it’s that warm. She does it with the same thought she puts into everything: reaching for grace, or to be like Esther Williams—is that her name?—and not a portly sea lion easing its way into the surf. Her bathing suit seems wanting, somehow, though the shade, something like pink grapefruit, had seemed appealing in the pages of the catalog. She slips under the water, eyes closed, and feels her hair drift behind her like an idea, like a trail of perfume. She stands. The tile underfoot is reassuring. The water comes to just below her breasts, which if not quite as shapely as Fiona’s have always stood her in good stead. Gabe had liked them, anyway. They’ve been with her through a lot, these breasts. She’d wanted them, so badly, and then they came on, pretty quickly. She remembers standing before the mirror, shirtless, in profile, studying how they sprouted from her body, and they had, too, sprouted. No wonder we use fruit metaphors, Lauren thought; breasts nurture, yes, but they ripen on our bodies, too.
She blinks. The level of chlorine in the water has been perfectly calibrated. Her eyes feel fine. In a few weeks, the local newscasters will be delirious with joy as they estimate increasingly more dire snowfalls. The store on the corner will fill with people who never keep food in their apartments, desperate to buy milk. It’s always milk. It’s hard to fathom: In forty-eight hours, less than, she’ll be borne back home; she didn’t want to come here in the first place and now she wants never to leave. She’ll move to the island, open a cooking school, lead chartered tours, run a bed-and-breakfast, plan destination weddings for a living. Every vacation comes to this point, doesn’t it: visions of an alternate reality. Sell the house, quit your job. Tomorrow morning, the moment will have passed, and she’ll be tired of drinking subpar coffee out of cups so small that the stuff loses its essential heat too quickly. Tomorrow morning, she’ll miss the amiable chatter of the WNYC crew. Tomorrow morning, she’ll be tired of the relentless fluffiness of the towels here, the weird softness of the water in the shower, the sweetness of the food.
There are eyes on her, and she catches them. The waiter, the same one who’s been serving the guests by the pool all afternoon, the same waiter who brought them drinks—strictly nonalcoholic, they’re all in the mood for Cokes—an hour ago. He’s handsome, of course, hotels like this don’t employ the ugly; he looks almost carved, though is that racist, only something she thinks because of the incredible blackness of his skin? She doesn’t think so, or doesn’t mean it that way, though of course, racists never mean their racist ideas in a racist way. Anyway, it’s well intentioned: He’s gorgeous, actually. He’s a bit younger than they are, she guesses twenty-five. There’s something about the ease with which he talks to them. They could be his big sister’s friends. They’re visitors from a world not his own, not New York, but their thirties.
He had arched one eyebrow, one only, as he handed her a glass of Coke. The wedge of lemon embraced the lip of the glass in a way that was sort of beautiful. Normally, the lemon is a bit of art direction Lauren can do without. Today, she squeezed it into the thing, and damned if it wasn’t more delicious. In the alternate reality she’s in now, she drinks soda with a citrus twist at eleven thirty in the morning.
“Thank you,” she had said, because you say thank you, and you make eye contact when you do. A lesson learned over the course of many Friday nights at restaurants with Lulu.
That eyebrow, moving like it was independent of his face. What muscle did he manipulate to achieve this effect? It was a little flippant, not the deferential “You’re welcome” offered to the rest of the girls with their Cokes—Diet for Sarah and Fiona. There were nuts, too, a sterling dish in the shape of a seashell, a bed of peanuts and cashews, a lone, gigantic Brazil nut. She took it.
He’s got another tray, for an older couple, the only honeymooners at the resort, or so she assumes. She imagines theirs a second marriage, maybe a third. They’re old enough that there could be older children, college aged. The man is a little dumpy and pale but with very happy eyes, the woman is redheaded and strangely vibrant, probably a yoga teacher, or an amateur ceramicist. The waiter places their tray on the table with a flourish, but is the flourish meant for her? His shirt, incredibly white for someone who works with food, his smile still easy, still convincing. Maybe he’s stoned? Lauren sees his smile falter, waver for a second into something else, and she bends her knees, drops back under the surface of the water.