Half an hour later we close in on an island, and a dock and brightly painted buildings become visible. Hammocks hang between palm trees. A large white building with a thatched roof sits on the beach, and a sign reads SWEET WATER BELIZE.
As Carlos slows next to the dock, the first mate jumps off to tie up the boat as another man comes down the dock toward us wearing an identical uniform of khaki pants and a green polo.
“Welcome, welcome. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Cross. I’m Anton, manager of Sweet Water Caye and Resort. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you settled.”
And just like that, we’re following him toward the white building that serves as a check-in desk and a bar.
“Would you like a welcome drink? We have Purple Rain for you tonight. Or a Belikin beer, if you prefer, sir.”
“I’ll take the beer,” Dane replies. “She’ll have the cocktail.”
Dane might not order for me often, but he’s known me long enough to know it’s what I would pick. I don’t know what’s in Purple Rain, but I’m willing to take my chances.
In no time, Anton has the drinks ready and slides them across the bar before reaching for the check-in log. Dane deals with the details, and I stare out at the water. Now that I’m not bouncing across the waves and I have a drink in my hand, the bands of tension and stress clutching my chest begin to loosen. I finally feel like I can breathe again.
With the taste of coconut rum on my tongue and the blazing sunset sinking behind the clouds, I make a vow to myself: I’m going to put all of Dane’s comments behind me and move forward with purpose.
After we’re officially checked in, Anton leads us down a conch-shell-lined path made of wooden boards toward our overwater bungalow. Another man trails behind with our bags.
“The nicest one on the island, as you requested, Mr. Cross,” he assures us.
I glance at Dane, surprised that he made the request. He’s usually more of a budget traveler, rather than one to splurge. When we first met at that resort in Mexico, he’d told me that he had never been to an all-inclusive resort before. He’d camped on beaches, in jungles, in the forest, but he’d never stayed at a hotel if he could help it.
Now, two and half years later, he’s springing for the fanciest overwater bungalow at a secluded tropical-island resort? I’m not the only one who has changed. Or maybe this is his way of really trying to fix things between us? My new mindset demands I go with the second option.
The wind blows stronger here, making the humidity less oppressive, and I’m excited to find that I’m not being attacked by bugs like I normally would be in the tropics at dusk. Small solar lights stuck into the sand along the path glow orange, but other than marking the walkway, they don’t offer much in the way of light.
The pathway veers off toward coral, yellow, and orange cabanas with cute thatched roofs that seem to say live the island life and forget your worries. With each step, I feel lighter.
When we reach the opposite side of the small island, which takes all of about three minutes, I see a wooden bungalow and an L-shaped pier leading out to it. Waves crash over some unseen barrier not more than a hundred feet away.
“What is that?” I point toward it.
“The reef. The second largest one in the world, after the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. Some of the world’s best snorkeling and diving is only a hundred feet away.” Anton leads us down the pier, pulls a key from his pocket, and opens the door, letting it swing wide for us to step inside.
“We hope you’ll be comfortable at Sweet Water. Feel free to take your time freshening up. The chef has been informed of your arrival by now, and will be ready to make you dinner whenever it suits you. Tonight’s specials are snapper filet and grilled lobster tail, both fresh caught this afternoon. Or, if you’d prefer chicken, we have an excellent jerk recipe.”
My stomach growls as though on command.
Dane glances at me with a soft smile. He’s well acquainted with my bossy stomach, and hopefully still endeared by it. “We’ll be ready to eat within the hour.”
“Excellent. We’ll see you soon in the restaurant then. Take a left off your dock and the second right on the path. You can’t miss it. It’s the largest building on the island.”
The porter following Anton sets our bags inside the doorway, and they both turn to leave.
“We hope you enjoy your stay with us,” Anton says. “Please let me know if there is anything at all I can do to make it more enjoyable.”
Dane closes the door behind them, and I spin around to take in the room.
The interior of the bungalow is airy and romantic, all shiny wood and bright colors. A skylight over the wooden canopied bed lets in the remaining traces of the sunset. A hand-painted canvas depicting an ocean scene adorns the wall where a TV would be placed in a normal hotel room. A bouquet of orange-and-purple bird-of-paradise sits in a polished wooden vase on the dresser.
I cross the room and peek through an intricately carved wooden door into the bathroom. The cluster of candles on the edge of a luxurious tub catches my attention. It’s straight out of a brochure, practically insisting a couple to take a romantic soak together.
To me, it looks hopeful, but I have a hard time imagining us using it.
Maybe . . .
I step out of the bathroom and face Dane, who is already reaching for his duffel bag.
“You really went all out.”
“I figured if I couldn’t go big to celebrate two years of marriage, when would I have the chance?”
His words carry the unspoken suggestion that this could be our last occasion to celebrate, and they slash into my newly adopted positive attitude.
“You want to take the first shower?” he asks.
Another blow.
He would have never asked that before.
*
Two years and three months ago