"Let's do it!" He pats my back.
"Si, let's do it. I've got some vodka that's gonna put some real hair on your chest, Ed."
We start toward the main office in the Inn. Opening the door, I glance toward the sea. From this elevated angle, I can't see Angelique's bungalow, but that won't stop me from remembering her. If Angelique hadn't taught me one thing about love and war, she taught me how to live again. For that, I have nothing but respect for her. Perhaps she was using a therapy technique, telling me some bullshit line about her dude in order for us to relate. For me to open up. Yeah, that might be it. Maybe Carlton is a good man, at least I hope, for his sake.
It's possible she lost herself in a moment of passion. Fuck, I'd like to think I was that persuasive. If her phone didn't ring? Would the love she has for her fiancé have been enough to stop us. But I wish her the best.
CHAPTER 21
Melody
THESE ARE THE moments life is worth living, it's just me and my girls. Though, I have the feeling, my closest, Angelique has been vague about this week, I will drag it out of her when we get home. It's four of us sitting Indian style on the shaggy rug in her bungalow. We've just returned from a charming little restaurant overlooking the docks.
"It's been almost two years since we've done this ladies. And I gotta say, life is good," I lift my glass, with a generous amount of my favorite Moscato.
"What's she doing drinking?" Erin side eyes me.
"Little miss tea and crumpets," Angelique jokes and the three of them laugh.
"Little miss?" My eyebrow rises. "Hmmm, I think I'll take that because if one of you all call me miss prissy bitch one more time – "
"Don't look at me like that, Mel, I'm team Prissy!" Josaline pats her slicked back bob. "Mel and her uppity self added these cutesy strawberry slices to add volume to our drinks since somebody – I'm not naming any names – forgot to pack a bottle!"
Josaline, along with the rest of us, side eye Angelique.
Now her head cocks to the side. Angelique licks her lips, and she holds up her finger indicating that she needs a moment. "Damn, forget the stares, tell my how you really feel, girls."
I shake my head, laughing.
"Okay, my bad, ladies. Honestly, I recall packing a gallon of tequila." Angelique claims for the umpteenth time. "Mel is Moscato. Jos, don't nobody want beer, import or not. Erin's cheap ass is always thinking she can get by on bringing margarita mix. So while y'all are hating on me, we can go there. No problem. Now we could play remember that time... In Cancun."
"Ohhhh … " The room erupts with laughter. Erin's micro-braids curtain her face as she looks down in guilt. She begins to sip her glass of wine as all eyes fly in her direction.
"Okay, okay! Whoever said friends should uplift each other, because y'all are worst! Ummm … I'm not even gonna mention Thailand," Erin quips bringing about more giggles.
Now there are three pairs of beautiful eyes of various brown hues, snapping my direction. Yup, it was me. They all point the finger. Besides being a calculus teacher, who has a genius mind for numbers, I am so clumsy it's a shame. My socialite mother, with her taste for perfection, added every course known to man in order to rid me of my "affliction," her word not mine. But add that to the ballet, piano, and other tastes of culture she liked. Blah. To this day, I'm walking into a door or dropping something.
Anyway, when us girls went to Thailand about four years back, we were at this hibachi restaurant, seated on silk pillows, almost as we are now. I dropped a bottle of sake, valued at almost five hundred. To top it off, neither of my girls or I got a single taste.
Josaline adds, "Okay so we'll get a little buzz tonight. Tomorrow we're hitting the road, heading down south! But really, where are the strippers, Mel?"
I scoff. "Geesh, I should've known it would be your nasty ass wanting to see some ass. Do you know how hard it was to Google male strippers in Cabo de Blanco? I kept changing the variation of wording. Go-go dancers with penises. Gigolos, gosh, gigolos! I was just about to search yellow showers."
They throw a pillow at me and I fall back with laughter.
When I sit back up, I almost piss my pants. There's a burly shadow of a man standing almost at our window. "Whaaat the!"
Angelique jack-in-the-boxes to her feet, thick legs like tree stocks in a metallic gray bubble skirt. "Um, th-that's the maintenance man," she says. What's more interesting, she hadn't even looked out the window before coming to that conclusion, since her back is to the wall.
"Maintenance man?" I test.
"It's too many pipes in here for just one maintenance man," Erin giggles, the demure nasty one.
I start to arise.
"Mel!" Angelique gasps. "I'll be back."
She grabs a trendy cardigan, and places it over her black camisole then goes outside.
"Melody, you better handle that." Josaline says.
My lips purse at her comment. I am as bossy as they say, but we're on vacation. If Angelique is having herself a bit of fun, might as well allow her to tell the story on the long flight home, instead of being all up in the mix now. Because I have a way with numbers, meaning 21 questions isn't even in my vocabulary, I'd have so many combinations of query that it would transform into a permutation formula. "I got this, ladies. Let's permit Jelly to have her fun first."
The three of us sit back again.
"So how's everything going with the venue?" Erin asks, tapping her fingers.
Josaline keeps looking toward the door.
"Well. My mother, who has to put her nose into everything, has hired a wedding planner." I rub my eyes in thought. "Why did I tell her anything?"
"Isn't that a good thing?" Erin's gaze is confused.
"Hello, I already have one." I snigger. "Not to mention the price for both, they're bumping heads. Mother wants lace, lilies. I want pastel, peonies."
"What does Jelly want?" Josaline asks, always ready for a challenge. She then mumbles under her breath about it not being a real wedding.
But me being me, I just answer her question, "Angelique wants what I want."
Geesh, it's stupid of me, to stoop to Josaline's level, but she just challenged me. Of course, I know this isn't a real wedding. I've spent years complaining about galas and teas. Yet, the moment Angelique mentioned marrying herself, albeit providing further information that it wasn't a marriage, I wanted to be a part of it. It's as if I've just acquired this interest in planning events. Josaline and I hold each other's gaze, similar to how we did when meeting in college. I love my girl, but she's an attorney, who took pride in getting noticed by my father, Gerald Bradford, the one and only, from Bradford and Bradford law firm, which is a testament to her abilities. My grandfather began the law firm during a time of civil unrest.
"Long as the music is good," Erin smoothes things over.
Then Josaline pops up, and rushes to the window.
"Hey!" Erin shouts. "You're gonna get in trouble..."
"Not if Angelique doesn't see me." Josaline slyly peels back the blinds. "And y'all heifas need to stop giggling so loudly. Not one of y'all is even a tad tipsy."
"Who you calling heifa? I am the epitome of sophistication," I point a finger. Half a second later, we're all up, but Angelique isn't in our line of vision from the window.
"This sucks." Josaline moves away from the blinds. "I'm turning on some oldies."
"Crank up Bootylicious!" Erin smiles deviously, since Angelique will hate that old song for life. Before they turn up the radio, I hear a phone buzzing in the bedroom. I step inside and it's my phone. Gosh, I thought I'd turned it off.
Kiel, my husband's handsome face, pops up. From his eyes, everything about him is happy. He's smiling. My face burrows in his shoulder, covering the "My Melody" tattoo on his neck. Wisps of my hair blow in his face, when ironically, usually his honey blond hair isn't in a bun and is tickling mine. I think we were on a turn-around trip to San Francisco. Back when he was just making it as a music producer, and the only money to my name was from my parents. I haven't seen us happy like this in ages.
If it weren't for mementos like a picture captured in time, then there'd be no images in my mind. There'd be no proof of us.
I sip my drink. The bubbles not as tickly as they were once against the silk of my lips, leaving a refreshing, crisp taste down my throat. Then I do something I haven't done in a while. I pick up. The happiness, laughter, every emotion that just moved me in the living room, has been sponged away. My tone is dead. "What do you want?"
"Oh, she answers," he says snidely. He has such a luscious voice, panty wetter, knee weakening. I can still recall the first time we met. Before I could put face to voice, I heard him. Kiel was singing, and the song was for me. Now, Kiel's tone drips with irritation. "You ran off."