I’d been to the Caribbean for my honeymoon, but I only remembered it through pictures. I’d taken only a few of them. Even if I didn’t remember why, my heart knew.
My husband.
He’d been more beautiful than the sea and more interesting than the layout of the land, which, all things considered, proved how much of an enigma he was, since he was competing with the unbelievable scenery.
Another reason might have been—there was no picture that could compete with seeing it in person.
It almost seemed unreal, the view, standing where I was then.
The water looked as if a hand had swooped down into a cavern full of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and, most of all, the stone of the sea, aquamarine, and melted them into the pot known as the ocean. The temperature and depth, even the mood of the water determined what color permeated nature’s art. Some areas were dark, some light, and some a combination of the two.
The sand was white, the sun high and bright, and the sweet essence of tropical flowers meandered through the air, slow dancing with the exotic scent of rum punch.
It was impossible to decide which was my favorite time of the day, early morning or late evening. The beginning of the day or the end of it.
The beginning of the day signaled another day in paradise that had nothing to do with where we were. The end put a stamp on another day well lived.
When the ending came, there wasn’t a sad bone in my body, or one damn regret.
We didn’t fear time. We soaked up the warm wind blowing off the Caribbean Ocean.
We lived for the day.
We lived for us.
We traveled all over the world.
We swam in places so exotic that, when the water rolled over the body, it felt like a gift from God.
We danced in taverns.
We kissed in alleyways.
We took pictures as a family in front of the world’s most recognizable places and some of the world’s most beautiful hidden gems. Some of the places were probably considered warts on the earth’s surface, but we took them anyway, and we laughed.
No place on this earth, though, compared to my home: wherever my family was.
That was usually the Cayman Islands, where very few things in life could compare to the sunrises and sunsets, to a sea view that rivaled a cave full of shimmering gems.
Sometimes I felt like the honeymoon we spent here lived on, picking up where my absent memories left off, but this time without bloodshed and mayhem.
The islands were where Aniello took us after we left New York five years ago, and we’d spend the rest of our days there.
Our road to perdition led us to paradise. After a few twists and turns almost cost us our lives.
It wasn’t often that I thought back, choosing to live for the day instead of the past or future, but there were times when how close we both came to losing it all slipped in, and I couldn’t help but be thankful for not being there.
Two large, warm hands slipped around my waist, and I relaxed into my husband’s embrace while the evening sun painted the island gold.
The wind rocked the water, shushing it to shore. It was the view from our private balcony that I’d never get used to. Nor would I grow accustomed to the oceanic smell. It cleansed all the old smoke and ashes from my lungs. The salt made the air so soft, so easy to breathe in.
It healed me.
“Is she talking their ears off yet?” I asked, looking up at a face that had become my home. He healed me too.
He chuckled softly in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Stealing their hearts even more,” he said. “She’s a little thief.”
“She loves when they come to visit,” I whispered, setting my hands over his, holding on tight. Reminiscing always got me that way.
