“Perfect. And after?” he asked, turning to me. He tucked his towel around his waist and reached out for my hand in full proposition mode. “Would you like to join me for a date?”
I giggled, waving my free hand between him and my mom. “You two are perfect for each other,” I said.
“Where am I taking her on this date?” Beckett asked her, still holding my hand.
“Well, there’s a movie theater, a casino, and a Häagen-Dazs, all in this square. Lots of choices,” she replied.
My eyebrows rose at the mention of ice cream.
“This one’s got quite the sweet tooth,” Mom added in a singsong voice reminiscent of her music teacher days.
“Too bad I’m lactose intolerant,” Beckett said, shaking his head.
“Are you? Thatissad,” Mom went on. “But, just another thing we have in common. I can give you some Lactaid pills, if you want.”
“I’m kidding. I love ice cream,” he laughed.
“Thank God,” I interjected.
“So, ice cream, then. And maybe a movie. We can play it by ear.” Our fingers were still entwined, and Beckett beamed at me as he gave my hand a squeeze. “Sound good?” he asked.
I nodded. Fireworks exploded inside my chest. “Sounds great,” I replied.
Hours later, our unlikely trio was finishing up dinner at the Cuban restaurant across the way from our hotel. The ropa vieja was delectable, the plantains were a perfect combination of crispy on the outside and sweet mush on the inside, and the camarones were melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious, slathered in a buttery wine sauce. Even the rice was the best I’d had ina long time. “Beats that Cuban joint on Austin Street,” Mom commented. “And that’s saying a lot.” The orange-and-purple-painted stucco walls were decorated with an eclectic assortment of art under strands of white twinkle lights, and in the middle of dinner, a pair of salsa dancers performed a choreographed routine to a lively song I’d never heard before. We tapped our sandal-clad feet to the rhythm, drunk on food, coconut rum punch, and the island itself, opening up to us like an oyster shell hiding a precious pearl.
After the meal, we walked Mom back to the hotel lobby. “This is where I leave you,” she said.
I leaned in to give her a hug. “You sure, Mom? I can stay,” I whispered.
“Pretty Girl, if the roles were reversed, I would have ditched you back at the restaurant,” she laughed in my ear. “You go enjoy.” She pulled back and held me by the shoulders. “This is the good stuff in life, baby. Drink it all in.” Her smile came from somewhere deep inside, and it hit me right in my chest. It was one of those moments when I felt viscerally connected to her on a level that transcended friendship or even family. In many ways, my mom was my soulmate. “I hope you know you’ve got a treasure here,” she said to Beckett. “She deserves hot fudgeandwhipped cream, got it, kid?”
Beckett leaned in and hugged my mom. “And a cherry on top,” he added.
“Nope.” She planted a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Melody hates fruit.”
“Seriously?” He pulled back in disbelief.
“Afraid so,” Mom replied. “She’s a picky little pain in the ass. Also, stubborn as all get-out.”
“Noted,” Beckett said.
“You kids have fun,” she said, turning to summon the elevator.
“Love you,” I called out. She turned back and blew me a kiss.
“So?” Beckett asked, as we walked past a koi pond in front of the hotel entrance, back toward the square. “What’s your flavor of choice?”
“From Häagen-Dazs? Dulce de leche. You?”
“Not sure. Something chocolate, maybe? I need to see what they’ve got.”
I nodded. “I’ve got a favorite flavor for every big ice cream retailer.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Go ahead. Test me.”
“Okay,” he said. “Baskin-Robbins?”
