“This is what angel tears must taste like,” I marvel.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” George agrees.
Kevin looks more than a little chuffed. “I’m so glad you like it. It’s a blend of chardonnay and pinot noir, from one of the fabulous wineries in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley.”
We drain our flutes in under three minutes. Kevin returns, subtly eyes our empty glasses, and says, “Your accommodations are ready, and I have a fresh bottle awaiting you. May I show you there?”
We follow him out of the main building to a row of town house villas sitting in the trees along the beach. Kevin is telling George about the resort’s sustainability efforts and the Nuu-chah-nulth peoples, who have stewarded the land for thousands of years. He praises the restaurant and spa and has endless suggestions for activities. George pays close attention, but I zone out somewhere around the hot springs tour. The day and the wine have caught up to me, and every inch of my body feels heavy.
“Here we are,” Kevin announces when we get to the last villa. It sits beneath evergreen boughs, and an impressive blue hydrangea grows beside the entrance—it’s even taller than George. “Oh, before I forget,” Kevin says. “The whale-watching cruises book up fast, so let me know if you’d like me to make a reservation.”
“No way,” I say too quickly, and Kevin cocks his head. “But thank you.”
“She’s not a fan of whales,” George explains.
“I strongly dislike them,” I say, before thinking better of it.
Kevin gasps then quickly composes himself. “They really are remarkable. And you’d see sea lions and seals on the tour, too.”
“Not my thing,” I say.
Kevin stares at me, mouth agape, before slowly pivoting to George.
“Frankie doesn’t really like any sort of marine life,” George tells him.
Kevin, poor thing, does his best to smile like this isn’t the most psychotic thing he’s heard.
Try being named after a whale, I want to tell him.Try growing up with my mother.
“Sorry.” I shrug, and Kevin takes that as his cue. He unlocks the door with the key card and gestures for us to enter.
• • •
“Holy shit.”
I’d glanced at photos of the resort when Nate made the reservation, but I didn’t realize our villa was this stunning. It’s an open-concept apartment with a two-story wall of windows looking onto the beach and forest and a sliding door out to the deck. There’s leather furniture, a gas fireplace, and a spiral staircase that winds its way up to the second floor. Like the lobby, the colors are all sandy browns, hushed greens, and drizzly grays.
“Right?” Kevin exclaims, slipping out of character momentarily. “It’s one of the more deluxe suites we have on offer for special guests like yourself.”
The kitchen is phenomenal. I run my hand over the slate counters, trace the knots in the grain of the wooden cabinets, and practically squeal at the brand names of the appliances—Icould never afford these. The fridge, stove, and sink are arranged in a perfect work triangle, and it’s open to the rest of the suite so no matter where you stand, you have a view of the epic landscape. I could spend the whole week in this kitchen, experimenting with the Pacific Northwest’s abundant seafood. Spot prawns. Dungeness crab. Salmon. Oysters. Gooseneck barnacles are a delicacy I’ve only read about.
“I’ll show you around and then leave you to enjoy,” Kevin says.
Like a Dutch still-life painting, there’s food everywhere. A bottle of sparkling rosé lazes in an ice bucket. Chocolate-dipped strawberries glisten beside it. There’s a fruit platter spilling with pineapple, cherries, figs, grapes, and apples. On a wooden board is a crusty baguette and links of dry sausage alongside a jar of grainy mustard and bottle of pinot noir from Duncan, Vancouver Island.
“The baguettes are house-made,” Kevin says, following my gaze. “I wasn’t sure whether you preferred red or white wine, so there’s a bottle of gewürztraminer in the fridge as well.” He turns to George. “It’s from the Okanagan. I don’t know whether you’re wine people, but the Valley’s vineyards are doing some pretty sensational things.”
“Oh, we’re wine people,” I say.
“Wonderful.” Kevin gives me a tight smile and then twists back to George. I guess I lost him over the whales.
“And have no fear,” he says to George. “The gewürz is bone-dry.”
George stifles a smile and gives him a clipped nod. “I appreciate that, Kevin. I do prefer a dry gewürz.”
Kevin looks like he might float up to the rafters. “I’d be happy to open it for you, if you’d like a taste now.”
“That’s all right,” George says. “I’ll save it for later.”
