Seven Year Switch Page 18

  Oxcarts are an important part of Costa Rican history, since they were traditionally used to transport coffee from Costa Rica’s Central Valley to the deep-water ports of Puntarenas. We’d passed bright hand-painted oxcarts big enough to carry a person, and smaller ones that had been made into napkin holders. I’d never admit it in a million years, but part of the draw of the one I was holding was that it was the perfect size to fit a hamster.

  I decided the oxcart was close enough to pink. I also couldn’t resist a framed, hand-painted feather, another specialty of Costa Rican artisans. It was signed by a local painter who had managed to fit an amazingly realistic and brightly colored hummingbird, a frog, and flowers on a single feather. Anastasia would love it, and I knew she’d want to paint some of her own as soon as she saw it. I’d have to remember to keep my eye out for feathers while we were here.

  I added a hand-painted PURA VIDA T-shirt in Anastasia’s size. My shopping bud get was essentially shot for the trip, but I’d have my Costa Rican memories, so it wasn’t as if I needed a souvenir for myself.

  Some of our group looked on as the stall owner and I bartered away. When we reached the expected 80 percent of the asking price, we both smiled as I handed over my colones.

  “If you both know you’re supposed to get a discount, why not just lower the price?” one of the women asked as we headed for the next stall.

  “It’s all part of the game,” Joni said. “You don’t want to ruin the fun.”

  “Speaking of fun,” I said as Joni and I walked ahead of the others, “don’t you think you’ll miss all this?”

  Joni looked around at the bustling marketplace. “This? I haven’t done this in years. It’s amazing how even the most creative business idea can turn into nothing but bookkeeping and bill paying before you know it. What I’m trying to dig myself out from under are the mountains of paperwork. Maintenance and paperwork.”

  “What made you start GGG?” I couldn’t believe I’d never asked her before.

  “Good Lord, it feels like a million years ago.” Joni stopped to look at a display of pre-Columbian reproduction jewelry. I recognized the figures as huacas, images of ancient deities resembling animals. I knew Panama, Mexico, and Costa Rica each had their regional designs.

  Joni picked up a silver and jade frog with splayed feet.

  “Aww,” I said. “It’s so cute. You should definitely treat yourself.”

  “The last thing I need is more stuff,” Joni said. She put the frog pin back down and picked up a pair of bird earrings. “What was the question again?”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Oh, right,” Joni said, before I could say anything. “GGG. I was a young widow, my kids were off on their own, or close to it, and suddenly it occurred to me that I’d been taking care of everybody else my whole life, and now they’d all up and left me.”

  Before I knew it, Anastasia would be gone, too. My eyes teared up. “Oh, that’s so sad.”

  “I survived,” Joni said. “And I mean, it’s not like I didn’t still see my kids. But suddenly I had hours to fill for the first time I could remember. So I picked a destination and phoned some of my friends in similar situations, simply because I didn’t want to travel alone.”

  “Where did you go?” I asked.

  Joni laughed. “New York City. It was as far away as I could dream. But we saw the sights, went to a show on Broadway, shopped, and ate at divine restaurants. And as soon as we got back, my phone was ringing off the hook—old friends who couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to invite them and wanted to know when the next trip was.”

  “And presto,” I said. “A business was born.”

  Joni shook her head. “Hardly. I kept my day job for years and took it one trip at a time. At first we were just a group of women traveling together, then I caught on to getting a group discount to cover my own costs, and finally I took a few courses. Travel was my passion, and the business grew as a by-product of that, almost without my noticing what was happening.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You’ve come a long way, baby.”

  “Ha. Sometimes the trick is knowing when to stop. I had a lot more fun when it was a travel club.”

  “Did you ever meet another man after your husband died?” I asked. Joni rarely talked about her life beyond GGG.

  “Sure,” Joni said. “A couple of them. And then one day you realize it’s not about the guy. That longing in your heart is always going to be there.”

  “So you just gave up on men?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Joni picked up the pace and wove her way through the crowded Plaza de la Democracia. I followed her crisp gray hair, sparkling like a beacon in the bright sunshine, until I caught up with her. “I’ve had a rendezvous or two lately.”

  “Stop,” I said. “Match.com?”

  “At my age, it would be more like Rematch.com.” She shrugged and looked at her watch. Across from us, a group of GGG women were bartering for bottled water as if their lives depended on it.

  “What do you say we round up those wild women and head back to the hotel so we don’t miss that plane?” Joni said.

  35

  CYNTHIA’S LUGGAGE HAD SHOWN UP AT THE GRAN HOTEL just in the nick of time. It was hard to tell which one of us was more excited. A porter had wheeled her two gargantuan suitcases out to us just as we were climbing into the vans that would take us to the Pavas Airport in San José.

  “Woo-hoo,” I yelled when I saw the suitcases.

  “Whew, that was a clothes call,” Cynthia said.

  Our group had booked every seat on the small Nature Air plane that was flying us directly into Tamarindo. “If you come back here on your own,” Vianca said as we lined up to board, “make sure you get the ‘locos’ rate. All the seats are essentially the same, so it’s a waste of money to pay for ‘elite’ or ‘promo’ seats.”

  The pi lot chatted throughout our fifty-minute flight, telling us that the mission of Nature Air, besides being environmentally responsible, was to create memorable experiences for travelers by featuring oversize windows in their fleet of Dash 6 Twin Otters that turned every flight into a sky tour.

  It wasn’t much of an exaggeration. The pi lot pointed out volcanoes and rain forests and waterfalls below us, and the fifty-minute flight was a great way to get a sense of the incredible natural beauty of the country. It also saved us almost five hours of driving over the potholes of Costa Rica’s legendary bad roads.

  “It’s just so green,” somebody said.

  “In more ways than one,” another woman said. “I loved that even the bath products at the hotel were green. What a great country.”

  “There’s much to admire about Costa Rica’s concern for the environment,” Vianca said behind me. “But as ecotourism has become more of a draw, greenwashing has also become more of a problem. For instance, hotels can receive government sustainable certificates just by using biodegradable cleaning products, recycling, and not using pesticides, even if they’re not actively promoting wider conservation efforts.”

  “Joni Mitchell was so far ahead of her time with those lyrics about paving paradise and putting up a parking lot,” I said.

  Cynthia turned around in front of me. “Are you sure? I always thought it was pay paradise to put in a parking lot. You know, like everyone was trying to get into paradise, so they needed more parking.”

  Once again, Cynthia got a bigger laugh than I thought she deserved, especially since I didn’t think she even got her own joke. The other women really seemed to like her, possibly more than they liked me. If we were in high school, she’d probably be a cheerleader or a prom queen or something, and far too cool to hang out with me.

  Cynthia had finished unloading one of her suitcases and was now working on putting the contents of the other into the remaining drawers of the small dresser we were supposed to be sharing. It didn’t really matter, since most of my clothes were dirty at this point anyway.

  I was trying to decide whether to wash up before d
inner or check my e-mail first.

  I watched Cynthia stack an amazing assortment of under-garments in the drawer.

  “Wow,” I said. “Do you really wear all that stuff?”

  “Eventually,” she said, “if I live long enough.” She held up a long beige thing with a high waist and legs. “I even dream in Spanx. Actually, I’m a Spanx carnivore.”

  “Now there’s an appetizing thought,” I said.

  Cynthia wiggled in between the two suitcases and plopped down on her bed. “I can do the time line of my life in Spanx. It’s fascinating.”

  “I bet,” I said as I backed toward the door.

  “No, really.” Cynthia reached up to yank her bangs across her forehead. “Okay, in 1998, the owner of Spanx cut off the feet of her panty hose to look smashing in her white pants.”

  I reached one hand out behind me. I turned the doorknob.

  Cynthia jumped up, opened a dresser drawer, and held up a pair of white capris. “I had the exact same idea. And not to be competitive, but I’m almost positive it was sometime in 1997.”

  She refolded the capris and leaned over to put them back in the drawer. “In 2001, she invented the control-top fishnet and coined the phrase ‘no more grid butt.’”

  Cynthia spun around and held out both hands, like Vanna White after she’d revealed a particularly good letter. “I’d been wearing bike shorts over my fishnets for at least a year at that point.”

  The mention of bike shorts made me think of Billy. Maybe I’d finally return one of his calls when I got back. I thought the fresh air in Costa Rica might be helping my head clear. I mean, why couldn’t we find a way to stay in each other’s lives?

  Cynthia started holding up one flesh-colored thing after another. “The Slim Cognito Shaping Cami…the Power Panty…the Hide-and-Sleek Slip-Suit…each one more genius than the one before. They’re just so totally brilliant I just can’t stop buying them.”

  She plopped down on the bed again. “It could have been me,” she said.

  And then she started to cry.

  I sighed. I pulled the door shut and put the empty suitcase on the floor. I sat down on the bed next to Cynthia, just close enough to pat her on the back while she sobbed.

  Eventually I handed her a tissue. I hoped the heavy tissue use in our group wasn’t negatively impacting Costa Rica’s green rating.

  “If only I’d listened to myself,” Cynthia said when she finished blowing her nose. “I could have plummeted to the top of the fashion world.”

  “So this is about Spanx?”

  Cynthia stretched her bangs back into place with the hand not holding the tissue. “No, it’s about me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I mean, I have a head filled with ideas, but I can’t tell the difference between the good ones and the bad ones until it’s too late, so I just let them all drain right out.”

  I shook my head to dislodge a cartoon image of Cynthia’s Swiss cheese brain leaking ideas. “But you have your work,” I said. “You’re an interior designer.”

  Cynthia took a raggedy breath. “Not anymore. My one lousy client won’t be needing my services any longer. I think she misses her sink. But, I mean, farmer’s sinks are so last year.”

  I flashed back to the night Seth installed that sink. I relived our first kiss in seven years, my back pressed up against the sink’s white ceramic ruffles.

  I’d managed to almost forget about Cynthia until she spoke. “Do you think I could do what you do? I mean, no way am I wearing one of those headphones, but if we can find something nice in Bluetooth, I think I could work with it.”

  Great, now I’d not only be taking Cynthia’s kids off the bus, but I’d also be covering her phone shift while she finished her tennis lesson. I took a deep breath and tried to conjure up the most generous part of myself. “Talk to Joni,” was the best I could do.

  “Oh, thank you,” Cynthia said. “I’ll tell her you suggested it.” Cynthia held her used tissue out to me. I almost took it, then caught myself and pointed at the wastebasket on my way out the door.

  Walking slowly to give my Cynthia headache a chance to dissipate, I wound my way along the path that led to the hotel office, which also housed the computer room and a gift shop.

  Tamarindo felt like the ultimate laid-back beach town, and our hotel was actually a collection of little thatched-roof bungalows flanking a free-form swimming pool and an open-air restaurant and bar. We were surrounded by lush, tropical growth and colorful gardens. An iguana dozed in the sun just off the path, and I was pretty sure I could hear howler monkeys chattering up in the trees overhead.

  Best of all, the hotel was right across the street from the beach. I breathed in the sharp salt air. It was hard not to think about how much Anastasia would love it here. And I also couldn’t help thinking how romantic it would be to come back again one day with a man. I knew Joni was right that it wasn’t about the guy. But in all these years I’d certainly proven I could make it on my own. What would be so wrong about having a little companionship?

  I could actually imagine a man in my life, as long as I kept the image blurry and faceless. The moment I tried to plug either Seth or Billy into the equation, anxiety grabbed my chest, as if it were choking off the blood flow to my heart.

  I stopped to watch a pair of toucans up in a tree, looking like male and female Toucan Sams from the Froot Loops box come to life. Wait, why was I making this so complicated? Anastasia loved Seth. Life would be so gloriously simple if I could work things out with him, too. Birthday parties, school plays, graduations, even Anastasia’s wedding one distant day. Simple. Simple. Simple.

  So what if Seth was going to Japan on business? Was I sabotaging my chance for a normal life because I somehow didn’t think I deserved one? Could the answer be as easy as a second try with Seth?

  36

  “CALL ME ISMAEL,” OUR SURF INSTRUCTOR SAID BY WAY of introduction.

  Everybody laughed, including the instructor. He was adorable, with shiny black hair and a chocolate, salt-licked body.

  “I think I’ve met him before,” Cynthia said. “That sounds so familiar.”

  “Moby Dick,” I whispered.

  “You slept with him?” she whispered back.

  Everybody cracked up.

  “It’s the first line of the book,” one of the sorority sisters whispered. “Ismael was the narrator. Though, actually, I think it might have been Ishmael.”

  “That sucker ruined my junior year of high school,” another sister said. “What was it supposed to be about anyway?”

  “The human struggle for meaning, happiness, and salvation,” the recently divorced woman named Janice said.

  “Who knew?” Linda said. She was the woman who’d told us the bird story in San José. “And I thought it was just a guy book about whaling.”

  “I guess I should have actually read it instead of buying the CliffsNotes,” Janice said. “Maybe it would have prepared me for the struggle for meaning, happiness and salvation in my former marriage.”

  Ismael walked away and came back carrying a long, beat-up surfboard. “I feel truly blessed for my country and all the beauty it has to offer,” he said. “Surfing benefits your mind and body in the most positive way, stoked with more confidence in yourself and newfound energy.”

  We circled around him. He demonstrated a pop-up, essentially catching an imaginary wave and going from a paddling position, to lying on top of the board, to squatting, to standing on the board.

  We watched, mesmerized by the muscles rippling across his back.

  “Now again, but slowly,” Ismael said.

  The lawyer sighed.

  Ismael lowered himself to the board. “The first part is much alike as a push-up with your arms. But with one flow, you must snap up to a crouch positioning as quickly as you can.”

  Too soon, we had to stop watching Ismael and attempt our own pop-ups. We chose beginner surfboards, which were short and soft, from the rack. I picked a white one with a vertical border
of pink hibiscus along each side. Anastasia would have loved it. I couldn’t wait to come back to Costa Rica with her. Maybe Seth would come, too. It might even be a second honeymoon.

  Seth’s and my first honeymoon was a three-night trip to a bed-and-breakfast in Bar Harbor, Maine. It was all we could afford, but we’d traveled so much already and Bar Harbor was breathtakingly beautiful, so we didn’t mind. Our room was cramped with antiques and a canopy bed. It was like being caught in a time warp, so we called each other my lord and my lady while we lingered over breakfast in the dusty gingham and lace dining room. We meandered through Acadia National Park along Park Loop Road, pulling off to the side of the road to take in the staggering views or to explore a stretch of rocky beach. Or just to kiss. We walked the carriage roads and took pictures of the stone bridges. We splurged on lobster quiche for lunch, steamed lobster for dinner.

  “I’ll love you forever,” Seth had said as we made love in our creaky canopy bed on our last morning there. “No matter what.”

  Maybe I’d love Seth forever, no matter what, too.

  I brushed some Costa Rican sand from my hands and attempted another pop-up.

  “Practice makes perfect, guys,” Ismael said. I knew he was talking about pop-ups, but I thought there might be a message for Seth and me, too.

  By the time Ismael moved on to teaching us how to add a half-twist to our pop-up, so that our feet and body were facing out away from the board, I was ready for a nap.

  Instead we hit the water for some paddling practice. I did okay, but of course Cynthia was brilliant at it, getting all show-offy in her teeny bikini as she practiced her pop-ups in the water, even though Ismael hadn’t told us we were ready yet.

  “Enough of this lesson,” Ismael finally yelled. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I dragged my tired body out of the water and returned my sandy surfboard to the rack.

  Cynthia was still going at it, so I walked back to our bungalow alone. I peeled off my new black suit and rinsed it carefully, in case it had to last me for the next decade or so. I took a quick shower and changed into shorts and a T-shirt.