The Getaway

My hands are cold and shaking; and I know it’s not from the icy cocktail glass my fingers are wrapped around. Despite the warm island breezes and lazy swaying of palm trees all around, my anxiety meter is still way off the charts.

A server approaches my rickety bamboo table-for-one. “Another, my lady?” she asks, her semi-toothless smile nonetheless bright and cheery against her dark-chocolate skin. I look down at my glass in which only ice cubes remain. You sure made short work of that one, you lush.

“Why not,” I say, releasing my grip on the rustic, sand-glass tumbler most likely made right here on the island. My server picks it up, the colorful print fabric of her dress flashing in the sunlight as she turns away.

I close my eyes and tell myself to relax. Forced vacation or no, I’m here to forget what happened and effing relax. You just don’t get over being held up at gunpoint in a mere day or two, no matter how many Mojitos and Mai Tais you consume.

At any rate, I’m here. Mandatory time off. Standard bank policy after a robbery. A robbery. I still can’t believe it. Who stages a run-and-gun bank job in this day and age, when there are so many more sophisticated ways to steal money? Theft. Greed. Violence. Damn it, the world can be an ugly place. And I’m not sure I want to be part of it any more. To go back to work at the bank now makes me want to vomit on my flip flops.

I try to take my mind off it by looking around, taking in the scene that surrounds me. Thatch-roofed palapas stand crookedly on the beach a few yards away. Vines and flowers are everywhere, their scent seducing my nostrils. Sand shifts beneath my feet, and birds caw and sing in the nearby trees. Here is not ugly. Here is safe. Here is far away. I chose this place on purpose, the most unfindable island in the findable world of vacation islands.

No bank robber could ever bother me here.

My server returns, fresh cocktail in hand. “Can you bring it to me over there?” I ask, pointing to one of the leaning palapas on the beach.

“Yes, ma’am.”

As I settle into the slightly sagging deck chair in the palapa’s shade and take the first satisfying sips of my drink, I hear a repetitive swishing sound behind me. I ignore it for awhile, but the noise persists, coming closer with each swipe.

I glance in that direction, and my annoyance disappears as I lay eyes on what may be the cutest beach bum I’ve ever seen. His tanned, shirtless skin gleams in the sunlight, his biceps flexing as he sweeps the nearby sand with a rake. The only thing covering him is a pair of denim cutoffs and some gardening gloves, leaving the rest of his lovely body exposed for my enjoyment.

He meets my gaze, and I’m about to melt like the ice cubes in my glass. “Sorry,” he says, stopping to brush a lock of sandy-colored hair from his eyes. “Am I bothering you? I’ll leave.”

I can’t help but smile. He looks good enough to eat. “No, no, not at all,” I say. “You work here?”

“Just started. Guess I’m the low guy on the totem pole,” he replies, lifting the rake in gesture.

“Well, you gotta start somewhere,” I reply, followed by, “You look thirsty. Join me for a drink?” I cringe inwardly as soon as the words leave my lips. What are you doing? Flirting with a kid ten years younger than you? You feckless cougar.

The guy smiles. He doesn’t even look surprised. He must get hit on by women all the time, young and old. I feel even more embarrassed.

“Thanks. Gotta get back to work, though.” He picks up the rake and starts to move away but doesn’t break eye contact. My guts twist a little. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. Take you up on that.”

“Sure,” I say, lifting my glass in a salute. I know an exit line when I hear one. I turn my attention back to the blue-green waves breaking on the beach in front me. Nice try, you old cow. Act your age. “I’m only thirty-four,” I say out loud in protest.

The next day is bright and warm. I’m woken by a gentle breeze that flows through the glassless windows of my small but cozy cabin. Suddenly, I’m glad to be alive; the specter of my horrible ordeal seeming to have vanished overnight. It must be this place. I know I can’t stay here forever, but for now, it’s my getaway, and I’m not going to think any further ahead than today.

I have breakfast at same little bar café as yesterday, then make my way down to the beach. I opt for laying out on a towel rather than a chair to be closer to the water. I do plan to go for a swim but want to soak up a little sun first. After all, what’s a brand-new bikini for?

I’m almost asleep wrapped in the warmth of the sun and the sounds of the sea lulling me to dreamland when the clink of ice cubes rouses me. Damn waiters! As bad as police sometimes - always turning up when you least want them to. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I say without looking up.

“No? But I brought them specially for us,” a voice says.

I shade my eyes with one hand as I crane my neck and look over. I don’t believe it. It’s the rake-man, tanned and smiling, as tall and cool a drink as the cocktails he’s holding in his hands. I sit up like I’ve been stuck by a lightning bolt, throwing sand in every direction. Sweat rolls down from my neck and straight into the prominent cleavage my new swimsuit has graciously provided. “What are you doing here?”

He sits down next to me and offers me one of the glasses. “I said I’d take you up on it.”

The glass is slippery with condensation as I take it from him, and I almost drop it. “Yeah, but I thought it was my treat, not yours.”

“Does it matter?” he says, touching the rim of the glass with his own in a toast. “Cheers.”

I can’t stop staring. The way his hair lifts in the breeze, the sunlight illuminating his long lashes, the pursing of his lips as he takes a long sip of his drink; it’s all making me ridiculously giddy. I take a quick gulp from my glass to try and regain my wits. “Well, you can’t make much money working here,” I say. “You probably haven’t gotten your first paycheck yet. I should buy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, looking up at the sky, and then back at me. “I can afford it.”

I’m captivated by his blue eyes, his friendly face, youthful body, and his easygoing mannerisms that seem beyond his years. I think I’m developing a girlhood crush though I’m far past girlhood. “Thank you. I do have money, but I hope I can make it last. I don’t think I ever want to leave here.”

“I can understand that. It’s the perfect place for a getaway,” he says, nodding.

“It’s more than that,” I say, unwillingly reminded of my situation back home. “I don’t think I can go back to my old life. I had a rather traumatic experience.”

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

I drain the contents of my glass and swallow it down “Not really,” I say, the alcohol rush hitting my brain. I wave the empty glass. “Another?”

“Why not,” he says, smiling. For a change, a waiter actually appears when I need one, and I flag him down. After another round of drinks, I’m feeling pleasantly tipsy. They say never to drink in the hot sun but what the hell. I’m enjoying myself and the company of a totally gorgeous young man and I’ll do what I like. “Why don’t you want to go back to your life?” he asks, as we watch the sun starting to set.

“Being here has made me re-evaluate a lot of things. The corporate world is so tainted and unforgiving. It’s unnatural.” I sweep my arm across the vista before us. “This. This is natural. It’s the perfect getaway.”

“I agree. So why don’t you stay then?”

I give a wistful, half-drunken sigh. “I wish I could. I’d like to toss the whole corporate thing, and I’m afraid to go back. But I need to make a living. I guess escaping here was just a joke.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” My handsome companion looks out at the ocean and takes a thoughtful sip from his glass. “You could do what I do.”

I laugh. “Sweep the resort grounds and serve drinks? I don’t think so.”

“That’s not what I do. Not for money, anyway,” he replies.

I throw him a mocking glance. “Oh really? What is it you do, then?” He turns his baby blue gaze on me, and I want to melt into the sand. He’s breathtaking, and I don’t even know his name nor he mine.

“I rob banks,” he says, without even a blink. “Just did a big score. Got enough to last me the rest of my days, and yours too.”

I sit there, stunned. Did he just say what I thought he said? Or is the booze affecting my hearing? “Now, you’re the one who’s joking, right?”

He shakes his head, a touch of a smile on his lips. He’s totally serious.

“And you came here to escape?” I ask, still dumbfounded.

“It’s the perfect getaway. You said it yourself.”

In a moment, I find myself smiling, getting lost in those blue eyes and the glorious, tropical beauty of the most unfindable island in the world of vacation islands all around us. “You’re right,” I say. “We’ve both made the perfect getaway.”