Литература Исландии: от саг до Оулавюра Сигюрдссона. Евгений Стаховский

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      2

      “IT’S GOING TO BE one hell of a honeymoon.”

      Although the driver of the cab looked confused, considering Leo Santori was sitting alone in the backseat, he didn’t reply. And it wasn’t just because this was Costa Rica and Leo didn’t speak Spanish. The driver spoke English, or something very much like it. No, he just seemed to be abiding by the code that said Americans on vacation in tropical paradises could be as strange as they wanted to be. It was all good. No problem.

      “All good. No problem,” Leo muttered.

      All good that he was honeymooning alone.

      No problem that he’d been betrayed.

      It’s really all good that my fiancée cheated on me six months ago so we canceled the wedding, which was supposed to have taken place yesterday. No problem that she kept the ring, the apartment, her yappy bichon frise—which really was no problem—and the new KitchenAid mixer, and I kept the nonrefundable honeymoon.

      She’d also kept the best man. The one she’d cheated with.

      No problem.

      Still, it certainly was not a conversation he wanted to have with anyone. Especially not now that he was here in Central America, ready to embark on some to-hell-with-it adventures. Those would definitely include surfing and zip lining. Good drinks, beautiful beaches, exotic foods.

      They also might include getting laid. If he happened to meet a woman who was interested in a rebound-sex-fest with a Chicago firefighter who had a slight chip on his shoulder and a honeymoon package created for two but starring only one.

      “Here we are, señor,” said the driver.

      The ride from the international airport in Liberia to this west coast paradise had been comfortable. The driver had pointed out various sights that Leo felt sure he’d explore over the next several days. No doubt about it, Costa Rica was every bit as beautiful—sunny, robin’s-egg-blue skies, vivid hills and jungles, perfect eighty-degree climate—as the brochures had said. An outstanding choice for a honeymoon. Even a solo one.

      “Thanks, man,” he said.

      The driver pulled out his suitcase and handed it off to a broadly smiling doorman who quickly swept it through the entrance of the hotel, which, as advertised, looked small, tasteful and upscale. Inside, Leo glanced around, noting that every wall seemed open to the outdoors. But it was still comfortable, a soft tropical breeze blowing through, whispering along the cool tile floors and setting the potted palms in gentle motion.

      A bellhop engaged him in conversation in heavily accented English as they walked to the check-in desk. Leo only understood half of what he said, responding with smiles and nods.

      The woman at the desk greeted him. “Welcome, Mr. Santori, we’re so very glad to have you with us.”

      She smiled, obviously noting his surprise at being called by name. Then he thought about it and realized he might very well be the only person checking in today. He remembered from the research he’d done on this place that there were only twenty-four rooms on the whole property. Twenty-four bungalows each with a small, private pool and walled garden, just the thing for a romantic interlude between a new bride and groom.

      Christ, what was he doing here?

      The middle-aged woman, whose English was only slightly tinged with an accent, glanced past him and looked around the open lobby. “And where is Mrs. Santori?”

      He grimaced. Obviously, despite his calls and his emails, word had not filtered down to the front desk that he would be traveling alone.

      “Uh...”

      “Oh, dear,” the woman said, reading something on the screen and biting her lip in consternation. She swallowed, visibly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Santori, I didn’t see the notation on your reservation.”

      Okay, so somebody had paid attention when he’d changed the reservation to make it clear he was no longer traveling with a companion. It had just taken her a moment to see the note. He wondered what it said. Maybe: attention—pathetic sap was cheated on and didn’t get married.

      He doubted it happened often, but he couldn’t be the first single-on-a-honeymoon vacationer they’d ever seen.

      He didn’t ask her to turn the screen so he could read it. His imagination was good enough. “No problem.”

      She smiled her appreciation. “How was your trip from the airport, sir?”

      “Fine, thanks.”

      “Wonderful.” Her fingers continued to click on her keyboard as she finished working on his check-in. “We have you in our Emerald Bungalow. It’s one of our nicest on the west side of the property. Sunsets over the Pacific will make you gasp.”

      Yeah. He was sure he’d be doing a lot of gasping during this trip, just not for the reasons he’d expected. It sure wouldn’t be out of breathlessness from the ninety-seven ways he and Ashley would have been having sex.

      He pushed her name out of his head. He’d done a great job of that for the past six months, since the day he’d mistaken her phone for his and discovered the kinds of intimate sexting pictures he’d never want to see from a guy. Definitely not from Tim, his own old friend...and best man. Especially not when those messages were written to—and welcomed by—Leo’s fiancée.

      Six months had been enough to calm the anger, soften the insult, heal the heart. For the most part. It maybe hadn’t been enough to kill the embarrassment, which was what he most felt these days when he thought about it. Which wasn’t often.

      It was only because he’d come here, to take advantage of the nonrefundable vacation he’d paid for months before the scheduled wedding date, that he was thinking of his ex. Back home in Chicago, around his big extended family, or the guys at the station or the women wanting to help him jump back into the dating game, he was able to forget there’d ever been an Ashley. Or that he’d ever been stupid enough to think he’d really been in love with her. If he’d really been in love with her, Tim wouldn’t have ended up with a broken nose— he’d have ended up in traction. Or, if his great uncle Marco—supposedly mob connected—had had his way, with a pair of cement shoes.