The Jade Notebook (17 page)

Layla sparkles.
“¡Mucho gusto, Meche!”
Good to meet you!

When Meche doesn’t answer, Layla goes on. “We brought you a cake, pink angel food! Made with all-natural beet dye!”

Meche looks at the cake in my hands but makes no move to open the gate. Gratefully, I set down the platter and back away, as if she herself is a wild animal.

Although Meche hasn’t asked, Layla says, “Oh, things are going wonderfully for us. It’s such a magical place, isn’t it? I lead yoga every morning at sunrise on the beach. You should join us sometime!” Layla rambles on as Meche stands there, impassive.

Even in her own home, this woman maintains a distinct aloofness. The only cracks in her façade are the glances she sneaks at me. I try not to meet her eyes, looking down at the soil, then over her head at the sky, then at the lonely pink cake with its droopy whipped-cream topping, then at the jaguar. Anywhere but at her beautiful, disturbing eyes. They remind me too much of our encounter last night.

She asks no questions; no
Why are you toting bells and incense?
or
Why is that man wearing a blue wig?
After waiting a polite moment for Meche to volunteer information about herself, Layla gets even more direct. “So you live here?”

Meche gives a slight nod.

“Just you?” Layla pushes.

Another nod.

Joe takes a stab at casual conversation, explaining his wig, his calling to travel the world spreading joy as a clown before the end of the world. He’s obviously nervous, but I have to
give him credit for trying. And at least he hasn’t tried doing a juggling routine to break the ice.

Meche gives another nearly imperceptible nod. Every few seconds, she glances in my direction.

“So tell us,” says Layla, “how did you end up living with a jaguar?” She’s never had qualms mentioning the elephant in the room.

Meche kisses its head, smoothes its fur. “He’s Gatito.”

Wendell shoots me a confused look. “Kitty?” he whispers in English.

I nod, just as bewildered. Kitty is the last name I would’ve guessed.

“It’s a baby?” Joe asks, unconvinced.

“Oh, no. It’s just that—I’ve had Gatito since he was a kitten.”

“So jaguar pets are legal here?” Layla asks.

I suck in my breath, hoping Meche won’t take this as a confrontation. The last thing I want to do is provoke an alleged
bruja
with a pet jaguar.

She shakes her head. “Gatito had been poached. He was being sold on the black market.” Her voice is so low, I have to strain to hear.

After a pause, she continues. “I bought him so I could bring him to a wildlife sanctuary.” Another silence.

“And then?” Layla prompts.

Meche’s voice grows quieter still. I crane my head forward to catch her words. “We discovered he—he had a health problem. His kidneys. The vet didn’t think he’d live
long.” Her voice trembles. “They didn’t have resources at the sanctuary to care for him. They would have put him down. So I volunteered to nurse him.” Something close to a smile passes across her face. “It’s been ten years and my baby’s still alive.”

It’s this unexpected tenderness that gives me courage to address the other elephant in the room. I swallow hard and keep my voice casual. “I saw you and—Gatito—on a walk last night.”

She stares at me, her bottom lip quivering. Finally, she blinks and says, “I should prepare food for my kitten now. He gets grumpy when he’s hungry.” Abruptly, she turns and disappears into the house. Gatito lies down just outside the door, licking his chops. Our cake sits untouched on this side of the fence.

After a stunned moment, Layla says, “I bet she’s waiting for us to leave before she takes the cake.”

I’m doubtful, but I don’t feel like carrying it all the way back to the cabanas. Not to mention, the cake is the least of my concerns. As we tromp along the fence, Gatito watches us but thankfully stays put.

Once we’re well out of earshot, Joe lets out a low whistle. “I wasn’t expecting her to be so … pretty.” Quickly, he adds, “But not as pretty as you, Layla.”

“I couldn’t get a handle on her,” Layla says thoughtfully. “Usually I get vibes, but she was closed off.” She lets out a breath. “Maybe she’s lonely. She probably just needs time to warm up around new people. Hey, let’s invite her over for dinner! Or a bonfire.”

“What do you think, Z?” Wendell asks under his breath.

My mind is buzzing. “For starters, Meche’s our prime suspect for leaving the dead chicken curse. Second, no matter how much she dotes on this jaguar, he’s not good for our business. And third, the way she kept looking at me was … 
weird
.”

Wendell processes this, running his fingers along the fence. “So what’s our next move?” He shoots an amused look at Layla and Joe, who are already burning incense and scattering herbs. “Besides gushing love and pink things?”

“Well,” I begin, “I don’t believe in witches. Or curses. But I do believe in strange neighbors. In this case, one who doesn’t want anyone interfering with her bizarre pet relationship.”

“She seems to really love him,” Wendell says, grinning. “It’s cute.”

“Now you’re getting all sweet and cuddly too?”

He tosses an arm around my shoulders. “Maybe Kitty’s harmless.” He suppresses a smile. “As long as he gets his five pounds of cow guts a week.”

I cross my arms. “And what happens when our guests run into Gatito? What would they say on the review websites? Paradise … except for the deadly predator that gets grumpy when he’s hungry?”

My heart starts racing just imagining this disaster. Anything further jeopardizing my home in paradise is nothing to joke about. I turn to Wendell. “We have to find out more about Meche. We have to get rid of that jaguar.”

I’ve never been the clingy girlfriend type. I’ve always been comfortable on my own, navigating my way through life. But after this taste of being so close to Wendell, I can hardly remember how my life felt before.

The thought of him starting his internship today stirs up melodramatic feelings. Ridiculous feelings. Feelings I’m embarrassed to have. It’s not like he’ll even be gone nine to five, just for a few hours in the afternoon. But as I walk with Wendell to the Turtle Center to see him off on his first day of work, I admit, I cling to him.

We’re passing the tacky souvenir booths as he tells me his schedule: he’ll be going out on the boat every day with Santy, taking underwater photos and video footage for promotion and exhibits. On an as-needed basis, he’ll guide English- and French-speaking tourists around the aquariums and pools on the grounds. He’s nervous in an endearing way—his hair
neatly braided, his blue Turtle Center shirt looking humorously official over his worn swim trunks, his new waterproof camera strapped around his neck.

“You’ll do great,” I assure him. I don’t say a word about this lonely feeling that’s come over me, this black hole of four hours without him looming ahead.

When we reach the gates to the Turtle Center, Wendell waves to the guard and asks for Pepe.

“You get to work with Pepe?” the guard says, instantly warming to us. “Great guy. He’s right over there.” He points to a cluster of informational signs.

I walk right in beside Wendell, thankful that the guard doesn’t mind me tagging along. I’m still not quite ready to say goodbye.

Tourists are crowded around Pepe, laughing appreciatively at a joke. When he catches sight of Wendell, he holds up a finger, then walks over to us. “Zeeta! Wendell!” he says, offering friendly handshakes. “How’s everything up near Punta Cometa?”

Wendell’s forehead wrinkles. “Have the volunteers seen any more poachers on Mermejita?”

“Not one,” Pepe says, patting Wendell on the shoulder.

“Good,” Wendell replies, obviously relieved. “We’ve been staying away from the beach. Don’t want to disturb the nests.”

I know it hasn’t been easy for Wendell to stay off Playa Mermejita, with the turtles so close. But his desire to leave them in peace has won out. So far, at least.

“Great,” Pepe says, and tells us to head over to the boat.

After our goodbyes, we find Santy leaning against his boat, weaving his net by the surf.

“
Buenas tardes
, Zeeta,” he says cheerily.

I return the greeting, pleased he remembers my name.

“You coming out with us?” he asks.

Of course I want to, but that would push me too far into clingy girlfriend territory. “No,” I force myself to say. “I have work to do at the cabanas.” For a moment, I wallow in silly self-pity, thinking about the four lonely hours ahead of me. Just me and the jaguar, I think ruefully.

“See you in a few,” Wendell says, giving me a peck goodbye. He starts helping Santy drag the boat into the water. I stay on the beach, watching the white boat grow smaller, until it’s a distant pinpoint in the vast ocean.

Feeling oddly empty and thirsty, I decide to swing by Restaurante Tesoro Escondido on the way home. The restaurant is deserted now, at this time between lunch and dinner. El Sapo’s perched on a table, intent on his sketchpad of manga cartoons.

He lights up when he sees me. “Zeeta!”

I order an
agua de horchata
—blended rice-cinnamon water—and ask him to join me. He pours us both drinks, and as we sip, we talk. I might as well accomplish something this afternoon, I decide. And number one on my list is the jaguar. “
Oye
, Sapo,” I say. “Have any ideas how we can make Meche get rid of her jaguar?”

“Meche?” He pauses. “Oh, you mean the
bruja
.” After
some thought, he says, “I guess you could call the police, see if she’s violating any laws.” He looks around, moves his head closer to mine. “But to tell the truth, I think the cops are scared of her too. They don’t want her to curse them in retaliation.”

I grin. “Um, honestly? I wasn’t too impressed with the cops here anyway.”

He laughs. “Chucho and Gerardo. They’re goofs. Of course, their salaries are supplemented by bribe money.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “That’s how small-town life is. We’re used to it.” He glances around and asks with a smile, “So where’s your
media naranja
?”

“Half-orange?” I ask, confused.

With a laugh, he says, “Wendell!”

Media naranja
. Must mean my better half, or something along those lines. Is it that obvious I feel like only half of something without him? “At the Turtle Center,” I say. “His first day of work.”

I tell him about Wendell’s internship, how Santy said he has a connection with the turtles.

“Some people do.” El Sapo nods. “And some turtles are special too. Like Gracia. She’s the superhero of turtles around here.”

El Sapo regales me with local turtle tales until a couple sits down at another table. Apologizing, El Sapo excuses himself to attend to them, just as Cristina, carrying an armful of laundry, emerges from a doorway at the back of a small
courtyard. This restaurant, I realize, is attached to their family compound—a bunch of cement rooms painted aqua, wrapping around a patch of potted plants, flowers, and palm trees.

She waves to me, then starts hanging up sheets on clotheslines strung between trees.

I take the last sweet sip of
agua de horchata
, leave a few pesos on the table, and walk over to her. “Can I help you with that?”

“Really?” she asks, amused. “You want to do laundry?”

“Sure,” I say. “To thank you for the drinks during volleyball games.”

“Pues, adelante,”
she says with a smile, motioning with her chin to the basket of damp linens. “If only my daughters had your enthusiasm for doing laundry.”

I start pinning up the linens, enjoying our easy conversation as birds chatter and whistle in the trees. The parakeets and parrots are perched outside their cages like bright blossoms, preening themselves on top of the bars.

After a while, Cristina looks around, and asks, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Working.” I wonder if I should confide in her. Why not, especially if she’s my aunt? And haven’t I always wanted an aunt? A woman to give me advice … advice that isn’t peppered with Rumi quotes.

My voice softens. “It’s barely been an hour and I miss him. There’s this tight feeling in my chest. Like he might not come back.” Heat rises to my face. This is embarrassing. I shouldn’t have said anything.