The Jade Notebook (20 page)

The sun drops in the sky, signaling late afternoon. Wendell might be home already, wondering where I am. But as much as I want to see him, I’m in my element here, sharing stories with Lupita. Wendell can wait a few more minutes.

I open my jade notebook. “Doña Lupita, can I interview you?”

“Why?” she asks, surprised. “I’m just an old lady. My life is simple.”

“Trust me,” I say with a smile. “You’re plenty interesting.”

She giggles like a little girl, then folds her hands in her lap.

“What would make your life complete?”

She thinks for a moment. “
Pues
, I’d like to teach someone my
mole
recipe. From scratch. It’s an ancient recipe. My grandmother taught me. She learned it from her grandmother. I’d like to continue the chain.”

“Your children and grandchildren aren’t interested?” I find this hard to believe.

She clucks. “The ingredients must be roasted on a handmade clay plate over the fire. My daughter likes to cook, but only with a stove. Too much work to gather the firewood, she says. Too much time. My granddaughters are the same. They like to do things fast.” She snaps her fingers.
“Todo rápido, rápido, rápido.”

I jot this down in my notebook, and then, almost shyly, I say, “Well, if you ever get desperate, I’d love to learn the recipe.”

She studies me. “Really? You’d have the patience?”

“Sí, señora.”
There is no doubt in my mind.

“Wonderful!” She hugs me, pressing me into her soft shoulders. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll teach you.”

I breathe in one last whiff of
mole
. This is what I’ve longed for—to be part of something old and important, something tied to this place. A link in a chain. Like the line of sea turtles that nest here—grandmothers, granddaughters, stretching in either direction, past and future. Something that proves this is my home.

I leave, feeling full of
mole
and something else. Strength—enough to deal with a bizarre neighbor, a jaguar, and poachers. Maybe even enough to deal with Wendell-less afternoons.

By the time I get home, Wendell’s in the kitchen hut, staring at the blue glow of his laptop. I run up to him, plant a kiss on his mouth, glancing at his email in-box. “And how was your day, dear?”

He closes his laptop quickly. “Okay.” His voice is oddly flat.

I know I should ask him more, but I want to fill him in on Doña Lupita and the
mole
and the revelation about Meche. I gush for a little while, and he nods distractedly at the wrong places. This isn’t like him.

I stop myself and ask, “Hey, are you okay, Wendell?”

He nods unconvincingly.

“Are you mad at me?” I venture. It would be ridiculous, but I can’t think of any other explanation. “I mean, because I wasn’t here when you got home?”

He glances at me. “Of course not.”

I wait a few beats to see if he’ll say more.

Nothing.

I take another stab. “Did something happen at work?”

A slight shake of the head. “Got tons of turtle pictures.”

After a pause, I ask, “Did you have to do tours today? Speak French? Did it go all right?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost impatient. “French and English. It was fine.”

Biting my lip, I lower my voice. “Did you
see
something?”

“No, no. Look, Z, I’m okay.” But there’s an undercurrent of something in his voice. Irritation? I can’t tell.

He stands up. “I’m going to lie down awhile. I’m tired.”

I blink, not sure what to say. “Okay. Do you want me to—”

“No, stay here, tell Layla about your
mole
thing.” And before I can respond, he’s gone off to his cabana, laptop tucked under his arm.

I stare after him, hurt. We’ve been sharing everything since we got here. Only one week at the Turtle Center and he has secrets? It only took one week for him to drift away from me? Just when I’m feeling strong enough to handle our hours apart, he starts slipping away?

At sunset, Wendell and I are walking along Comet Point, past carpets of pink-blossomed succulents and clusters of cacti. He’s kicking small stones from his path, almost angrily. Our gazes aren’t on the glittering ocean; his is glued to his feet, and mine is on his distressed face.

Earlier, Wendell stayed in his cabana for nearly an hour while Layla and I whipped up a scrumptious chicken dinner using the
mole
paste. After the preparations, I swung by his room to see how he was feeling. Terrible, by the look of him. It took some work to convince him to take a walk with me, but here he is. Wearing a tortured expression.

“Everything okay?” I ask for the third time tonight.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay, Wendell?”

“Oh, yeah. Just—yeah.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Is it something I said? Something I did?”

“What? No.” He shakes off his gloom, and kisses me. “No, you’re great, Z.”

The sea rages against jagged rocks on the west side, where the sun falls toward the horizon like a glowing tangerine. I scan Playa Mermejita in the distance, trying to see if any more leatherbacks are coming to shore to nest. From here, it’s hard to tell, but it looks like a clean stretch of uninterrupted beach. When I squint, I think I can make out the faint marks of flipper tracks crisscrossing the sand.

I wish we were allowed to walk there, the site of our future handfasting. By the date of our handfasting—August second—the leatherbacks will have finished nesting, and another species of turtles will probably be there. Wendell and I will have to break the stay-off-the-beach rule, just that once, to honor the promise we made each other. It’s just a ritual, but somehow, it seems essential to complete it. Especially now, with this disconcerting feeling that our relationship is inexplicably on the rocks.

By now we’ve reached the tip of the point. White foam slaps against cliffs, forming violent whirlpools around the boulders below. I wonder if this is where Meche’s daughter fell. I shudder, imagining the terrible scene Lupita described.

Wendell and I stand for a moment, watching the chaos of water; then I tug his hand and we continue to the opposite side of the point. A few other couples are scattered, watching
the sunset. The sky has turned to liquid gold and pink, melting into the ocean.

Now is the kind of moment when our lips usually find each other, when our eyelids fall shut and we get lost in our own sweet, dusky world. I reach for Wendell’s limp hand. “This sunset looks delicious, doesn’t it?” I’m desperate to lighten things up, to somehow connect with him. “Like
agua de papaya
. Oh, and wait till you try the
mole
. It tastes like sweaty stars.” I force a smile. “In a good way.”

He doesn’t laugh or even question me.

The sun disappears completely into the ocean, and I lean against him, tuck my head into the nook of his neck. Without warning, he leans away, sticks his hands in his pockets. “Speaking of dinner, we should go back. Layla probably needs our help.”

“Okay,” I say, swallowing my hurt.

We walk back along the pensinsula, scrambling up the hill, then through the jungle. We’re halfway to the cabanas when something rustles in the trees.

Last time I heard something rustle in these trees, it didn’t end well. I pick up the pace. We should have brought a flashlight. Dusk has fallen fast in the forest. It’s all shadows. We take a few more steps. Another noise, maybe the snap of a twig. My eyes flicker to the sound. I catch a glimpse of movement in the trees nearby. Is it Gatito? Meche?

“Let’s hurry,” I say, breaking into a jog.

“What’s wrong?” Wendell asks, barely keeping up with me.

“Didn’t you hear that?”

“What?”

I glance at him. He probably wasn’t paying attention, lost in whatever he’s been thinking about. I thought I felt alone before, with Wendell at the Turtle Center. It’s even worse when he’s right beside me but galaxies away. “I don’t know. But hurry.”

Soon we step into the kitchen hut’s candlelit glow. I breathe out in relief. The tables are packed with guests talking and eating
mole
. More like
devouring mole
. Some look up to greet us and compliment me on the dinner, then quickly return to stuffing their faces.

Layla glides over with two plates for us. “Eat up! This food really is fit for the gods!” She kisses us each on the head, then moves on to the blissed-out guests who are begging for seconds.

Wendell finds a seat, not in his usual spot in the middle of the hut, but at a table on the edge. I sit down next to him, watching his reaction as he tastes the
mole
.

“Yum.” His smile is strained. He takes another small bite, then scoots his rice around with his fork. Something is definitely wrong, so wrong he can’t even talk about it.

I take a bite of
mole
, urge the chocolate and chile to send endorphins through me. Not working. Not with Wendell acting like this. Mindlessly, I stare into the darkness falling on the jungle outside the hut. A movement in the branches catches my eye. My eyes adjust, and now I’m certain. Something—or someone—is there. Tiny lights reflect off a pair of eyes. Not the yellow glow of animal eyes. No, they’re human.

My fork clatters to my plate. I stand up.

The eyes meet mine. And then disappear.

I rush out to the trees, calling, “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Wendell’s at my side now. I put my finger to my lips and wait for a minute, until Wendell says, “Come on, Z,” leading me by the elbow back to the table.

“Someone was watching us, Wendell.” Composing myself, I sit back down, hearing my heart thud. I unclench my fists, try to relax into the warm candlelight and
mole
smells and happy faces. Such a comfortable little island. Comfortable, yet vulnerable. “It might’ve been Meche,” I whisper.

“Well, there’s no one there now,” Wendell says, giving me a strange look.

“No, but—”

He pulls me close, wraps his arm around my shoulder. For the first time tonight, he actually looks at me. It took someone spying on us in the jungle to do it, but at least he’s not obsessing over whatever’s been upsetting him. He’s focused on me now. His voice comes out tender. “You’re still shaken up, aren’t you, Z? From the jaguar? The curse?”

“But, Wendell, I wasn’t imagining it.… I saw eyes.…” My voice trails off. I press my lips together and shut my eyes. I sink into him, breathing in his fresh-laundry-and-cinnamon-soap smell. What matters most is being close to him. That’s all I want right now.

But by the middle of the next morning, Wendell’s distant again, light-years away. We’re clearing the network of paths
through the jungle. I’ve been using my machete to chop through brush and dead trees for hours. Wood splinters cling to my hair, my tank top, my pants. Soil spots my ankles and arms, leaving the smell of earth. I pause, wiping my forehead. Except for the distant surf and the echoing boom of Wendell’s machete, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

I watch him chopping a dead log, breathing hard, wordless. We still have a few hours before he leaves for work. I can’t stand this awkwardness anymore. I walk over, wrap my arms around him, let my lips graze his neck.