Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Simone and Felix travel with us occasionally, though it’s harder now that they have Melody. At one year old, she’s already the proud owner of a tiny surfboard and wet suit, courtesy of Aunt Isabel. I tease Simone that I’ll have her riding waves by four, but we both know it’ll be sooner than that.
Felix has worked his way up and taken over Hugo’s manager position at Aura so that Hugo could move over to Sabor a Sol.
For Cristiano, there’s always another idea in the pipeline, a restaurant or nightclub that holds a portion of his attention. I’ve made peace with his workaholic tendencies, and I never feel like I’m second-best. Occasionally there are weeks filled with back-to-back meetings, but the time apart does us good. He finds me as soon as he can, whether I’m out on our terrace or down on the Playa Jondal or asleep in our bed. His arms come around me and he holds me close. Now, I stand in the kitchen, preparing an easy meal of summer squash and butter noodles when Cristiano walks up behind me. His lips drop to my shoulder as his hands circle my stomach. I have the smallest bump there, but it grows every day as our child gets bigger. It was a surprise to find out I was pregnant. Cristiano cried when I told him, and he stared down at my stomach in wonder, though in those early weeks, there were so few signs to see. It was the fatigue that set in first. I took long lazy naps out on our terrace, soaking up the late-afternoon sun until Cristiano would stroke my cheek and wake me up, insisting I come in for dinner.
We don’t know what we’re having. We want the surprise.
“Smells good,” Cristiano tells me, his large hand placed low on my stomach. He’s so anxious to feel the baby move.
I twist my head and kiss his cheek. “You had a good day?”
“Sí. Better now. Let’s pack our dinner. I want to have a picnic on the beach.”
I look out at the windows. “I thought it was going to rain.”
“No. The clouds cleared up. Come. I’ll help.”
There’s a path that leads down to the bay. We’ve taken it on foot and on bike a hundred times. Tonight, though, Cristiano insists he has another spot in mind. We drive fifteen minutes before we arrive on a deserted patch of sand in an area I don’t recognize.
A sign near our parking spot says it’s private property, but when I point this out to Cristiano, he only winks. Knowing him, the private property is his. The rumors about him are true—the man does own half the island!
He grabs the basket with our dinner from the back seat, then comes around to take my hand as I climb out. I can walk perfectly fine. I’m only a few months along, but the moment Cristiano found out I was carrying his child, he went from being caring to overly protective overnight. He watches where I walk on the sand, looking for the slightest sign of danger. I almost laugh. I get the impression he’d rather just lift me up and carry me.
“Will you be like this with our child, too?” I asked him once, earlier on in my pregnancy.
He smiled, completely unbothered. “Worse.”
I managed to teach surf lessons all summer just fine, though Cristiano didn’t like it. Neither did Lita. She was on his side, insisting I should be lying around with my feet up, doing nothing but eating and growing this baby.
She’s coming to Ibiza in a few months. She’ll be here when I give birth, and she’ll stay to help me after the baby is born. Every time I call her, she has some new piece of advice she wants me to follow. Eat more olive oil, more fish, more legumes. She’ll gladly hear the minute details of my daily diet so long as she can rest well knowing her great-grandchild is getting all the proper nutrients. And that’s nothing compared to the French clothing she’s bought for the baby. Packages arrive almost daily, and I now realize where Winnie must have gotten her shopping gene. Lita tells me the French spoil their children, that she must buy the baby clothes. It’s completely out of her hands. “It’s part of our culture! You expect me to walk by these sweet shops and not go inside? Those little frilly dresses—they zap the willpower right out of me.” Never mind that we don’t know if the baby is a boy or a girl. My parents are equally as excited, and I fear packages from the States will start arriving any day now as well.
As the sun hangs low in the sky, Cristiano and I walk hand in hand toward a hidden cove. The air is thick with the salty tang of the Mediterranean. The gentle rhythm of the waves lapping the shore is the only sound to cut through the silence.