How Stella Got Her Groove Back Read online

  I get my Walkman out and pop Seal inside it. Haven’t had enough of him yet. I feel bouncy like I could sort of just fly low but fly nevertheless. This was a smart move, Stella, real smart. I drink my juice in one swallow and am almost too wired to drink my entire cup of coffee, me, Ms. Latte herself.

  When I step outside I am amazed at how hot it already is, it has to be in the high eighties, and the humidity is thick but nothing like Chicago, which is where I first went to college and then on to New York where we lived for an incredibly long time until Walter got transferred to a base near Oakland and we moved to Walnut Creek and then I got my job and we moved to this little town called Alamo and then we got divorced and he moved back to Colorado which is where he’s from.

  I run down the stairs and when I look to the left I see a group of old fat naked white people lying on the chaises and what appears like a family of pink humpback whales on orange air mattresses and when I look a little closer I see at least forty taut breasts whose nipples all point toward the sun and they seem a little incongruous because they certainly don’t match the bodies they’re attached to. I chuckle and think that there’s no fucking way I’d take my clothes off in front of a bunch of old alcoholic-looking white men considering what they used to do to us during slavery and all, which is probably the reason why I’m no darker than I am, and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my bare brown body and particularly my cellulite and stretch marks, which only someone dear to me can experience up close.

  It all looks different. Everything is green and lush, with giant banana trees lining the asphalt path like a jungle and flowers I’ve never seen or smelled before. Those fuchsia-colored ones—what are they called?—oh yeah, hibiscus, and I think people eat those don’t they and then clumps of yellow and orange and white and I’m thinking my landscaper could learn something but what I am really beginning to notice for real is that everybody I mean everybody that works here is black. I love this but then again I am already beginning to wonder how much they’re getting paid and if they’re being exploited like slave labor and making insulting wages because there are so many people working here the grounds are swarming with men in cotton jumpsuits with brooms rakes hedge cutters and I know what it’s like in say Mexican hotels and I’m hoping that is not the case here.

  I pass the workout room, which is basically outside. There’s a serious high-energy funk-pumping aerobics class in progress which a black Mr. Universe-looking guy in a unitard is teaching and I think maybe I shouldn’t run today maybe this is where I should be, aerobically speaking. To the left are weights and Nautilus equipment and I’ll spend some time in there or Krystal will be able to tell when I get home and we do those stupid lunges and I have no pep in my step or I whine when I have to do pecks or lat pulldowns. I’ll be back, I say to myself, and continue down the path toward the gigantic dining room or whatever it’s called where I was last night.

  These folks do get up early. There are a hundred or more people already lining up and sitting down eating. I have until tenish to eat so I sort of walk by and as I do folks are waving and I’m looking to see if these are the same white people that were on my van but these are different white people and I wave back because I basically like most white people as long as they don’t act like Nazis or come across like they’re superior or richer or classier or smarter and shit just because they’re white.

  I walk out by the pool and notice a big wooden armoire filled with towels and I can really see the beach now. It looks even prettier than on my commercial. The sand is for sure white. And damn, the water is like really turquoise, and I walk down toward it, past the boat with all the snorkeling equipment, the big water tricycles with the gigantic wheels, some paddleboats and kayaks and canoes and little sailboats, and there are about five hundred clean white chaise longues all lined up in rows on the beach, some under little fat palm trees, and toward my right the beach stretches and winds for what looks like about two miles before it comes to a point and I guess continues around a cove or something. I would love to run straight into the water but I have my sneakers on.

  I start out slowly so I can take everything in. Just as I get my rhythm I almost run smack dab into a cow, which scares the daylights out of me. My heart rate monitor begins to beep beep beep informing me that I’m over my target fat-burning zone and then it subsides. Sand crabs scurry into holes as I catapult right over them. In less than ten minutes I am sweating and I realize I forgot to turn my Walkman on but I don’t need it because the music is coming out of the ocean and through the air and I’m pushing myself until I realize I can’t run any further because a crowd of trees juts out into the water and it’s impossible to go around it. On the way back I pass two lovers who are hidden inside a cavern. They are in their bathing suits but still wrapped within each other’s arms and kissing so deeply they don’t even notice me. It isn’t until I pass that I realize how much I envy them. They are in love. And it occurs to me that it’s been a long time since I’ve been in love.

  I feel my pace slowing down and then I begin to walk because I am wondering when was the last time I actually said “I love you” to a man and hell, when was the last time someone said it to me? It’s been a few years is all I know and although it doesn’t make me sad, it causes me to wonder what it might be like to feel it again because I really can’t remember right this minute.

  By the time I get back to the beach at my hotel the water activities have started and the beach is much more populated. People are dragging boats or getting in boats and there is someone parasailing right over us. Jet Skiers are speeding by, causing turbulent waves which folks seem to love, diving into the plume in this otherwise calm bay, and then one of several Jamaican men says to me, “No snorkeling today for you, mon?”

  “Not right now,” I say.

  “Jogging were you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Keeps you in good shape?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You looking good, girl.”

  “Thank you,” I say and continue walking.

  “Your husband’s a lucky man,” another says and I smile as I get a towel and dry my face and throw it around my neck and walk into the huge dining room which is now almost full. I find an empty table and set my Walkman and sunglasses on top and go over to the buffet to get myself some breakfast.

  I don’t want to be greedy but boy it’s hard to know what to choose from since there’s so much of everything, and I decide on Belgian waffles and fresh sliced mango. I go back to my seat, smiling hellos at some of the folks from the van last night and a few other friendlies. As I begin to slice my waffles I suddenly smell the most intoxicating scent: a fresh clean citrusy but almost sweet aroma and I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from but out of the corner of my eye to my left I see a young black man sliding his chair under the next table. He is wearing a white baseball cap and some kind of T-shirt and boy are his arms long and hairy and a really deep gold and that’s all I can see but he looks like one of those rappers I’ve seen on MTV but I can’t put my finger on which one. I guess he feels me looking at him because he immediately turns to acknowledge me and smiles and nods his head at the same time and says, “Hello,” and that’s when I bend over and say, “Are you a rapper?”

  He blushes and then a broad grin spreads over his handsome face as if I’ve given him a compliment he doesn’t deserve. “No,” he says in a soft Jamaican accent and he sort of leans in my direction and that’s when I notice that he is entirely too young to be so fine and sexy. His eyebrows are thick and his eyes look Asian and his cheekbones are chiseled and those beautiful thick lips he is using to say “What rapper?” are making it difficult—I can’t really take my eyes off how perfect they are—but I hear myself say, “I don’t know, you just look like one,” and it seems as if his eyes sort of close for a second or two and he hunches his shoulders as if to apologize and says, “I don’t rap.”

  I turn back to the waffles. A young waiter comes to pour more c
offee in my cup and I am adding two packages of sugar when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. When I turn to face him I smell that scent again—now it’s more like an ocean breeze with a mist of ruby red grapefruit juice—and I realize it is coming from him. “Are you dining alone?” he asks.

  “Yes, I am,” I say.

  “Would you mind if I joined you?”

  Well, how sweet, I think, and say, “No, I don’t mind.”

  He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his plate, and when I look at him I almost have a stroke. He is wearing baggy brown shorts and has to be at least six three or four and he is lean but his shoulders are wide broad and as he walks toward my table all I can think is Lord Lord Lord some young girl is gonna get lucky as I don’t know what if she can snag you. He sits down right across from me and when he looks at me he is looking me directly in the eye. Bold little sucker, isn’t he, and I feel a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but I stick my fork inside my waffle which for some reason I don’t want now.

  “So how are you today?” he asks in his Jamaican accent but it sounds as if it’s tinged with a little bit of British. His voice is husky yet soft dreamy and wet kind of smooth and when he speaks it sounds like it’s coming from some honest place inside him, you can actually hear it.

  “I’m fine. Just came back from a run so I wouldn’t get too close to me right now.”

  “I saw you when you left,” he says.

  This kind of surprises me. “You did?”

  “Yes,” he says and once again those eyes are looking right inside me. I wish he would stop this. Sort of. “How long are you here for?”

  “Eight days.”

  “Got in last night, did you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I got here yesterday and I certainly would’ve noticed you.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Really,” he says as if he means it.

  He is too cute and ought to just stop this little flirting action right now if that’s what he’s doing. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Winston Shakespeare,” he says. “And yours, young lady?”

  He is being facetious. “Stella,” I say and then think: Did he just say Shakespeare? Yes, he did. And he looks serious. I wonder if this is a common surname in Jamaica. And of course he knows who the guy is. He has to know. But what I’m more curious about is if he relates to understands or enjoys tragedy.

  “Nice to meet you, Stella,” he says and this time when he smiles he shows off a beautiful set of straight white teeth that’ve been hiding behind and under those succulent young lips. Stop it, Stella. He’s a child. A tall handsome sexy maple-syrup-colored child, but a child nevertheless. Why come they don’t come in this make and model in my age group is what I’m wondering.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asks.

  “What makes you think I have a husband?”

  “I’m just assuming. Perhaps I shouldn’t assume.”

  “I don’t have a husband.”

  He seems pleased when I say this. But then again maybe it’s just my imagination.

  “Did you come with your boyfriend?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  “Isn’t that the only way to get an answer to something you’re curious about?”

  “Well, of course it is. But why do you want to know?”

  “Well, first of all most of the people here are usually couples and most of them are usually white and they’re either here to get married or they’re on their honeymoon. I thought you might fit in one of those categories.”

  “Nope,” I say and take a sip of my coffee.

  He sort of nods his head as if to the beat of some slow music and he then says, “Okay,” and he begins to delve into the mountain of confusion that is a mixture of rice eggs hominy and at least five different kinds of meat. As I watch him eat from one pile at a time I am somewhat amazed at how he seems to be savoring each distinct taste and yet he still dabs his mouth with his linen napkin in between bites and slowly returns it to his lap. He also blushes after he puts a little more in his mouth than he should’ve, and it is clear that he is hungry—he eats like a college student who’s come home for the weekend. I am watching him without realizing that I am actually staring but I can’t help it because what I see before me is a kind of tenderness and innocence I haven’t seen in a man in a long time. It is refreshing and sad at once because he is so young and I am wondering when do men lose this quality? And how do they lose it?

  “Are you on vacation?” I ask.

  He shakes his head no. Chews and swallows. “I just finished my classes at the university in Kingston and I’m here hoping to land a summer job as a chef’s apprentice, something in food preparation or whatever I can get, really. And what about you, where are you from in the States?”

  “California.”

  “Wow,” he sings in a very low tone. “California. Where in California?”

  “Northern. About forty minutes outside of San Francisco.”

  “And you like it there?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “And what made you come to Jamaica?”

  “Now that’s a pretty loaded question but it’s safe to say that I just really needed a vacation and I figured why not Jamaica?”

  “Do you like it so far?”

  “Yep. Everyone’s really nice.”

  He is gazing at me again with those dreamy eyes and even though he isn’t looking through my jogging top it feels like I am sitting here completely naked and he is admiring me and why he isn’t trying to hide the fact is beyond me. I mean I don’t get it. What exactly is going on here? I lean forward and spread my fingers against my chest and I say, “How old are you, Winston?”

  And he says, “How old do you think I am?”

  “Twenty-two, twenty-three at most.” His arms are covered with a sheath of curly black hair. The hair on his head is thick and black and shiny and cut close on the sides. His mustache appears to be still growing in but the rest of his face looks like that of a man who shaves on a regular basis. He certainly smells like a man, sounds like a man, and looks like one too.

  “I’ll be twenty-one on my next birthday.”

  I nod. God bless the girl who gets to feel those long brown arms around her and those beautiful thick golden lips. Stop it, Stella. Now stop it! “That’s nice,” I say.

  “And you?”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  He puts his fork down. “You’re not.”

  “Oh don’t even go there,” I say.

  “Seriously! You’re telling me the truth?”

  “I’m forty-two. Why would I lie?”

  He’s showing me those teeth and shaking his head. And then he looks at me without saying anything and starts nodding his head up and down as if he knows something about me that I don’t. “You’re being straight with me?”

  I nod again.

  “You take very good care of yourself, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I try. I exercise a little.”

  “Well, more women should,” he says and I feel myself being seduced right here in the middle of this room. This is really starting to get on my nerves. I mean I don’t need to be at a breakfast table on my first day here with a twenty-one-year-old boy feeling aroused and what have you, because there is something downright inappropriate about this shit. Sort of.

  “Well, look. Winston, is it?”

  “Yes. You’re leaving already? You haven’t even finished your breakfast.”

  “Well, I ate a little something in my room earlier. And I need to shower and then I’m going to hit the beach and read a little.”

  He looks as if he wants to ask me something but doesn’t exactly know how and then he immediately says, “Are you going to the pajama disco tonight?”

  “The what?”

  “Well,” he says and sort of starts with that sexy blushing business again that is starting to wear me out and I mean like it is kind of driving me a little c
razy. “You’re supposed to wear bed clothes—you know, something that you sleep in.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Very. It’s fun. I’ve heard some people get a bit risqué and wild but you can wear whatever you feel comfortable in. The DJ’s great. You should come,” he says and boy do his eyes have some kind of magic power or what? The way he is looking at me like he is hypnotizing me or something, I don’t think I can say no. “It should be fun,” he says and he is smiling at me again but this isn’t one of those regular on-your-face smiles. This young man is smiling about something else. And I’m trying to figure out what it is.

  “I don’t know about any pajama disco. . . .”

  “It’s your first night here. What else are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet.”

  “Come on. I’d love to dance with you.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?”

  “Yes. You look like a good dancer.”

  “How can you say that and I’m sitting down?”

  “I can tell,” he says and now he’s looking at me like maybe he’s in a trance or something. “I can tell.”