All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,16

this time. It wasn’t the waiter; it was a handsome, older man in a white blazer. He had the same amiable smile as the waiter but a much deeper voice and an air that suggested he was very much in charge. He seemed European, perhaps Spanish.

“My name is Eduardo Marquez. I am the hotel manager. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I didn’t say anything for a minute, largely because I loved the sound of his voice. He sounded exactly like that character in the movie The Princess Bride. I just wanted to sit silently in the warm glow of the sun and luxuriate in the sound of his baritone.

“Miss,” he said again, and I could tell he was about to lose his European cool, “I was told you wanted to see me. Now, what can I do to be of service to you?”

I sighed deeply, gathered my resolve.

“Well, Mr. Marquez, it sort of goes like this: I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon at the Four Seasons, but it turns out my husband is fucking a woman who works for him, which is horrible in so many ways, not the least of which is that my father thought all along he was an asshole and now it turns out my father was right, which if you knew my father you’d know is almost as bad as finding out my marriage isn’t going to last a week. But the good news is, I’m over it. Over it, and over him—it just took a little time and a little thought and I accomplished both of those on my way over here. So all I really need now is a phone so I can call my father and we’ll have my marriage annulled, and then I’ll enter the next available triathlon here on the island and stay in your hotel to train for that because you have the best fruit I have ever tasted. Then after I finish the triathlon I’ll move back to New York and go back to my job in television, and if I never meet another man that will be just fine with me.”

I wish you could have seen the look on Eduardo Marquez’s face: it was the most delightful combination of skepticism and awe I can ever recall. I’m sure he thought I was either full of it or insane, or maybe he thought I was both, and either way it made no difference to me, because I was so wonderfully certain that I was neither.

“Well, miss,” he finally said, adjusting his tie, “perhaps the first thing I could do is bring you the telephone you asked for.”

“That would be great,” I said, and I reached out to shake his hand. And when we shook, I put my other hand over his as tenderly as I could. “Thank you very much for your help.”

He bowed a little, and backed away slowly. I took the opportunity to drink my champagne, which continued to feel great going down. But now I also wanted something healthy, a smoothie or protein shake or even some green tea; I had work to do. Training would have to begin immediately. I looked at the waves breaking on the beach and suddenly I yearned to be in the water. I would have dashed into the ocean right then if I wasn’t so sure Eduardo Marquez would have a conniption if he came back to find me gone.

Then I started to think about Robert. What would he find when he got back to the suite? How exactly had I left it? I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t packed anything; my clothes, jewelry, makeup, toiletries, they were all still there. He would probably return to find me out of the room and think nothing of it, think I just went for a run or a swim or a stroll on the beach. He’d be a little surprised I hadn’t left a note, or texted him with my plans, but he certainly wouldn’t be anxious. Maybe he would get into bed and lounge, waiting for me to come back so he could pat me softly on the butt, which is his signal that he wants to have sex. I could picture him now, lying in the bed, stripped to the waist, reading a newspaper, waiting for me. How much time would pass before he became concerned? Maybe that time had already come. Maybe he was out looking for me right now. Maybe he was asking hotel staff