Cartagena, Columbia
It was a bloody great resort.
The fridge in Gemma's room was stocked with coke and every single chocolate bar imaginable. The tub had bubble jets. She had an endless supply of fluffy, fat towels and coconut water mango liguid hand soap. And in the front of the resort people gather to see an elderly man play a piano at twelve each afternoon.
The Sofitel Legend Santa Clara Cartagena in Cartagena had white curtains, white colored tile, white carpet, and an explosions of lush flowers of ever color in the rainbow. The staff members resembled nurses in their white cotton clothes. Gemma had been alone at the resort for nearly five weeks now. She was eighteen years old.
This morning was no different from any other morning. The first thing she did when she got up in the morning was running. She wore custom navy shoes with grey laces. She ran without music and she had been doing intervals for nearly an hour when a women stepped into the treadmill next to hers.
She had big arms and a solid torso, light brown skin and a dusting of powdery blush on her cheeks. Her black hair was slicked into a tight ponytail. Her shoes were down at the heels and splattered with mud. But this women was younger than thirty.
No one else was in the gym.
Gemma slowed her pace to a walk, getting ready to leave in a minute. She liked privacy and, she was pretty much finished with her workout.
"You training?" the women asked. She nodded her head at Gemma's digital readout. "Like, for a big event or something?" The accent was Mexican American. She was probably from New York, raised in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood
"I ran track in middle and high school. That's all." Gemma's speech was clipped, what the British call BBC English.
The woman gave her a penetrating look. "I like your accent," she said. "Where ya from?"
"London St John's Wood."
"New York." The woman pointed to herself.
Gemma stepped off the treadmill to stretch.
"It's just me here, you know," the woman confided after a moment of silence. "Just got here last night. I booked the resort at the last minute. You been here long?"
"It's never long enough," said Gemma, "at a place like this."
"So what do you recommend? At the Sofitel Legend?"
Gemma didn't often talk to other hotel guests, but she saw no harm in answering. "Go on the snorkel tour," she said. "I saw a bloody huge eagle ray."
"No kidding. A stingray?"
"Don't worry they can't sting you. I saw the stingray swim out from the rocks. She must have been six feet long. Black with white dots."
The woman shivered. "I don't like stingrays."
"If you scare easy, you could skip it."
The woman laughed and changed the subject. "How's the food? I didn't eat yet."
"Get the double chocolate cake."
"For breakfast?"
Oh, yeah. They'll bring it to you special, if you ask."
"Good to know. You alone on this travel?"
"Listen, I'm gonna jet," said Gemma, feeling the conversation had turned personal. "Cheerio." She said and headed for the door.
"My dad's crazy sick," the woman said, talking to Gemma's back. "I've been looking after him for a long time."
A stab of sympathy hit Gemma in the heart. She stopped and turned.
"Every morning and every night after work, I'm by his side," the woman went on. "Now that he's finally stable, and I wanted to get away so badly that I didn't even think about the price tag. I'm blowing a lot of cash here I shouldn't be."
"What's your father got?"
"MS," said the woman. "Multiple sclerosis? And dementia. He used to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong in all his opinions. Now he's a twisted body in a bed. He doesn't even know where he is half the time. He's, like, asking me if I'm the waitress."
"Damn."
"I'm scared I'm gonna lose him and I dread being with him, both at the same time. And when he's dead and I'm an orphan, I know I'm going to be sorry I took this trip away from him, you know?" The woman stopped running and put her feet on either side of the treadmill. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sorry. Too much information."
"S'okay."
"You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe I'll see you around later."The woman turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there.
"Listen, do you like to play trivia?" Gemma asked, against her better judgment.
A smile from the woman emerged with white but crooked teeth. "I'm a badass at trivia,actually.""
They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs," said Gemma. "It's pretty much crap. You wanna go?"
"What kind of crap?"
"Good crap. Silly and loud."
"Okay. Yeah, all right."
"Good," said Gemma. "We'll crush it. You'll be happy you took a vacation. I'm strong on superheroes, spy movies, YouTubers, fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?"
"Victorian writers? Like Eliot?"
"Yeah, whatever." Gemma felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed an odd set of things to be interested in.
"I love Eliot."
"Shut up."
"I do." The woman smiled again. "I'm good on Eliot, cooking, current events, politics . . . let's see, oh, and cats."
"All right, then," said Gemma. "It starts at seven o'clock in that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas."
"Seven o'clock. You're on." The woman walked over and extended her hand. "What's your name again? I'm Sam."
Gemma shook it. "I didn't tell you my name," she said. "But it's Willow."