Beach Glass by Suzan Colón Read Free Book Online Page A

gently rouses me from my nap. “Katy, we’re here,” she says.
    Groggy and disoriented, I open my eyes. It’s nighttime, but through the window by my seat in the resort’s airport shuttle van, I can make out palm trees with actual coconuts in them, framing a large gate opening to let the van through. We pull up to a doorway festooned with dark green vines dotted with pink orchids. Brigitte’s husband and the driver get out and start unpacking our bags. My legs feel a lot stiffer than a yoga teacher’s ought to be as I climb out of the backseat.
    A big man with black hair and a wide smile walks down the path to greet us. “ Hola , everyone! Welcome to Emerald Cove. I’m Juan, the manager,” he says, shaking our hands warmly. “I heard your flight would be delayed, so I saved you some dinner. Or, I can take you right to your rooms, whichever you prefer.” Tired as we are, we vote for food because the lame meal on the plane was too long ago.
    Juan takes us down a path lined with exotic plants bursting with blooms. The air here is warm and fresh, scented with ocean and flowers, and it’s soft on my skin. A moment later we’re at the main house, where we’re seated on a beautiful white outdoor veranda surrounded by lush green trees. Moonlight peeks at us through the palm fronds as we eat yummy grilled fish with saffron rice and drink chilled coconut water. Okay, I’m liking this trip so far.
    After dinner, we go to the front desk to collect our room keys. Juan’s big smile has been replaced by a sheepish grin. “I hope this won’t be too much of an inconvenience,” he begins. “But I see there has been an error. Señorita McNamara—”
    “Please, call me Katy—er, Kate.”
    Juan nods. “Kate, the person who booked your room mistakenly thought you were arriving tomorrow, and all our regular bungalows are booked tonight. However, we do have one special accommodation that is,” he shrugs, looking for the right words, “more for an adventurous spirit.”
    “What is it?” I ask.
    “A tentalow,” Juan says.
    I stare at him blankly. “A what?”
    Juan leads me and Brigitte, who’s kind enough to come with me in case I’m too tired to make a sane decision, to a field not far from the bungalows where everyone else in our group is staying. In the middle of the field is a bunch of what look like tiny A-frame houses. As we get closer, I see that a tentalow is what would happen if a tent and a bungalow had a baby.
    The little tent house sits on a wooden platform to keep rain and creepy-crawlies out. Instead of a door, it has tent flaps. Juan opens them to show me a surprisingly luxe interior with a comfy-looking queen-sized bed draped in light blue sheets, a white wicker nightstand, a reading lamp, and a small wicker chest of drawers. “It’s like camping,” he says, “but with the comforts of a room.”
    “Except for an indoor bathroom,” Brigitte says. Juan points to the outdoor shower and bathroom pavilion by the trees, not far away.
    Normally, I don’t think the great outdoors are so great. Well, this is really outdoors, like right in the middle of it, and not at all what I had in mind after many hours of travel.
    But that’s what old Katy would think. Kate, the adventurous girl who smiles a lot and wears cute surf gear, is game. “I think it’s great,” I say. “I’m in.”
    Juan looks relieved. “Of course, we will comp your first day,” he says. “We can even throw in an extra excursion for you being such a good sport.” Yep, that’s me , I think to myself. A good sport, someone who goes with the flow.
    I am not such a good sport when I realize I’m sharing the outdoor bathroom stall with a spider the size of a dinner plate, but I think I was far enough out in the field that nobody heard me screaming.
    AS I PUT MY clothes in the tentalow’s dresser, I give myself a pat on the back for busting out of my usual comfort zone. That was very “Kate” of me. But I have my good points, too,