Page 69 of Plus One

A knock at the door caught her attention. It was barely nine, and Maurice had dipped. She still held his note in her clenched fist.

“I gotta go, Doc. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay. But Monique, try to remember what Chickie asked.”

She didn’t ask. Chickie had demanded that Monique have an adventure, have fun, live.

“Yeah.” She blew out a long breath to disrupt the tears that threatened to flow. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

Tedrow ended the call, and Monique leaned forward to look through the peephole, where a hotel worker stood.

“Can I help you?” she called through the closed door.

“Señora Moore, your breakfast.”

She didn’t order any breakfast and said as much as she opened the door only as far as the chain would allow.

“From Señor Martin,” he added.

Monique closed the door a little too hard before opening it again, apologetic as she secured her robe and let the young man pass.

He moved with practiced efficiency, setting up the breakfast on the small table by the window. Then he crossed to the curtains and pulled them open in one smooth motion.

San Juan morning poured in like an accusation—all that Caribbean blue sky and aggressive sunshine, the kind of light that made everything too visible, too real. A world insisting on existing whether she was ready for it or not.

Monique squinted against it, raising a hand to shield her eyes. The cocoon of darkness had been comfortable in its way. Safe. She could hide in the dark. Pretend yesterday hadn’t happened. Pretend last night hadn’t changed everything. Pretend she wasn’t the kind of woman who fell asleep in a man’s arms and woke up alone.

The light made all that impossible.

A breakfast she didn’t ask for but needed. A gesture of care that made her feel slightly less hurt at him slipping out while she slept, but only slightly.

The young man moved quickly to the door, but Monique stopped him and offered a tip.

“No, thank you. Señor Martin has taken care of everything.”

He’d taken care of everything. Even though she didn’t have much to go on, it seemed like such a Maurice thing to do. He was a rare man who paid attention to detail. His life necessitated that kind of diligence.

The breakfast was set up on a tray beside the now open curtains. The crisp, white porcelain service reflected the morning light with an intense specificity that stung her eyes. Coffee, pastries, fruit, oatmeal. All things she would have chosen for herself. His understanding of this about her made something twist in her chest.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in one hand and Maurice’s note in the other.

Chickie was dying.

And Maurice was, what? Scared? Running? Trying to take care of her from behind a curtain? Why?

This whole wedding business had lost its novelty. Monique was ready to go home, but she was expected to play along and show up at the hotel’s spa as if nothing had happened.

Her phone buzzed.

LANIE

Cousin! Spa in 15!

Monique rolled her eyes and typed back.

MONIQUE

See you soon.