Page 27 of Twisted Beauty

Good thing Liv skipped breakfast, because this ride might have jostled it out of her, and she never got motion sick. Holding on to the seat back in front of her with one hand, she reached into her bag with the other to grab her phone. She hadn’t powered it up since the whole barbecue fiasco. But she promised Katie she’d turn it on before she left this morning, and she might really need her GPS wandering around on her own. She switched it on, this time without looking at the screen. If she’d missed any more texts from home, she didn’t want to know.

The bus threw her forward at the next stop, and she looked up to see two men climb on carrying small guitar cases. They stood in the aisle as the bus took off.

Dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and flip-flops, the pair looked like they’d just stepped out of the Gap. But they spoke to each other in Spanish while they unlatched their cases. Both men dug out ukuleles and launched into a song with a distinctly Mexican flair. They were surprisingly good.

Liv looked around. Everyone else ignored them, but Liv was fascinated. Was this normal around here? As normal as the crazy driving?

She opened her bag to pull out her camera, wondering if they’d mind.

One noticed her and nudged the other with his elbow. They leaned together, smiling for a photo while they continued their song. They walked up and down the aisle singing, but kept glancing her way and slipping into silly poses just for her. By the time they’d finished the song, she’d taken at least a dozen pictures and was practically doubled over with laughter.

Tucking their instruments under their arms, they made another pass down the aisle asking for tips. She watched several passengers give change or small bills.

She did the same. “Muchas gracias. Muy bueno!”

“Thank you, señorita,” one of the men said as he tucked the cash into his front pocket. “Now I give tip for you. Try Taqueria Los Jarochos on Emiliano Zapata. Best taco stand in Vallarta. My cousin, he own it.”

“Okay, sí. Gracias,” Liv said, though she knew she’d never remember that name.

Both men smiled and nodded to her, then moved on to the next row. She tucked her Canon back in her bag, suddenly feeling conspicuous, and maybe a little selfish, flaunting such an expensive item when so many of the locals struggled for a living wage. These guys were so talented too, and here they were, playing on a bus.

The musicians packed up their instruments and exited at the very next stop. Probably to jump on yet another bus, and then another, collecting tips as they went. What a strange job. Though probably more satisfying than working for your jackass fiancé in a job you hate.

For a moment, the thought of everyone at home paralyzed her. What would they say if they could see her now, riding a bus and getting the crap knocked out of her on pitted roads? Probably, I told you so.

Was she the only one who thought still photography wasn’t the fastest path to becoming a “bag lady”? Her mother’s words, not hers. At the mere mention of becoming any kind of an artist at all, that was always the first phrase to escape her mother’s mouth. Bag lady. “Hopeless” and “destitute” weren’t far behind. Liv looked down at the canvas tote in her lap and smiled. She was officially a bag lady. Take that, Mom.

Out the window, Liv noticed one of the statues her taxi driver had pointed out on her first day. The thought of home lost its hold. Because this was her stop.

She looped her tote over her arm and stumbled to the door as the bus lurched to a stop. Of course, no else lost their balance. Just her. After she exited, she watched the bus hurl itself straight back into traffic, and felt like kissing the ground. Maybe once was enough. She’d taxi home. Or maybe Uber or Lyft. She’d read that those options had just become available in PV, after some long legal battle with the taxis.

Liv headed toward the boardwalk with a big, stupid grin on her face. She couldn’t help it. The sun was shining, the ocean sparkled beneath a cloudless sky, and everywhere she looked she saw sculptures and performers and souvenir stands.

Just Liv and her camera. The perfect day.

She wandered along the Malecon, snapping picture after picture of the most wonderful artwork that dotted the pathway. A statue of salsa dancers, dressed in a swirl of blues, whites and reds. A sand sculpture of Mary holding Jesus, intricate and larger than life. A series of bronze chairs carved in the shapes of elongated humans, all facing each other in a large circle like they were having a secret meeting. The entire walkway meandered past artwork and vendors, with the crashing waves off to one side and small shops and cafes on the other.

Liv paused to stare at a couple of live men posing as statues in a wide-open part of the boardwalk. One was painted head to toe in bronze and suspended over a sword, while the other was painted in sand and seated at a sand chess table. She took a selfie with each of them and left tips in their jars. The bronzed man winked when she thanked him, but other than that, neither moved a muscle.

The place oozed style and art, but felt carefree at the same time. Completely unpretentious. Puerto Vallarta was turning out to be much more than just a relaxing place to escape. Katie was right. It really did feel like paradise.

She hadn’t felt this giddy in years. More like decades. Since the first time she’d gone out exploring with no agenda other than taking pictures. She’d gotten her hands on that little Olympus point-and-shoot one year, right around Christmas, when family was visiting. It was her Aunt Evie’s camera, but Liv borrowed it—without asking, of course—whenever the adults were distracted. She snuck out and took random photos around the neighborhood, and it turned out to be the most fun she’d ever had. Every night, she hid under her covers sifting through them and keeping only the good ones.

Liv’s father had been unreasonably angry when he’d found her outside with it. His outburst probably would have been the extent of it, if only Liv hadn’t opened her big mouth.

That was when she found out that in a family like hers, announcing you wanted to grow up to be a photographer was akin to saying, “Guess what, Mom? I want to grow up to be homeless and live in a ditch with rats.” Because according to her parents, artists were poor. Artists lived in the inner city and shopped at the Goodwill and drank wine from a box. Liv was destined for more. An attorney if her father had his way, or a doctor if her mother had hers.

Did her father think grabbing the camera and locking her out of the house that day would help? Telling her not to come back in until she had her head on straight? She was nine, for god’s sake. Who did that to a nine-year-old? Naturally it worked. She’d been terrified, wondering if she’d really be disowned. She had nowhere to go, so she pretended. Pretended to give it all up, while spending every spare minute online and in the library, trying to learn everything she could without actually having a camera in hand.

At that thought, she had to smile again. Because in high school and in college, she did finally have access to cameras. Both digital and film. And she’d made the most of it. Her parents were nothing short of horrified when they found out she’d been accepted to the graduate program at Barkley’s School of Photography. Good thing she’d learned her lesson early in life—better to ask forgiveness than permission. No one understood that saying better than Liv.

Of course, now that she’d quit her job without notice and was wandering around Mexico with an expensive camera slung around her neck, she was pretty much proving them right. Well, too bad. It was her life. And her own damn business if she wanted to starve.

The low, vibrating bellow of church bells broke into her thoughts and she looked toward the sound. The steeple of Our Lady of Guadalupe towered just up the street. In an instant, that giddy excitement was back. She’d been hoping to get back to that historic building sometime, and here it was, just a short walk away. She didn’t even need to consult her GPS.

Liv headed straight for it, and was relieved to find the double doors propped open to an empty church. She stepped gingerly inside, stopping to take a wide-angle photo of the whole scene before heading in.

It was every bit as gorgeous as she remembered. White walls, columns and archways enhanced with gold moldings and fancy flourishes. Speckled sunlight from stained glass windows. Muffled voices and footsteps.