Life advice, maybe. But travel plans? Huh-uh. Janie shoved her RayBans up for a better look at what had to be the Riviera Maya’s last remaining seventies throwback. Turquoise stucco walls, check. Architecture à la Frank Lloyd Wright, check. Cheesy marquee styled like the Gilligan’s Island logo—check, check, check. Gypsy Cove. It sounded like a place Emmy would pick. Tiny, quirky, and way, way off the beaten path. The odds of finding any cute little thatched roof huts or designer pools overlooking the ocean like she’d seen online were slim, but they probably had a whole storeroom full of little umbrellas for the drinks. Behind her, the taxi driver sped out of the cobblestone circular drive, dousing Janie in a puff of lung-choking exhaust. Apropos of her life, lately. One fast getaway and a big old mess left behind. She waved the smoke off and lumbered toward the unattended bell stand, her purse, overnight tote, and rolling suitcase vying for the chance to whop her off balance. The halter-top linen jumper she’d bought as a part of her suddenly single vacation wardrobe hugged her full figure a little tighter than it had the mannequin, but at least it was cool.
