Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

long. “Well, technically, yes, but this is a private group. I’d have to clear it with them, and I’m not sure . . . ”
“Forget it,” Cassidy interrupted. “I don’t want to tag along on someone else’s dream trip. That would be weird.”
“You can take a bus to San Juan, you know,” Bruce said.
“I know.” She had looked up the schedule. Eight hours. Or longer because it was a weekend. Then eight hours back. If she was the kind of person who could read on busses, it might not be so bad. She could kill two birds with one stone, tackle some more editing. But that would be disastrous; she had thrown up in cars as a kid so many times while trying to escape into a book that her father stashed airline sickness bags for her in the backseat. These days, she usually used vehicle time to catch up on sleep, but she certainly wouldn’t need eight hours of it. And then she would have no idea where to go in San Juan. She needed Bruce to show her.
“I can ask them. I see them tonight anyway for our pre-trip meeting. They might be cool with it.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. “If you really don’t mind.”
“Nah, all they can do is say no.”
“Tell them I can pay my way, too.” She looked him in the eyes. “If that helps.”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll let you know tonight.”
Cassidy nodded and spun her board around to paddle back toward the lineup. She heard Bruce’s boat’s engine accelerate as he sped off into the setting sun.
Two of the surfers from the boat were bobbing nearby in the lineup.
“I wonder where he goes,” one of them said as Bruce’s boat disappeared. “Playgrounds? I’ll bet it’s insane from a boat. You could surf it at first light.”
“I bet he’s got secret spots up there, too,” the other one said.
“Man, I’m gonna have to talk to Brianna, see if she’ll let me go on one of his boat trips next year,” the first one said.
“Keep dreaming,” the other one replied. “You know what she’ll say.”
He splashed the other surfer, then slid his body prone and began paddling for a wave. The other surfer followed, catching the wave behind it.
The lineup thinned, but Cassidy traded waves with the Ticos until it was almost dark. She thought about Bruce’s trips to Nicaragua and the text from Rebecca: you have the money. The bus trip to Santa Cruz and back had been a less than enjoyable experience. In the back of her mind, she knew she had been thinking of taking a bus to San Juan del Sur and back, or renting a car. But after today, she wasn’t so keen. Waiting all day in the searing heat at the border crossing in a line of cars, all pumping out exhaust? No thank you. Hitching a ride on Bruce’s boat, riding some epic waves along the way: that sounded much more pleasant. Still, she was supposed to be back in Eugene in three days, and the Nicaragua trip was five. She made her own schedule, so it wasn’t like anyone would report her if she showed up a few days later, though there was a pressing guilt that bloomed every time she spent time on something that wasn’t work.
But Reeve had called her for a reason.
Finally, she took her final wave in, a black wall that she had to surf by sound because it was so dark. On the shore, while wrapping up her leash, she could hear the music and the din of conversation wafting over the sand from the restaurant.
Macho shook dry his wild curls, and Eddie stopped to give her a fist-bump. “Pura Vida,” he said. The others gave out a war cry of “Pura Vida!” and all headed towards the bar. Cassidy followed.

Seven
By the time she had returned her board and changed out of her rash guard and board shorts, the bar was packed. Soon she was hobnobbing with the camp’s guests, surf guides, and instructors alike. She met Carrie from Minnesota, a twenty-something who had stood up for the first time surfing, “thanks to Eddie’s amazing teaching,” she told Cassidy, giving Eddie a high five. She avoided a bachelor party from Florida, where every guy in the group had blonde hair, quick eyes, and large tiki-art tattoos on an arm that at some point slid around a waitress. The serious couple that had been on her trip to Witch’s Rock and Ollie’s Point with Bruce was there, too, but the woman seemed to be avoiding her. It was twenty-one-year-old Genevieve’s birthday, so Cassidy joined in with the rest of the partygoers with a rousing version of “Feliz comple anos” and even received a sample of the cake, a delicious coconut-and-orange delight made by a local French bakery. Over several beers and a shot of tequila—compliments of the bachelor party—she learned that this fiesta was the culmination of a week at Crazy Mike’s, either for lessons or guided surf tours. Most of the guests she spoke to were leaving the following day.
“I saw you out there with the instructors this afternoon,” Carrie said.
Cassidy laughed. “Yeah, what a hoot.”
“You’re really good,” she said, peering at Cassidy, as if trying to understand why this was so. “How long have you been surfing?”
“Uh,” Cassidy replied, her buzzed brain slow to shift gears. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since the empanada in Santa Cruz. “Twenty years, maybe?”
“Oh!” Carrie replied, her eyes popping wide open. “I guess I have a long way to go, then.”
The party was winding down. Cassidy watched the surf guides pose for their last pictures with the guests, who gave them gifts of bars of surf wax, T-shirts with surf logos, and for Eddie, who apparently played guitar, a packet of new strings. After giving out certificates to the guests, the surf guides sang some kind of fight song, or maybe it was the national anthem. Cassidy didn’t know.
“Vámonos,” Macho said to her, pulling on her