Praise for Sunsets of Tulum:
“Every once in a while, a love story comes along that seduces all your senses, making you laugh, cry, and re-examine your own beliefs. Ray Bartlett’s debut novel is all that and more. Told against the backdrop of stunning Yucatán, Mexico, the story examines the complexity of human love and nature, enthralling you from the very first page to the last.”
– Sena Desai Gopal, food/travel writer for the Boston Globe
“While the setting is exotic, the human condition at the heart of the novel isn’t. Bartlett focuses his compelling narrative about the nature of desire in the landscapes of Mexico. … Bartlett has composed a deeply human narrative in prose as radiant as the sunset. This novel teaches us about the mind as it finds out where it would like to linger and where, perforce, it must continually turn. A beautiful and fundamental tale.”
–Meg Tyler, Boston University, author of Poor Earth
“A sensual, sensory delight; a beautifully moving tale of love, loss, gain, and search for self.”
– Devon Ellington, author of Tracking Medusa
“I was so drawn into the world Bartlett created that I read Sunsets of Tulum all in one day, shirking responsibilities and canceling plans. The added delight to this compelling book is the vein of intelligent eroticism that runs throughout, making it a one-of-a-kind, smart and sexy read.”
– Missy Brownson, author of Hush Candy
“Reading Sunsets of Tulum is like stepping onto a glass-bottom boat floating downriver into the jungle. Everywhere you turn, the author fills the senses with his masterful prose, and the slow slip through the water soon becomes your life.”
– Todd Fahnestock, bestselling author of Fairmist
Other books by this author include:
In the Sunlight of Sakurajima:
My Two Years Teaching English in Southern Japan
Look for these other titles
from Barrel Fire Press:
Summer to Fall, by Albert R. Waitt
Barrel Fire Press
Kennebunkport, ME
©2015
Copyright © 2015 Raymond Avery Bartlett
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction: while many of the places and descriptions are or were real at the time of writing, any similarity to real people or events is entirely coincidental, and the author has not hesitated to change reality to suit fictional needs.
Lyrics to “Safety Dance” used by permission.
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9889390-4-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015944095
Cover design by J.Benitez,
99designs.com/profiles/1463359
Printed in the United States of America
One life, one encounter,
all we have is today
—Japanese Proverb
The stars do not align for lovers.
—Anonymous
Day Zero
In the Chopper
As Reed Haflinger shivered near the door in the Beverley airport lobby, he promised himself he would never let Dan talk him into this again. The early morning shift. No damn way. Global warming can’t happen soon enough, he thought, trying to warm his fingers by wrapping them around the tiny cup of bitter, tepid coffee he’d gotten from the machine in the lobby. Where the hell was Booker?
When the pilot arrived—a full twenty minutes late—it was not Booker, the ex-Afghanistan Marine, but some kid Reed had never seen before. Dan had given him what looked like a teenager: some idiot kid wearing a hoodie and skinny jeans, probably just out of flight school. Someone who wouldn’t inspire confidence even if he was behind the wheel of a Schwinn ten speed, let alone a news helicopter.
“I’m Rabbit,” the boy said, extending his right hand. Reed hoped the bike messenger bag over his shoulder had flight plans in it.
“You’re twenty minutes late. We’ve got a story to cover.” For a moment he debated just letting the poor kid sit there, but then relented. “I’m Reed,” he said, shaking hands. “You’re going to freeze your ass off in that copter. Every bit of wind is going to go right through you.”
“It’s okay,” said Rabbit. Was that his real name? What kind of parent names their child after an animal that most of the world wants to eat for lunch? “I’ve got a silk thermal layer on underneath. I’ll be fine.”
Silk thermal layer?
Haflinger wanted to laugh.
An hour and a half later, as the sun finally began its laborious climb out of the Atlantic, the chopper hung high over Boston as if it were an insect-collection dragonfly pinned to the perfect blue sky. In all the years he’d been in the news copter, he’d never gotten tired of that feeling of being weightless, above everything, as close as possible to being birds as man would ever be. That was about all he loved though. Mostly he was the camera for traffic snarls and fender benders, not the stuff he’d dreamed about in journalism class, where idealism eclipsed practicality. Back then he’d imagined being a war reporter or investigative journalist. Then life had happened, and suddenly fifteen years slipped by. For such a piss cold day, not much had been going on traffic-wise. A rollover on I-95 had closed two lanes out of three, traffic barely inching by. A mattress had flown off a truck north of the city. But that was it so far. He wondered what Laurel was up to, trying to remember the last time they’d had dinner together or gone out somewhere.
Then Channel 7 News requested something from over the Fenway Park stadium. Haflinger flicked the intercom.
“Rabbit, bring us over the ballpark. Need a shot with the sunrise for 7 News.”
“Sure thing,” the kid replied, banking the bird. Reed worked the camera controller panel in front of him, getting a last all-channel traffic angle before switching his attention to the upcoming task.
“Bring her in from the southeast. I’ll need a couple good feeds there, then swing her around so I can get a view from the north.”
“Sure.”
The helicopter’s nose dipped and the machine picked up speed, heading towards the iconic Citgo triangle, just barely visible out of the thatch of brownstones and university buildings that crowded the edge of the Charles River. Soon the stadium was visible, and Haflinger readied his position on the controls. The biggest challenge of being the helicopter cameraman was timing: arrive even a second too late and there’d be black fuzz on the TV screen when the anchor cut to a view from the chopper. It was one of the last arenas where television was still live.
Reed hit the intercom. “That’s good. Hold it right here. Let’s wait for the cue.”
“Roger.”
Haflinger turned on the camera and focused in on Fenway Park. Without zooming in, the baseball field looked like a little green bathmat. Yet with the push