Regardless of what the genesis may have been, it was easily one of the most popular activities that the resort offered. So much so, about fifteen years ago Vaughn had invested in an area specially designed for the event, complete with an industrial fire pit built into the beach, a bar, a DJ, and a s’mores-making station. The beauty behind the bonfire was that it was truly never the same event twice. Some weeks it was low-key and subdued, others it was a raging party that went well into the wee hours of the night. This spot had seen many a vacation hookup, a couple of marriage proposals, and there was even an instance of a woman destroying her wedding photos in celebration of her divorce. Forget Vegas, what happened at the Indigo Royal stayed at the Indigo Royal.
The fire pit was located just outside the lobby, to the left of the concierge desk, just before the pool. The bar put in for the bonfire nights also served the pool during peak hours, helping offset the crowd from “Paradise City,” the swim-up bar on the other side of the pool. The area flowed into the beach, which had a number of lounge chairs, umbrellas, and even a couple of cabanas permanently set up for guests to relax under. Just past the pool were the three buildings that held guest rooms. Barracuda Tower stood twelve stories high and was host to just over three hundred basic hotel rooms and suites. Just next to the tower were the Black Velvet and the Purple Rain, which housed multi-room suites only, and which Drea had always thought looked more like apartment buildings than a hotel with their open breezeways. Past the guest rooms was “The Casbah” bar, which also housed the night club that made an appearance on Friday nights. If you kept walking past the bar and down a little closer to the beach, you’d eventually find the four exclusive beachfront bungalows known as “The Villas” for those guests who wanted, and could afford, more space and privacy.
Drea hung back just outside the open-air lobby looking out at the bonfire space as some of the grounds staff finished up the last of the prep. Her Uncle Miller stood to her left, leaning against a pillar, trying to be nonchalant about spying on his team putting together the s’mores. Uncle Vaughn stood to her right, frantically typing away on his phone.
“Would you put that damn thing away, please?” Simone scolded as she walked up to the group. “You know the rules of bonfire night.”
Though they weren’t actually married, Simone and Vaughn had been together for twenty-one years, and Drea considered her to be her aunt, although by the time she’d had the thought to call her Aunt Simone, she was almost eleven and both she and Simone had agreed at that point it would be weird to change. The day she showed up representing the Board of Tourism, wanting to use the resort as a photo shoot location for some brochures, Vaughn had been stopped in his tracks by the tall, slender, brunette beauty. When Vaughn told his brothers later on that it was unlike anything he’d ever felt, like he was magnetically drawn to her, Miller had just laughed and responded, “Dude, you’re in so much trouble. That’s exactly what I felt when I first saw Marta.”
“It’s going away, I promise. I just have to finish…ok, done,” he said, locking his phone and shoving it in his pocket.
“I don’t know. Drea, what do you think, should he go lock it in his office?” Simone asked.
“Depends. Uncle Vaughn, you gonna behave?”
“I promise to be the dictionary definition of behaved, kiddo,” he responded, putting his arm around Drea’s shoulder, pulling her close, and kissing the top of her head.
Drea smiled up at her uncle, who released her and pulled in Simone for a long, hard kiss. They had been the only real-life example of romance in Drea’s life, and she adored watching just how much they loved each other. Not only had Miller never remarried, she couldn’t remember him even going on a date, ever. He still talked about her Aunt Marta like she was just the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. Listening to him talk about her, the only way you knew she was gone was that he used the past tense, and even then you’d think it’d been only a couple of years, and not twenty-five. She might not have had the most conventional upbringing, but she was surrounded by so much love she couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest girl around.
“If Grayson doesn’t hurry his ass up…” Miller said, pushing up from the pillar.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Grayson said, jogging up to the group. “Sorry, there was a guest who wanted a private tour of the boat.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you had no problem giving her the grand tour,” Simone said, rolling her eyes. Grayson Quinlan was known by many for his flirting—no woman was safe from that smile of his. But for as much as people tried to create a playboy reputation around him, no one really knew much about his dating habits, including his own family.
All three of her uncles were good-looking men. Tall with dark features, all three resembled each other quite a bit in their youth, but age had helped set them each apart a bit. Vaughn had gone gray much earlier than his younger brothers and nowadays, Drea thought he resembled the guy from the Trivago commercial more than anyone. Miller’s scruff had started to gray in the last couple of years, too, but since he never let it quite get to a full beard, one would have to look quite close in order to notice it. Grayson’s goatee was still the same shade it had been for all of Drea’s childhood, but deep down she couldn’t help but wonder if that was aided by some hair dye.
“HE,” Grayson emphasized the word, “was mostly interested in the engine. He was a captain in the navy like forty years ago, so he wanted to see what had changed. Sorry I’m late, doll,” he finished, looking at Drea.
“I’m not a little girl anymore, you don’t owe me an apology.”
“You’ll never not be our little girl!” Drea didn’t have to look at all their faces to know that was true. Her uncles had changed their lives around to make sure she was taken care of growing up and that she wanted for nothing. Their little family might have looked weird from the outside, but it worked just fine for them.
“Alright, so now that we’re all here, what’s everyone got?” Miller asked.
“There is a group of four blondes that I call trying to entice Dalton all night. He’ll flirt with all of them, but they’ll all be in their own beds tonight,” Drea said.
“I know the ones you’re talking about, and I’ll give you that, but I think this group of meatheads will try and catch some of his castoffs, so I see at least one drunken hookup between those two groups,” Vaughn interjected.
“Mr. and Mrs. Prage, that really old couple from Oregon—they’re gonna be the last ones standing,” Miller stated.
“Oh, you think?” Simone asked. Miller nodded confidently. “Well, I’m calling an explosive fight between that weird redhead couple. With at least one chair thrown.”
“Damn,” Vaughn muttered under his breath.
“Uncle Gray, you wanna place your bet?” Drea asked. They had started playing this game sometime when she was in high school, once she was old enough to really understand most of what was going down. They met up before the bonfire every week to place their bets, and then had breakfast the next morning to compare notes, and see who “won.” There wasn’t always a clear winner and/or loser, and really the idea was to simply be the least wrong. The more specific you got, the more chance you had at losing. Winners simply got bragging rights. Whoever was deemed to have lost, though, had to wear “the shirt.”