“How do you know that’s mine?” I ask.
“If there’s another high roller staying here at the Sand FleaMotel,” Marianne interjects, “I will literally give you my first-born.”
“I amnota high-roller,” I remind her. “And don’t think I won’t hold you to that.”
But Marianne just sweeps me into such a big hug that half my coffee sloshes to the ground.
“I’m so glad you came,” she tells me, “And if you need anything, we’re right here. Even if you need to escape the big bad billionaires, I’ll swim out to get you myself.”
“Thanks Mer,” I tell her, and mean it. Because even if my life is falling apart, I’m damned lucky to have a friend who would fly all the way to Fiji just to get me out of my funk.
I just hope the next two weeks won’t make it even worse.
5
As I approach the town car taking me to the marina, I discover that notallFijian men are undiscovered GQ models. But what my skinny driver, Toa, lacks in muscles and head hair, he makes up for in hospitality. He spends the first ten minutes of our drive teaching me all the Fijian words I might need for my travels:bulafor hi,lofor yes,vee nakafor thank you. But he also tells me Fijians are famous for their legends. He gestures up to the hills on our left, and I roll down my heavily tinted window to get a better look. In the glow of the morning, the lush, green hills are covered with an almost blue mist that makes them seem taller and wilder than they did yesterday. Or maybe I’m just less of a zombie.
“The Sleeping Giant,” he tells me, pointing to the mountain’s curve. “Can you see it?”
I follow his bony finger along the ridge as he drives, and instantly it becomes clear to me: the head, the shoulders, the roman nose. The ridgeline looks just like the silhouette of a man lying on his back.
The car turns left towards the water and slows as we reach the massive, guarded gate of the Denarau marina. A large treeshades the guard booth, and manicured bushes to either side burst with colorful hibiscus and plumeria.
“Bula!” A heavyset guard with a moon-white smile greets us as we roll down the window.
“Bula, brother,” Toa greets him back.
They chat in Fijian for a few minutes before the gate swings open to reveal dozens of immaculate plantation-style bungalows that make me feel like I’m stepping back to 1922. The guard waves us through, and we pass two more gates of increasing security before we reach the entrance to the marina. The perfectly manicured tropical streets of the compound are a far cry from the loose chickens and goats that run free through the busy towns outside.
We pull up to a roundabout by the marina’s edge where a petite man with a crisp green uniform stands stiff as a soldier. He waves at us, his friendly smile bookended by a distractingly large blonde mustache.
I take a deep breath before opening the car door and stepping into the morning heat.
“G’day, travelers!” the man calls out in a heavy Australian accent as he ambles over to the car. He holds out his arm and shakes my hand, firmly.
“You must be Stella! I’m Jim, First Mate.”
Jim’s voice has the quality of one of the island’s colorful songbirds: melodic and effortlessly cheerful. I like him already. But I’d be lying if I said my heart doesn’t sink a little when he mentions his role. No matter what I said to Will and Mer, some small, insignificant part of me was still holding out hope Caleb could be working for the Warrens. I guess this is what I get for letting all Marianne’s talk about destiny and the universe get to my head.
“Great to meet you,” I smile.
“The family’s waiting for you down on the dock. Their plane landed a little early and Harry’s itching to cast off.”
Driving in, the masts that stuck out of the gated marina reminded me of the ones we used to walk past growing up in Seattle. But up close, it doesn’t take me long to realize how very far I am from home. The ships (and they areships)of Denarau Marina are not the barnacle-crusted sailboats I remember from my childhood. Their sparkling white bodies and dark, tinted windows whisper of elite families who are more likely to be caught on the Forbes 500 list than the salt-covered docks of the Puget Sound. I suddenly have the urge to beg Toa to take me back to the hotel, the airport—even Will’s precious Hyatt. I was a swimmer in high school. I wonder how long it will take me to swim back to the states.
Instead, I smile back at Toa as he lifts my duffel from the backseat.
“Thank you for the ride!” I tell him.
“You’re welcome. Be sure to catch some waves for me out at cloudbreak!”
I practically snort, remembering what he told me about one of the largest surf breaks in the world rolling just offshore. “Don’t count on it.”
“Allow me,” Jim says, but I snatch the bag away from him.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I don’t need you to carry my bags for me.”
“It’s no worries. I’m more than happy to?—”
