As soon as the island is in sight, it’s very clear that any dreams Matthew had of gift shopping are out the window. The mile-long strip of land is covered end to end in virgin jungle but for a small building on the beach behind a questionably sound wooden dock. I can practically see Patricia’s near frozen expression deflating as we bounce across the whitecaps towards the shore. I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of coral restoration and carbon offsets that I don’teven notice how close my face is to Caleb’s butt as he steers us in.
Ok, maybe I do notice. Just a little. But I willnotprove Caleb right about the ogling. So Caleb’s unfairly hot. So was Ted Bundy. So was Atilla the Hun (probably). As I’ve told Jules for the last hundred years, looks mean nothing to me. It’s the mind that counts, and truce or not, Caleb’s is seriously miswired.
When we reach the dock, I see a wild-haired figure in a neon blue polo jogging down to greet us.
“Nisa Bula!” Joanna shouts as we tie up to the dock. Her face is covered ear to ear in a smile more genuine than Patricia’s Cartier watch. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it!”
“Neither was I!” I call out from the tender. “Warrens, this is Joanna.”
They take turns introducing themselves to her as Caleb helps them out onto the floating dock. I refuse to take his hand, choosing instead to grab hold of the metal railing and earning a bump to the shin as I trip out onto the wood.
“I’m so glad you could join us on the island,” Joanna beams. “We have quite the program planned for you today.”
“I’m sure you do,” Matthew mocks out of the side of his mouth. I look over just in time to see Harry elbow him in the rib.
“Joanna has a radio in the center,” Caleb informs Harry and Patricia. “Just give me a ring when you’re ready for pickup and I’ll hustle back for you.”
“Oh no,” Patricia says firmly. “Caleb, you’re staying with us. I won’t be marooned in the jungle without an escort.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.I cringe, hoping Joanna’s not offended, but she seems perky as ever. She surfs Cloudbreak, I remind myself. It probably takes more than a few snobby gazillionaires to scare her off.
“Of course, Patricia,” Caleb answers. “I’ve got a go-pro on me; maybe I can take some photos for you.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Arthur says. “Stella’s an artist, apparently. Maybe she can help you get some good shots for the photobook.”
I shoot Arthur the weakest smile in history as Joanna leads us down the dock. So much for staying away from Caleb. This is fine, I tell myself. Totally, totally…
“I thought we were going to stay away from each other,” I hiss quietly as Caleb’s measured steps fall in line beside me.
“A bit difficult on a ship, love,” he says under his breath.
“A ship that you could havestayedon,” I say.
“If you’ve got a problem with it, by all means, take it up with Patricia. I’m sure she’dloveto hear why.”
Jules must hear him, because she darts a questioning look over her shoulder. I throw my head back and fake a laugh to throw her off. At least, it was supposed to be a laugh. It comes out like a horse’s whinny.
“What the hell was that?” he asks when she looks away.
“I’m trying to cover for us.”
“Ya, well, you’re not doing a very good job. You sound like a dying cat.”
I glare at him.
“Welcome to Narara island!” Joanna waves her arms out to emphasize the little paradise in front of us. “I have to say, I was surprised when Chris and I got the call this morning from your captain. It’s not too often we get visitors from the yachting community.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Matthew whispers, and Harry elbows him again in the arm. He’s got to have a bruise there by now.
“This is a very special project that wouldn’t be possible without the blessing of the people that have called the island home for hundreds of years,” Joanna continues, even though I’m sure she heard them. “I know it’s not easy to see through the jungle, but if you look towards the foot of those hills, you might catch a glimpse of some of their homes.”
Joanna gestures to the north, where a few wooden structures can be seen through the thick palm groves.
I watch in delight as Patricia weighs whether or not to remove her gold loafers as we reach the bottom of the beach. For all I know, she’s hiding hooves under there. She elects to leave them on, and she steps across the sand like a cat in booties, completely out of her element. I can’t help but wonder when her feet last touched an unpaved surface.
We follow Joanna up the beach to the research station: a simple white building with a corrugated metal roof and garage-style entry. Inside the building, a man in his late fifties with sandy-blonde hair stands before several tables stacked with plastic tubs and small concrete cones, welcoming us in.
“This is Chris Crawford,” Joanna introduces him “He’s a marine biologist from San Diego. He started his research in Fiji fourteen years ago, and he brought me on board a few years back to help him get the coral restoration project up and running.”
