“Is this your first visit to the islands?” A guy giving off beach-bum vibes joined me at the prow of the passenger ferry, leaning his forearms along the metal railing.
“It is obvious?” I gave him an appraising look from my peripheral vision.
Deep tan a shade or two darker than fried chicken. Long hair he kept shoving out of his face. Baggy khaki shorts, a faded tank, and beat-up canvas slip-ons.
Nope. Not what I had in mind for a no-strings vacation fling.
“Only the virgins ride up front. Taking pics to show their coworkers back home. Hootin’ and hollerin’ every time they see a dolphin.”
“Not a fan of tourists, are you?”
“Nah, they’re all right. Just predictable.” He inched closer. “Now you… I can’t get a read on you. You’re dressed for a week at one of those all-inclusive resorts. I call ’em Disneyland for grownups. I heard you tell the captain you’re going to Isla Tortuga Verde, and there isn’t a fancy resort on that rock. They don’t even have WiFi.”
I stared, not willing to believe something so outrageous from a stranger. Okay, maybe the resort was wishful thinking, but I thought WiFi was a given except in the most remote corners of the world. Wasn’t that why Elon Musk kept launching new satellites?
No internet? He had to be wrong.
“You called Isla Tortuga Verde a rock. Is that like a cay or atoll?”
The guy snickered, and I made him a double nope.
“Rock. Island. Same thing.”
A sinking sensation warred with motion sickness. I’d come to the front of the boat in hopes it would ease the nausea. Now my travel guide was shattering my tropical island fantasy.
“Maybe you’re scouting out a place to retire. Lots of expats relocate to the islands. Nice weather. Laidback lifestyle. White sand beaches. Friendly locals.” He pretended to stretch his arms and moved toward me. “You’re kinda young to retire. Unless you’re independently wealthy.”
“I’m here for work. Two weeks and it’s back to the nine-to-five grind. No time to get friendly with the locals.” I felt like a mean girl when his cocky attitude deflated. “Thanks for the conversation, though.”
He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and an icky grin, and I regretted the impulse to be nice. Some guys interpreted any signal you gave them as a one-way sign pointing to the sack.
“How long before we arrive at Isla Tortuga Verde?” I couldn’t stand much more time with this Caribbean Casanova.
“Next rock on the right.” He pointed to a green mound rising out of the azure water.
In the distance, beyond Isla Tortuga Verde, I saw dark humps—more islands. When I’d boarded the ferry, the captain told me the region was dotted with small islands. As I looked at each separate bump of land, they appeared lonely and isolated. I could relate. Ever since Mona and Nick “just happened,” I felt like an outsider, like I’d lost my place in the grand scheme of life. My life. The perfect life I’d been living and creating, hammered into smithereens by their happiness. I hated feeling like that, but what bothered me more was how bitter and petty and wretched I was becoming.
I grabbed my backpack and walked to the other side of the ferry. The boat was about forty or fifty feet long, had a covered seating area under the pilothouse, and an engine that wheezed like a smoker with emphysema. Its green-and-white paint was faded, the metal fixtures rusted, but the vessel plowed smoothly through the water, churning up a white wake.
The Caribbean Sea was breathtaking, but I was too exhausted to appreciate the view. I dropped onto a wooden bench, put my feet up on the railing, and watched the island take shape as we got closer. Seymour had given me three days to prep for an intense two-week assignment—the campaign that could make or break my career. He’d lent me his executive assistant to make sure everything got done, but it was still a scramble. I hadn’t read any of the research Louella assembled and was walking in cold. I’d snatched a few hours of sleep each night and then was up at four this morning for the trip. Two planes and a ferry to get from Denver to a rock in the Caribbean.
It was the perfect excuse to skip Mona and Nick’s gender reveal.
Time to take off the cranky pants, Grasshopper.
I bet Master Po never told Caine to take off his cranky pants.
Still, the old Chinese guy was right. Letting my attitude show was unwise. For this campaign to be a success, I needed the cooperation of Dr. Luka Stanic and his patients. I had two weeks to collect enough material for an integrated marketing communication. Photographs, video, and personal interviews that I’d take back to Denver, piece together with corporate facts and figures, weigh against market and demographic research, and unveil as a series of compelling stories designed to inspire people to open their wallets and give, give, give.
No pressure, Master Po.
Isla Tortuga Verde loomed straight ahead, a green, rounded mountain rising from the turquoise depths. In the later afternoon sun, it was dappled with shadow and light. The ferry followed the curve of the island to a wide cove split by a long wooden dock. On one side, a white sand beach was framed by palm trees and a few wooden structures. On the other side was…a town? Crooked streets lined with buildings—some neatly painted, some slanted as if a giant had tried blowing them over, none taller than two stories. Shops? Homes? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t see anything that looked like a medical clinic.
Dread settled over my shoulders like a fifty-pound mantle. I slumped down on the bench, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
“This is your stop.” The friendly local who’d tried picking me up jerked his thumb toward the back of the boat where a few other people were waiting to step off the ferry.
I forced myself up, tugging the straps of the backpack over my shoulders. Add another thirty pounds. The pack held my laptop, a video camera and digital camera—both waterproof—and a digital voice recorder. Pens, notepads, my money and wallet, and a string of just-in-case condoms.
I could dump those overboard right now. The probability of a holiday hook-up wasn’t looking good.
“Enjoy your visit, miss.” The captain, a craggy-faced man with a faded Scottish accent that matched his gone-gray ginger curls, waved from the pilothouse.
One of the crew, a slender young man with inky skin and a lilting island accent, carried my suitcase to the end of the wooden pier. “Dr. Stanic, he be meeting ya. Cap’n McDougal radioed ahead for ya.”
“Thanks.” I tipped the crewmember, adjusted the backpack, and looked around for Luka Stanic. There hadn’t even been time to read his bio. God, I hoped he wasn’t a lush or some kind of quack or a witch doctor who believed in black magic. Wasn’t voodoo a thing in the islands?
I glanced over my shoulder as the ferry pulled away and pictured myself running down the pier, yelling, “Stop. Come back. Take me with you.”
I pictured Seymour, in a Rush T-shirt and flannel button-up, firing me and then I’d have to get a job taking orders from people who wanted it their way.
I turned and took a step.
I pictured Mona and Nick popping a huge balloon that spewed pink and blue glitter because…twins!
I turned around and gripped the straps of the backpack until my knuckles were white, inhaling and exhaling to regain control. I popped the handle on my roller bag and went in search of Dr. Stanic. The sooner I started this assignment, the sooner I’d be off this godforsaken rock.