Last Resort Page 2

  “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you, Phillip.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  “Take care,” her voice cracks and I hear what sounds like my father holding my mother and gently patting her back.

  “Hey, Phillip.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Here it comes—the one, two punch. My parents have used this effective technique on me since infancy. First, my mother softens me up with her anguished emotionalism, and then my father wears me down with the blunt force of his irrefutable logic. My father is an accountant, spending his days crunching numbers, boiling down complex scenarios to quantifiable truths. For him two plus two will always equal four. Someone hits you, you hit back. If your wife sleeps with another man, you leave her. Sometimes I wish I were more like him. Life would be so much simpler.

  “It would have been nice if you’d talked to me about this trip you are going on. I have to learn about it from your mother only after you’ve gone. Thanks, Son”

  “If I mentioned it you would talk me out of it. You would use your accountant’s brain, add up all the facts, subtract the negatives from the positives and I would not be able to argue with you.”

  “That’s your answer, right there. Your subconscious is letting you know this is not a wise decision. Why go on this trip? You never even sat down with a marital counselor. It seems to me that would be the logical thing to do.”

  “You know we don’t have the money for counseling.”

  “But you have the money to go on this trip. Your mother tells me this is a very ritzy resort.”

  I exhale slowly. “We never had a real honeymoon. I had to go right to work after the wedding and it’s something we kept promising we would do someday, but we kept putting it off.”

  “Son, the time for a honeymoon is not right after your wife cheats on you. You’re not making any sense.”

  “I know, I know,” I reply with a sad nod of my head. “Nothing I do makes much sense nowadays.”

  “Phillip, if you really think a vacation with Gwen could be just the thing your marriage needs why not some place closer to home? You don’t need to fly all the way to this Isla Terrafin or whatever the hell it’s called-”

  “Isla Fin de la Tierra.”

  “Well, la-dee-da,” he gripes. “You don’t need a trip to the middle of nowhere to see if you and Gwen have a future. Why not Myrtle Beach? It’s a hell of a lot cheaper, for one thing. Please tell me Gwen hasn’t twisted your arm into going to this fancy, shmantzy luxury resort.”

  “No, Dad. This trip is my idea. When I was a kid, I read about this island in one of your National Geographics. Isla Fin de la Tierra. Island at the end of the earth. I’ve always dreamed about going; now seems as good a time as any. Believe me, if it was up to Gwen, we would stay local, like you suggest. Besides—think about it—no casinos, hardly any nightlife to speak of, nothing but sand, sea and one of the best reefs on the planet—you know this is way too sedate for Gwen. She only agreed to this trip to please me.”

  “And you really think this week alone with Gwen will save your marriage?”

  “It could. If my marriage has any chance I just may have to journey to the end of the earth to find it.”

  “You don’t sound very hopeful.”

  Pause. “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you going?”

  Long pause. “I don’t know.”

  Gwen is near the check in counter. “Dad, it’s time for me to board. I have to get going.”

  “Okay, son,” my father’s tone his heavy. “I hope you don’t think your mother and I are lecturing you.”

  A poignant smile crosses my lips. “No, Dad. I don’t think that at all. I know you only want to protect me, and I love you for it, but this is one hole I’m going to have to climb out of on my own.”

  “You got it, son. Well, no matter what happens with Gwen you make sure you catch a big fish on that world class reef you mentioned.”

  “It’s at the top of my agenda.”

  “And I want photographic proof when you do it. Don’t think I’m accepting your word.”

  I laugh. “No problem, Dad.”

  I join Gwen and hand the flight attendant my documentation. The phone call from my parents has me even more pensive than before—something Gwen clearly sees. She leans close to me and rubs my arm; her touch lacks the affectionate familiarity she once had. There is hesitancy when she touches me now, as if I am a wild creature who could bolt from her if she makes any sudden moves. I do not want to be this way, but how can I be otherwise? Maybe this trip will help me figure how.

  We take our seats on the plane. “Phillip, thank you for coming with me,” she whispers, looking me square in the eye. God, she looks so sincere. “This means more to me than you can know. I am going to make you so happy.”

  She cups my hand to her lips, kissing each fingertip, her eyes glossy with tears. I should reach forth, tilt her pretty chin upward, and kiss her. I know I should, but I do not move. The moment passes. With a melancholy nod, Gwen puts my hand down and settles into her seat.

  A passenger from the previous flight left a newspaper behind. I pick it up and glance over the headlines. This country invaded that country. Emergency session of the United Nations. Ambassador recalled. Now here’s something you don’t see every day—Arab protesters burn an American flag in the streets. So much anger and tension in the world. I put the newspaper down. I have enough turmoil in my life—no need to borrow more.

  There is something else on my mind—something I did not tell my parents. Gwen has one more secret, only it is not a secret anymore—at least not to me. The knowledge that I hide—discussing it with no one—prevents me from moving in any direction, away from Gwen or back to her.

  Our plane taxis to the runway, the engine growing to a dull roar. The pilot informs us we are clear for take off. Within moments, we are racing down the runway.

  Gwen gulps hard and grips the arm rail. “I’m scared, Phillip.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Her eyes are wide. “Can you hold my hand?”

  It was not so long ago she would not have had to ask. Mechanically, I take her hand in my own and look out the window as the jet lifts off from the ground. I continue to look out the window even after we pass into the white nothingness of the clouds, and the land and life I know recede behind us.

  Chapter Three

  In Barbados, we transfer to a small propeller plane that will transport us for the rest of the journey to Isla Fin de la Tierra. Standing beside the plane on the tarmac are four other passengers: two pampered suburban princesses sporting belly shirts, limited edition handbags and tramp stamps, and a man and a woman approximately the same age as Gwen and myself. The man and woman appear to have stepped right off the cover of a magazine devoted to fine living and leisure. Broad shouldered and bronzed, with sunglasses perched atop his head to hold back his golden curls, the man is nearly a foot taller than I am. The woman with him—equally suntanned, with a lithe, dancer’s body, is nearly as tall as he is. She wears a loose linen dress, both simple and stylish, and different pieces of semi-precious stone jewelry. A turquoise clip holds her long, sleek chestnut hair in place. An enormous pair of Jackie O. style sunglasses completes her look.

  As we approach the woman is speaking to him, but he focuses on us, instead—barely glancing at me but lingering on Gwen.

  “Greetings, fellow travelers,” he says with warm familiarity. “You two ready for paradise?”

  Although the question includes both of us, he only looks at Gwen as he asks it. Before I can stammer a reply Gwen responds, “More than ready. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long.”

  “Conner Gilroy,” he thrusts his hand towards Gwen, flashing a smile as white as sun bleached bones.

  “Gwen Crane,” my wife smiles. “And this is my husband, Phillip.”

  Almost as an afterthought, Conner sha
kes my hand with a grip that feels as though my fingers will splinter like a bundle of matchsticks.

  The tall woman next to Conner takes it upon herself to extend her hand to mine. “And hello, I am Alexandra. It appears my husband has forgotten me again.”

  With a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, Conner wraps an arm around his wife. “How could I forget you, my love? I was merely saving the best for last.”

  Alexandra rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Nice save.”

  The pilot, a gruff man with weathered skin, emerges from the plane. “Okay, folks, we are ready to go. I have to assign your seating to ensure proper weight distribution.”

  We enter the cramped interior of the plane—Alexandra sitting up front next to the pilot, Gwen sandwiched between Conner and me, the two young women seated at the back—and taxi to the runway. The whirling propellers are so loud that quiet conversation is impossible. Gwen takes short, anxious breaths, and this time I do not wait for her to ask me to hold her hand. In moments, we soar into the sky. Barbados vanishes behind us, replaced by an endless expanse of sapphire blue sea. Gwen relaxes her death grip on my hand.

  Alexandra turns in her seat. “How long are you two staying at the resort?”

  “A week,” Gwen shouts over the humming propellers.

  “You’re going to love it,” Conner chimes in.

  “You’ve been to Isla Fin de la Tierra before?” Gwen asks.

  “This is my third time; Alexandra’s first.”

  “Lucky me,” Alexandra adds.

  “We’ll only be there for three days,” Conner continues. “Then it’s off to Tobago, Aruba, Cozumel.”

  “You forgot Costa Rica,” his wife reminds.

  He slaps his forehead. “Ha, yeah, we’ve scheduled a week hiking in the Costa Rican rainforest.”

  “You’ll be hiking,” Alexandra quips. “I’ll be back at the hotel spa getting a massage.”

  “You’re job gives you that much time off?” I ask Conner.

  “My job?” he chuckles. “I own a venture capitalist company. Not by myself, I have two partners. I don’t want to take all the credit.”

  I feel like a fool for asking the question. The resort Gwen and I are going to is incredibly expensive—hell, if we remain together we will be paying off the credit card debt from this trip for years to come, but for some reason I assumed many of the people we would encounter at the resort would be in a similar income tax bracket to ours.

  Winds buffet the plane, causing it to dip and rise. Gwen grabs my hand again, and for a moment the back and forth banter inside the plane ceases.

  “Just some mild turbulence,” the nonplussed pilot assures us as the plane steadies.

  “I could use a good month or more off,” Conner continues when the tension in the plane subsides. “After dealing with the sharks of Wall Street when I encounter a real one out on the reefs I won’t feel a bit of fear.”

  “Oh, don’t say that” Alexandra gasps. “If there are sharks out there I won’t go near the water.”

  “Aw, baby, the sharks around the island are small. They won’t bite you—but they have been known to take a nibble,” he takes her hand and playfully nibbles her fingers.

  Alexandra giggles and swats him away. The breezy affection Conner displays, masculine and completely at ease, has me feeling like a stonehearted eunuch in comparison.

  Conner leans over Gwen’s lap and says, “So, Phil, it is Phil, right? What do you do?”

  My answer that I am an adjunct professor elicits the type of polite pause people sometimes gives when there is nothing positive to say. I glance at Gwen who has a distant expression I cannot read. Is she thinking of something else—perhaps imagining what it will be like once we reach the resort—or is she wondering what it would be like if she was not married to a poorly paid adjunct professor who is completely dependent on her for health benefits?

  “Do any diving, Gwen?” Conner asks.

  She snaps out of her reverie. “No, but I can snorkel.”

  “You are going to the best place for it,” he replies. “Isla Fin de la Tierra consistently gets ranked as one of the best reefs in the world.”

  He proceeds to describe all the high points of the resort—the exceptional service, the exquisite cuisine, the stunning ocean beauty—all things I already went over with Gwen when I showed her the brochure, but she listens to Conner with the enthusiasm of someone who never heard these things before.

  Behind me, the young women talk to each other as quietly as the rushing air and propellers outside will allow.

  “—Get out. That can’t be true,” girl Number One says to her friend.

  Number Two nods emphatically, eyes wide for dramatic effect. “I’m telling you the truth. I got the text last night. Besides, like, why would I lie?”

  “Oh, I believe you—for sure. You’re my best friend. Of course, I believe you. I’m just shocked—literally shocked—that Ashley would do this to me.”

  “Didn’t I warn you? She’s a snake in sheep’s clothing. I never liked her. All that bullshit ‘No, I didn’t have plastic surgery. I just grew into my nose’. I mean, c’mon, get real. That big nose of hers could have provided us with shelter on a rainy day,” Number One guffaws in appreciation.

  “You are so right,” Number One adds, her voice thick with contempt. “Ashley is such a liar. I’m sure she went there just to make a play for Justin. She’s probably rubbing him down with suntan lotion right now—and she said she would never go for him. I’m sorry, but what a lying bitch.”

  Number Two nudges Number One to indicate they have an audience. I am eavesdropping so intently I did not realize how obvious I am. Both young women stare at me. Mustering a smile, I decide to adopt Conner’s tactic and confidently extend my hand towards them, “Phillip Crane.”

  This direct introductory approach does not work for me nearly as well as it did for Conner. Instead of shaking my hand, the two women offer only a meek wave, recoiling from me as though I were a homeless man harassing them for spare change. From the corner of my eye, I see that Gwen and Conner are watching me crash and burn. My face reddens. If only I could open the door of the plane and jump. I have to salvage this somehow.

  “You must be looking forward to going to the resort,” I gamely say, hoping to initiate a face saving conversation.

  “We’re not going to the same resort,” Number Two deadpans.

  “Then you must be going to Jumby Cove,” Conner interjects, and then turns to the rest of us to explain. “It’s a new four story hotel built right across the bay from our resort.”

  “Hey, did you know what ‘Jumby’ means?” he asks. The young women shake their heads. “In the native dialect ‘jumby’ means ghost.”

  “Oh, wow,” Number One exclaims as though Conner just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

  Conner draws the women into the conversation he was having with Gwen regarding the natural wonders of the island, and they listen with what I suspect, for them, is unusually rapt attention. During the course of the conversation they volunteer to Conner what they denied me—their names—Piper and Willow. They also divulge their ages—twenty-one—place of origin—The Hamptons—favorite alcoholic beverage—Malibu Rum. Piper and Willow would make horrendous spies. Around Conner, they are physically incapable of withholding even the most banal information about themselves. In fact, they seem to compete as to which of them can perform the fastest verbal striptease. They dominate the conversation, relegating Gwen to the sidelines. In the front of the plane, Alexandra listens to the pilot explain what all the controls and gauges are for, unaware of her husband flirting with two debutantes at the back of the plane.

  I turn away from them all, staring down at the endless sea, and settle in for a long flight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot announces. “Here is the main attraction: Isla Fin de la Tierra.”

  We crane our necks for the best vantage point. As we approach the island the deeper blue sea is dotted with patches of more sh
allow, aquamarine waters—the colors dazzling. Gwen clutches my hand once more, though not from fear but giddy excitement. How sweet and childlike she can be, her face aglow with wonder, like a little girl on Christmas morning.

  A sail ship passes beneath us, cutting a neat line through the waves. The main island looms ahead, studded with hills and rocky cliffs jutting into the turquoise water. Fields of golden grass cover the rolling hills, and trees huddle in dark green clusters beneath the fierce equatorial sun. Scattered in the sea around the island are rocky outcroppings, some barely rising above the surf, a few large enough to be islands unto themselves, though not by much.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the pilot says to unanimous agreement. “After this island there is no other land mass until you reach Africa. If you look just below you will see the bay where your resorts—the only resorts on the island—are located.”

  On the left of the bay, nestled in a cove, lies the four-story hotel, Jumby Cove. Numerous cabanas line the beach and scores of vacationers dot the sand, browning their skin in the sun. Across the bay lies my destination. It is a decidedly smaller and more intimate resort than the hotel across the bay. Forty bungalows line the beach. Designed to look like Tahitian huts, each one has spectacular beachfront views. In the center of the row of huts lies the main restaurant and offices of the resort. They look just like the bungalows but on a much larger scale. From the palm trees swaying in the breeze to the massive swimming pool complete with waterfall cascading down a faux rock formation, the resort is even more beautiful than the brochure depicted.

  “What’s that there?” Gwen points to several acres of woodland behind the resort. “Is that part of the resort, too?”

  “It’s a bird sanctuary,” I answer, speaking loud enough so the others can hear in case they wonder about it as well. “See the lagoon on the other side of the woods? It’s filled with brackish water. Those trees surrounding the lagoon, the ones with the roots coming out of the water—those are mangrove trees. Isla Fin de la Tierra is the only landmass around for migratory birds on their way from North America to South America. It’s fantastic that they built this resort without disturbing the sanctuary that these birds depend on.”