Meet Me in Tahiti

Chapter Two

Finn Doherty walked slowly around the hotel ballroom with Aiata, the resort’s PR manager, looking for flaws to be corrected before the guests arrived.

But there were no flaws. Everything was perfect. No, not perfect.

He hated the word “perfect.” “Magnificent” was a better descriptor.

Yesterday this had been a moderate-sized room running the length of the fare pote—the communal house—which was comprised of an airy lobby, Tāma’a restaurant, the Manuia bar, a quiet library room and a ruthlessly modern but hidden commercial kitchen. The floor was rich brown teak, fairy lights were strung across the ceiling, and full-length glass doors replaced walls on three sides, opening onto a wraparound deck. The doors offered uninhibited views onto a grass clearing that was ideal for small soirees, which was bordered by stunning gardens landscaped to merge with the island’s natural rainforest beyond. Elegant and picturesque, but objectively speaking, not vastly different from any other expertly designed, well-positioned hotel ballroom.

Tonight, however, the roof had been retracted, the glass doors concertinaed all the way back to the communal house, and teak extensions had been attached to the deck, stretching across the grass clearing so that the gardens became the walls—and the result was enchanting. A secret bower nestled within a rainforest, accessible only via a broad teak ramp that led through a natural opening between two coconut palms and circled back to the main entrance of the resort.

Nothing was needed to beautify the space except for subtle lighting spiked among the plants. There were no bars set up, no food stations; instead, wait staff would circulate continuously, bringing refreshments through the swinging doors from the kitchen servery. No plinths with flowers—just a few high tables scattered with hibiscus petals for those wanting to put down their glass or napkin. And even those petals worked some strange magic, looking as though they’d drifted in from the riot of colorfully bold hibiscus plants dotted throughout the gardens—reds and yellows, oranges and pinks, whites and purples.

Finn moved to the edge of the teak extension, breathing in. Out. In. Out. Warmth. Tang. Green. He’d have sworn he could isolate the creamy lemony scent radiating from the small white blooms of his favorite flower, the Tahitian gardenia—tiare mā’ohi—the national flower of French Polynesia, whose shape of seven petals had inspired the name of the island. Fanciful to think he could smell that among the crowd of other plants that included equally fragrant frangipanis in the usual white, pink, and yellow as well as several ancient tree varieties bursting with rare red and orange flowers, plus a dazzling array of orchids, meter-tall spikes of football-sized red torch ginger blooms, and jasmine—which he preferred to call by its local name, pitate, when he was here.

When he was here...which wasn’t as often as he would have liked.

He had other resorts to oversee. In the Daintree. Fiji. Langkawi. The health retreat in the Maldives. This place, though, was special. The first resort he and Gina—his ex-wife and business partner—hadn’t bought as a going concern. As satisfying as it was to retrofit and refurbish a property, nothing compared to building a success from an idea, which was what they’d done with Poerava, his gem at the very center of the flower that was Tiare Island.

And OK, it was actually too soon to tell if Poerava could truly be counted a success, but the signs were there. The travel industry buzz, robust forward bookings, media interest. They’d got Poerava into every key luxury travel brochure and feedback was that people were clamoring not only for the outrageously popular overwater bungalows but also for the garden suites within the rainforest.

He’d been involved personally in every single part of this development and was proud of it. He’d overseen the design, by his favorite architect; he’d supervised the construction; he’d chosen the decor; he’d even named it, after the exquisite black pearls that Polynesians once upon a time dived for off one of the island’s petal-shaped peninsulas. The only thing he hadn’t seen through from start to finish was tonight’s launch party—not by choice, but because a situation in the Maldives had needed his undivided attention for a full month.

Not that he could have done a better job. In fact, there was only one problem with tonight’s launch, and it had nothing to do with Poerava. It was simply that he no longer had any excuse for stonewalling Doherty Berne’s next portfolio acquisition, which Gina, as the Berne half of the partnership, had been working on diligently for six months.

Gina had never made any secret of the fact that her dream was to expand into the UK. She’d joked that one of the reasons she married him was because she had a Brit obsession! It had been unwavering, that dream of hers, since they’d formed their company seven years ago and he owed her a shot at achieving it.

Problem was, her preferred property was a fortified manor in Devon, which Finn had pinpointed on the map in his head the minute he’d seen the photos. Way too close to Hawke’s Cove. Which left property number two: a loch-side castle in the Scottish Highlands. But was it fair to Gina to sway the decision on the basis of his reluctance to go back to a place just because his memories were not fond? At thirty years old it was way past time to put those memories behind him.

“Boss!”

Finn, startled out of his thoughts by the sharpness with which that one word was uttered, saw that the usually strictly deferential Aiata was regarding him with an expression just shy of exasperation.

“Sorry, what?” he said, wincing because obviously she’d been trying to get his attention for a while.

“The first guests have arrived,” she said.

Which was Aiata speak for Step it up, put your game face on and get over there to meet and greet.

He glanced round, surprised to note that the wait staff briefing he’d intended to join had happened without him, and that one of the staff was offering welcome drinks to a small group of guests. The band hired to provide background music had set up, the singer conferring quietly with the ukulele player.

He checked his watch. OK, there were still five minutes to go before the scheduled start time, but how had he not noticed everything happening around him?

In the time it took to raise his eyes from his watch the number of guests had increased from six to eight...ten...eleven. They were coming in early and fast.

At the first strum of the ukulele he examined the guests more carefully. Noted that a VIP—a director of the tourism board—was among the early arrivals, being charmed by Poerava’s manager, the glamorous Nanihi.

“Right,” he said to Aiata. “I’ll join Nanihi and do the VIP schmoozing but I also want to meet all the international travel journos. How many do we have here tonight and how many are staying for the full week?”

“Fifteen tonight, ten are staying,” Aiata said, and the almost-exasperation was back. “The document I emailed had names, publications, background information on each of them, sample articles, the personalized itineraries I’ve put together according to their individual preferences, plus—”

“Yes, yes I got it,” Finn said, wincing again at having cut her off. It wasn’t her fault he hadn’t done his due diligence on the media. He devoutly hoped it would be the last winceworthy moment of the night. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to go through it because of the Maldives issue. Maybe you could give me a rundown now of who they are.” He shot another glance around the space, estimated that a third of their expected two hundred-plus guests were already here. It often happened like that. A trickle became a flood which eventually reverted to a trickle. But midflood there was no time to talk about which media wanted to do what activities. “Forget that. Just tell me if there’s anyone who needs special attention.”

“There’s a last-minute stand-in for Rolf. You know, Rolf Vameer? You asked for him specifically after he did that piece about the Fiji resort but—”

“What? No Rolf?” Finn said, and winced again at having interrupted her once more. He blamed his impatience on that manor house in Devon. He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and took a sip, forcing himself to relax. “Is he going to be a problem?”

“He?” she asked, frowning.

“Rolf’s replacement.”

Her frown cleared. “She, not he. And no. She’s a sweetie. Easygoing from what I could tell when she checked in. I was surprised because she normally won’t do junkets and she’s only doing this one because she’s a friend of Rolf’s.”

“She doesn’t do junkets?”

“No. She thinks junkets put pressure on writers to hide the downsides of a place. Plus she hates seeing everyone come out with the same basic article post trip.”

“Sounds like trouble.”

“That’s not my impression. And I’ve taken pains with all of them to offer points of difference in their itineraries and plenty of free time, so the issue about everyone writing identical stories shouldn’t arise. There are certain things they’ll do as a group but each of them has a choice of other activities and I’m talking to them separately to craft individual story angles.”

“OK, great.” Another sip of champagne. “Then if there’s no one who’s a problem I’m happy to wing it and keep things with the media informal tonight. Anyone who needs a corporate perspective will want an in-depth interview which I can’t do tonight anyway, so you can set up a time for them to talk to me on the phone once I’m in the UK. For the destination features I’ll leave it to Nanihi to give them what they need during the week.”

“You got it, boss,” Aiata said.

“And, Aiata, thank you. For everything. I can tell it’s going to be a great night.”

She smiled at him with her more-usual warmth, murmured something about Nanihi heading his way, and glided quietly away.

The next forty-five minutes flew by. A blur of faces, chatter, music. Finn gave a brief, well-received speech, introducing his team. The band was perfect. The resort staff managed the flow of people brilliantly so that he met everyone he needed to meet. The flood of arrivals had eased. Everyone seemed happy and relaxed.

Figuring he’d earned some off-the-clock-time, Finn collared Kupe Kahale, owner of the Mama Papa’e restaurant on nearby Heia Island, with whom he’d formed a close bond over the past year. The bombastic Kupe always gave the impression that those to whom he deigned to speak were being granted an audience by royalty—a view with which Finn concurred: Kupe was a legend in these parts and Finn considered he was being granted an audience. If Finn hadn’t been flying out in the morning he would have sailed across to Mama Papa’e and enticed Kupe and Kupe’s wife, Chen, to share more raconteur-like reminiscences of “the good old days” in French Polynesia over an excellent meal and a bottle of wine.

It was in the middle of Kupe’s story about the invention of his signature cocktail that Finn became aware of a disturbance—actually, it was more like a ripple of interest, an impression of people directing their attention to one point in the room. He was curious but not unduly so given there was no crash of glassware, no raised voices, no break in the general hum of conversation. It wasn’t until Kupe himself briefly paused as something caught his eye beyond Finn’s left shoulder that curiosity got the better of Finn; Kupe was not the type to pause midanecdote for anything less than a volcanic eruption.

Sure enough, Kupe picked up the thread of his tale almost immediately, but Finn’s concentration was shot: he had to see what was so interesting.

He waited until Kupe had finished the cocktail story and was distracted by a passing tray of canapés, then shot a look backward, over his shoulder. All he could see was Aiata. No, Aiata wasn’t the focal point; that was whoever Aiata was bending down to talk to. Someone in a wheelchair wearing a lacy, beaded rose pink skirt draped down to the chair’s footplate, the sparkly toes of a pair of lilac shoes peeping from beneath the hem of the skirt.

The Rolf replacement.

Aiata’s swing of long black hair obscured the woman’s face and torso but no way was Finn going to do the stare-and-wait routine. Aside from the fact that it didn’t matter what she looked like, it irritated him that the simple fact of being in a wheelchair could get people gawking.

He turned back to Kupe, who’d finished his canapé and was waxing lyrical about a special pork dish offered at the Mama Papa’e restaurant.

Finn tried to locate his enthusiasm but it appeared to be MIA. In his head, he was seeing the pink skirt and pretty spangled shoes of the woman Aiata was talking to and remembering that Aiata had described Rolf’s replacement as a sweetie. The way she dressed fitted that description. The gauze and sparkle, the choice of those particular shades. He hoped that ripple of disturbance wasn’t going to be repeated, that people weren’t going to either look or deliberately not look at her all night, because that would get up his nose in a big way.

Oblivious to Finn’s waning attention, Kupe reached for another canapé and engaged the server in a discussion about the dipping sauce. While Kupe was preoccupied Finn risked another look over his shoulder—not that he had any idea what he’d do if he found his guests ogling the poor woman. He smiled as he imagined himself striding across the floor, shoving people left and right as he raced to rescue the damsel in distress. Counterproductive behavior that would draw everyone’s attention, which he was fairly sure the damsel would not appreciate.

He started to turn back to Kupe but just then the crowd shifted enough to give him clear line of sight to Aiata straightening and stepping aside.

His smile fell away, the sounds of the party fading until all he could hear was his heart thudding in his ears.

The woman in the wheelchair was Zoe.