Meet Me in Tahiti

Chapter Fourteen

Finn had been weaving through Tāma’a since six o’clock, never sitting to eat, instead snatching quick bites in the kitchen between excursions into the dining area (much to Gaspard’s annoyance).

The other journalists arrived and he went to their table to welcome them, staying for a glass of wine in the hope one of them would let slip where Zoe was, but the gleam in Matilda’s eyes soon had him retreating. Matilda couldn’t possibly know what was eating at him but he had a sinking feeling that she did.

He checked the restaurant’s dinner reservations. No joy.

Checked with transport to see if Zoe had booked a ride to a different restaurant. Nope.

Cristina arrived with Joe and he thought about going over and asking her outright where Zoe was, but before he could turn thought into action Daniel called out to Cristina and for his trouble got a look of such disdain Finn’s courage deserted him.

But Cristina had seen him.

She frowned as she pulled out her phone (presumably to call Zoe and break the news that big bad Finn Doherty was still on the island) and then she froze for one second, two, three... before putting the phone away. Her frown cleared as she looked over at him again, replaced by a look of—dear God, amusement!

Disgruntled, he turned his back on Cristina and went to check the room service orders even though it was inconceivable that Zoe would have stayed in her room because she never—

Whoa!

Bingo!

There it was. A room service order to Zoe’s bungalow.

Fishing; room service—both completely unexpected choices resulting in a wasted day. He was going to have to get his head together and do some serious planning if he didn’t want to chase her around the island like a crazed stalker for the next five days. (And he most assuredly did not want to do that!)

He headed to Manuia, took a seat at the bar and ordered his usual vanilla rum from self-named “Tiki mixologist” Tepatua.

“How about I make you something more interesting, boss? A Yaka Hula Hickey Dula, say?”

“Er...no,” Finn said, sparing a thought for how his regulars at the pub in Hawke’s Cove would have reacted to that suggestion. He imagined looks of horror, wary backsteps, a chorus of hasty, “Just the pint thanks, Finn lad!”

“Then how about I make the rum a double? You look like you could use the extra shot.”

“The single’s fine,” he said—not because he couldn’t use the double—he could!—but because he was over the sympathetic looks and sly smiles and laughing eyes that seemed to be running rampant at Poerava.

When he got his drink he did nothing more than look at it, recalling his thoughts last night about sitting on the “right” side of the bar.

“Hey, Tepatua,” he said on impulse, pushing his drink back across the bar. “Move over. I’m on the clock tonight.”

“You, boss?”

“Me.”

And it felt good to get behind the bar and say, “What’ll it be?” to his first customer in ten years.

An hour later, Matilda came to the bar. “I see it but I don’t believe it!” she said, and ordered a bottle of champagne.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Finn said, putting a bottle of the best in an ice bucket on a tray. “How many glasses?”

“Three.”

He started polishing the glasses.

“One for me,” she said as he placed the first glass on the tray, “one for Corinne from Island Rendezvous,” second glass, “and one in case Zoe turns up... Aaand there it is!” she said triumphantly as he dropped the last glass.

“Sorry,” he said, ignoring that added-on comment of hers, then quickly polishing a fresh glass and positioning it. “The champagne’s on the house. Can you manage it or do you want Tepatua to bring it to your table?”

“I’ll take it, and respectfully ask that if Zoe does turn up you bring another bottle to the table because I may need reinforcements—either to distract Daniel from Zoe or monopolize her so he can’t pester her like he apparently did on the fishing trip today.”

Finn’s hackles rose hard and fast. “What do you mean, pester her?”

“Nothing like that, no need to growl. Let’s just say there’s a reason Zoe ordered room service and it wasn’t me she was avoiding.” Pause. “And of course it wasn’t you she was avoiding since we all thought you were flying out today?”

“There’s an issue.”

“Of course there is.”

“Not what you’re thinking,” he said. Winced.

She tinkled out a laugh. “Fresh bottle of champagne. Don’t forget.”

She sauntered off and Finn kept serving, but when he mixed up two orders—a Tahitian Sunset and a plain old rum and Coke—and Tepatua was forced to rescue a beer before he gave it a six-inch head, he knew he was going to have to call it quits for the reputation of Manuia.

So it was fortunate that five minutes after the beer incident, Zoe arrived.

Or perhaps not fortunate, because the rush of blood to his head boded ill for managing a casual conversation.

Nevertheless, he got the champagne ready, got three clean glasses and a rum for himself, and headed over. Zoe was slightly separated at one end of the table, a seat conveniently vacant beside her—thank you, Matilda.

Zoe’s eyes lit up as he put the tray on the table and his heart actually leaped like a...like a... Hell, it just leaped, that was all.

“As you can see I got delayed again,” he said, taking the seat next to her. “Looks like I’ll be here until Monday.” Deep breath. “So, room service, huh? I thought you never did that.”

“Wow! You Poerava people really do know everything that’s going on in every part of the resort.”

He poured her champagne, keeping his eyes occupied as he asked, “Does it bother you that I know?” He was surprised how much he needed to know the answer, as though that would be a “go” signal.

“N-no,” she said, but the uncertain stammer had him reaching for his rum, downing a quick swallow. “Then again it’s not like I’m doing anything especially interesting.” Freeze, as she looked at him.

Interesting.

What did that mean?

Ah hell, he didn’t know, but it figured it was suggestive enough to be classified as a “go.” “Then we’d better fix that,” he said.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh, I didn’t mean... That is, it’s not that I’m not having a wonderful time.”

But no, he wasn’t backing off. “Now you see, that’s the polite Hawke’s Cove Zoe talking to Mrs. Whittaker, not rocking any boats. I prefer Crab Shack Zoe who was always honest with me. So tell me...” jerking his head in Daniel’s direction, “how did it go today? Asking for a friend.”

“Asking for a—” She broke off, laughing. “You are not asking for a friend.”

“I am asking for a friend, Zoe. I’m asking as your friend.”

The laughter died. She gave him a searching look. “Are we friends, Finn?”

Friends. Ah geez, he didn’t know. But at least the promise of a path to closure was floating between them. A touch, that was all he needed, one touch. “We can try for this week—no, five days—can’t we? I mean, if I promise not to tell you how lucky you are that you always have a seat wherever you go.”

And the laughter was back. “I don’t know how you know that’s what happens. Oh! Yes, I do! Jed. Your architect.”

“Yeah, Jed’s told me all the trials and tribulations.” He hesitated, but with closure in mind decided he might as well get it all out on the table. “But I already knew a lot because of my mother.”

“Your mother? I don’t...?”

“She was in a wheelchair the last few months. It wasn’t the same for her as it is for you, she wasn’t a paraplegic, she could stand, she could walk. She just couldn’t walk and breathe at the same time.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“I mean I heard about...”

“Her death? It’s all right, Zoe, you can say the word.”

“I heard, but not when it happened. Not until later. When I was in Chicago.”

“That would have been three months after she died.”

“Oh you...you know when I was in Chicago?”

“Google, blog?”

“Yes. I see.”

“Don’t worry, I hadn’t expected you’d fly in for the funeral.”

“I would have...” But she gave up, her shoulders rising, falling, her hands going to her thighs, rubbing agitatedly.

“What? Sent a sympathy card?”

“Yes, I guess,” she said, diffident. “Or...or something.”

He took another sip of his rum, tasted nothing because he was too busy digesting that, wanting to let it go, knowing he couldn’t. “Lily’s mother was at the funeral. She made me a million casseroles. I figured Lily would’ve told you.”

She shook her head. No words now, just a stricken look that infuriated him because it made him want to grovel for her, tell her it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, when it did matter and he did care. His world had collapsed and he’d been stranded, alone, adrift, the entire purpose of his life gone in an instant. With Zoe’s last words in that hospital room buzzing in his head as they’d been doing for months: If you need a pity project, go back to your mother.

His mother. His kind, smart, gentle, generous mother. A pity project?And now to discover Zoe hadn’t had the decency to ask her friends about his mother’s death?

She reached for his hand. Too late. He was already jerking it up to his heart as though he could rub the ache away. No touching. Not now. Not now.

“Finn!” His name sounded like it was wrenched out of her. “You don’t understand. The first year, that year after I left, I didn’t talk to anyone. Even the girls I talked to only once, on my birthday. My parents—”

“Took you on a holiday to get over the trauma, I know, we all knew.”

“Not a holiday. That’s just what we told people so that...” She shook her head. “Not a holiday. My parents were looking for a cure, and we didn’t want anyone pestering us for updates because if it didn’t work we... I...needed to be able to break down in private when the hope was gone.”

He closed his eyes, absorbing the force of that dizzying blow. He’d been wrong. Completely wrong. Face it, face her! He opened his eyes. And knew he could rub his heart until the end of time and it wouldn’t help, not when he could see in her face that she’d been carrying the pain of that lost hope for ten years and it was still so raw she couldn’t touch it. So raw...and yet last night he’d asked her to dig it up, to remember it so he could heal. “I’m sorry, Zoe, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you want to save me. Like you can save me. Just don’t, Finn, please don’t. I can’t bear it. From anyone else, yes, but not from you, never from you. I thought... I used to think...you understood that.”

“No,” he said. “If I understood I wouldn’t have—” No use. The words choked inside him. That night. She didn’t want to talk about that night.

“My injury, it’s not complete,” she went on, the floodgates brutally open. “I still...feel. Nothing much. Tingles. Pain—which is really annoying.” Short laugh. “I can’t describe what it’s like. A ghostlike sensation...a dream of what could be, almost. Mum and Dad...they took those signs to mean I was going to walk again. I had to give them a chance to try and find a miracle.”

“Give them a chance?”

“Yes, them,” she insisted. “I knew there was no miracle but how could I not let them try and fix me? They’d always have wondered if there was something they could have done and blamed themselves for not giving it their all. It wasn’t until we got to Sydney that I broke down and begged them, begged them to stop, to let me just live. Live my life.” She dragged in a breath, attempted a smile that didn’t quite get there. “If I hadn’t fallen apart, we’d probably still be traveling, nine years later, on an endless, futile quest.”

“Why didn’t they take you home with them, Zoe?”

“Superstition,” she said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Superstition. Mine, not theirs. Can you imagine what it’s like living your whole life as though you’re about to drop dead?”

“Actually, yes,” he said. “I don’t remember a time when my mother wasn’t sick.”

Her hand came up, hovering as though she’d touch him. He stiffened because no, no this was not going to be the time she touched him, out of pity. As though reading his mind, that hand floated back down to settle in her lap. “Yes, I see. And I remember, yes, I do remember, Ewan at the Crab Shack asking you every day how she was. People coming in, looking at you but being too scared to ask.”

“My reputation preceded me.” A ghost of a grin. “Thankfully, I scared them off. There’s nothing worse than everyone asking... Well, you know.”

She smiled sadly at him. “I guess that’s why you understood me better than anyone else and never asked me how I was. The daily hazard of living in Hawke’s Cove. Everyone waiting for an illness to carry me off.” Pause. “And in the end I was my own self-fulfilling prophecy. Poor Zoe. Sick Zoe. Frail Zoe. When there was nothing poor, sick or frail about me...until at last there was, and I was bitter enough at the time to think, great, now everyone will finally be happy and leave me alone.”

“Is that why you never go back?”

“Yes, it’s why I don’t go back. It’s why I had to leave. And so... I did leave. Though it wasn’t exactly the way I planned my exit. And you left too. And the rest, as they say—” She held up her glass, a toast-like gesture.

“Is history,” he said and clinked his glass against hers, and sipped.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Vanilla-infused rum. Distilled in Tahiti. Want to try it? I can get you a glass.”

She held out her hand. “I can just drink out of yours.”

They’d done this before, shared milkshakes. And yet...this was new because when she took the glass she twisted it so the section of rim where his mouth had been was where she would put her mouth. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, raised the glass, sipped from the exact same spot.

Oh boy, that hit him in the solar plexus. Go. Go! Another signal, stronger.

And like a lightning bolt, a plan rocketed into his head. He had the boat, now he had the strategy—not to find a way back to what he and Zoe once were, but to move forward.

“But since we’re here in the present for the next five days,” he said, “and since you’re not on a junket and would prefer to live like a local, and I know my way around a wheelchair, as well as being something of an expert on this part of the world despite being an Irish-English-kind-of-Australian, I’m perfectly placed to be your escort. I can take you to a bakery to buy a baguette so good you’ll think you were in Paris. To the local roulottes for the most delicious crepes to be found outside Normandy. Snorkeling off a deserted motu, swimming at a pink sand beach, on visits to locally run vanilla and pearl farms. Pick one and let me make it happen for you. Or pick them all and we’ll challenge ourselves, see how many we can squeeze into our five days.”

“Let you make it happen for me,” she repeated, and frowned. He mentally kicked himself because those were the words he’d said ten years ago in that hospital room when he was too young and arrogant and stupid to know he was promising the impossible. He hoped, he really did, she didn’t remember them now.

She shook her head as though shaking off a thought—whew!—and laughed her sunshiny laugh. “Hmm, well, I’ve had someone make fishing happen for me today—he even wanted to bait my hook—so the competition is fierce for that particular honor.”

“Bait your—”

“He wanted to land my fish for me, too.”

“And you haven’t beaten him to a pulp? You’d better give me the whole saga so I know what level of idiot we’re dealing with.”

“Are you asking as the boss of Poerava, because I don’t want there to be any ramifications for—”

“Told you before, I’m asking for a friend.”

“Oh, on that basis...” She leaned a little closer, twinkling and telling secrets like the old days. “He told me that the way I swam, he knew that with a little work I’d be out of the wheelchair in no time.”

“What the f—”

“Cris was not amused. In fact, she told him to... Let’s just say that what she told him to do would be anatomically uncomfortable!”

“And what did you do?”

“I explained my gym workout, which is what keeps my upper body strong.”

“Very...patient of you. What other clangers did he make?”

“He told everyone on the boat what an inspiration I am.”

“And you definitely didn’t swing at him?” he said with the air of someone getting their facts straight. Then his sense of humor deserted him. “Of course you didn’t. You took it all, didn’t you?”

“What?” she said, all faux outrage. “Are you saying I’m not an inspiration?”

“I’m saying he’s a tool. And I suppose he pushed your chair for you like he did on the boat.”

“Hmm, he tried to.”

“And lifted you out of it.”

“Offered to.”

“Definitely a tool. And I warn you, Zoe, I’m very tempted to do something anatomically uncomfortable to him.”

She laughed, and it caught at his heart the way it always did, and then she opened her mouth, closed it, opened it.

He waved one hand in a bring it gesture. “Come on.”

She blushed...hesitated...squared those stubborn shoulders. “I just... I want you to know that even though I can do everything for myself, sometimes I do let people push my wheelchair. Lift me out of it, too. People I know, people who understand me, people I...” She paused. He saw, could almost feel, the breath she drew in, watched her tongue dart out to moisten her bottom lip. “People I trust.” Another pause. Her hands were going up and down her thighs but she kept her eyes on his and he knew she was about to say something vital. “Some people—the ones I trust—don’t even have to ask, they can just...do what needs to be done.”

Ooooh. This was bad. Good. Bad. Perfect. Oh God, how was he supposed to handle this? “I...I used to push my mother. Lift her. She taught me...so much. How to, when to, what not to do.” He shrugged, feeling stupid.

She smiled. “I figured as much.”

“She taught me not to overstep.”

“Smart.”

“Are you telling me you trust me, Zoe?”

A heartbeat. She drew in one more breath. Nodded once, twice.

The invitation was there. To touch her. It would be so easy. He wanted to feel her skin, breathe her in. But he wasn’t going to overstep, not for anything in the world.

All he did was reach a hand toward her hair, and yet he felt the shiver that rippled through her. Her eyelids drifted closed. She was holding her breath, waiting for him. He traced the tip of one finger around a single frangipani bloom, and that shiver came again. He looked down and yes, her nipples had gone hard, and God knew he was hard as a damn rock just at the sight of them.

“I like the way you wear these,” he said. His voice was revealingly hoarse but he didn’t care. Let her hear what she did to him, let her know, it was time. “The flowers, the clips, the crystals and pins.”

“My version of a tiara,” she said breathily as she opened her eyes. “I’ve always wanted one.”

“Princess Zoe in the tower.” His fingertip lingered on the petal. “The frangipani tree is strong, but the flowers bruise easily.”

She looked steadily at him. “Then I guess I’m like the tree, not the flower. I don’t bruise easily, Finn. Not then, and definitely not now.”

Oh, how he wanted to touch her, wanted to do more than touch, wanted to put his hands, his mouth, all over her, wanted to make her moan his name. He hovered on the brink of asking her to come to his bungalow, let him do all the things he wanted to do...

His hand started shaking, so hard he had to pull it away.

Wrong move.

He saw embarrassment in her eyes, felt her withdrawal as she crossed her arms over her chest. She thought he didn’t want to touch her, when he wanted to touch her so much it was terrifying.

She nodded as though to say, It’s OK, I get it, and laughed a laugh that somehow wasn’t hers. She called up the table to Matilda, “Hey, Tilly—I thought you said there’d be Long Island Iced Tea?”

“Oh, there will be,” Matilda called back. “Finn, catch us up on the champagne! Once it’s gone I’m taking my extra special tea recipe to Tepatua.”

Swallowing a you blew it sigh, Finn poured the champagne.