Chapter Seventeen
The urge to write woke Zoe an hour earlier than usual the next morning.
She sat at her computer and without thinking started an email to her parents, describing the vanilla farm and Motu Marama, signing off with a jaunty “Princess Zoe” because that was how she pictured herself, under the palm trees, surveying her lagoon kingdom.
She stared at the word “Princess,” thinking of that fractured fairy tale about Rapunzel and the idiot prince she and Finn had laughed over on Monday night. She understood why she’d woken with the need to write: sometime between laughing with Finn about the meaning of vanilla on Motu Marama and the end of the dinner Finn had hosted for the media in Tāma’a last night, that awful feeling of suffocation had lifted. It was as though she’d gone back to Hawke’s Cove in that time machine after all and Finn Doherty was daring her into climbing into Sir Gaden’s stolen dinghy and she was feeling reckless because she was with him, restless for something to happen. Feeling...alive.
Alive, but not in the naive way she’d felt at sixteen. Not even in the way she’d felt on Monday night when she’d so calculatedly decided to ask him to have sex with her only to lose her nerve.
Ever since Finn had stripped off his shirt on the beach yesterday the unsettling swirl of feelings she used to have when she looked at him had been meshing and merging with something new, something hot and needy and hungry. There was nothing calculated now about the way she felt, nothing intellectual about it, it was just there—like the shivers that wracked her when he was near or even when she was only thinking about him. She thought of those shivers as a visible manifestation of a craving she’d always had but hadn’t truly comprehended until she’d seen him that night with Jess Trewes. Yes, she wanted the fun and fairy tales of the past, but she wanted more, and the more she wanted was the Finn Doherty of now.
Last night at dinner he’d been every inch the owner of Poerava. Charming, commanding, in his element. Magnetic rather than handsome. Darkly, exhilaratingly so. Zoe had been at a different table and he hadn’t come near her, but he’d looked at her often and that eye-locking thing had happened over and over again, making her breathless with longing for what would happen next.
The feeling that something wonderful, something exciting, was possible was there in the words she’d just written to her parents, in the words she’d written to them last night even though she hadn’t understood the truth until this moment—that Finn was responsible for that feeling.
So...why hadn’t she yet told them about Finn being on the island?
Of course she wasn’t going to trumpet the news that she was in lust with the man. That would likely send them into apoplexy. But she could—she should—tell them he owned the resort. She owed it to Finn to tell them. See, I tried to tell you he wasn’t a no-hoper!
OK, she was going to do it.
She rubbed her hands together, then wriggled her fingers over the keyboard, and taking a quick breath popped in a throwaway line at the end.
She reread the line. Shook her head.
It looked out of place.
Delete.
She tried again, higher up in the email. Decided it didn’t work there either. Didn’t work in the next place she selected, or the next.
It was too short. Too bald. And because it was too short and bald it looked too...too weighty. They’d read something into it she didn’t want them to read.
OK, so she’d just describe how he looked. A show-not-tell thing. What he’d been wearing last night. Tailored charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt—not the scruffy jeans and T-shirt her parents would remember. His hair, perfectly cut. His shoulders, so broad. The strength of his chest and arms and thighs. And his eyes, like the sky only brighter and bluer and...
Ugh!
No good.
She could not write about the way he looked.
She thought of other things she could say about him. What he’d told her that night in his bungalow, or at the bar, or on the beach...
No, they were too...well, private. He’d always seen her parents as the enemy; it would be tantamount to a betrayal to reveal to them anything he’d said to her.
Hmm. She’d have to find the words tomorrow and write about him in her next email. So...send.
Whew. Gone.
She turned as Cristina came out of her bedroom. “Ready to hit the gym?” she asked. “I want to challenge myself today so I’m going to up my weights.”
And of course, because Zoe had pushed herself to her absolute limit and was a bedraggled, sticky-haired mess at the end of her allocated hour, Finn just had to turn up at the gym.
He was wearing the loose singlet and shorts she’d visualized him in, muscles rippling, looking vital and virile and squeaky clean, and he was striding over to her like a man on a mission.
“Glad I caught you both!” he said. “I understand you’re booked into the spa with Matilda today.”
“That’s the plan,” Zoe said, surreptitiously sniffing herself.
He smiled his chipped-tooth smile and Zoe’s heart started flopping around in her chest even though that smile was directed at Cristina. “If Zoe can spare you I thought you might like to dodge the spa and take a cooking class. It’s a short boat ride away but Captain Joe’s free to take you.”
Zoe tried to listen as he talked about the acclaimed French chef who’d be teaching his signature dish, but she caught only snippets because she was shivering again and wondering if she could wheel just a little bit closer. Duck breast...blah blah... Tahitian honey...blah blah... If I get closer I might be able to smell that aphrodisiacal soap... Puff pastry...blah blah... No, stay where you are, Zoe, you stink... Sweetbreads...blah blah... Hang on—isthat one dish or an entire menu? Risotto, blah blah... OK, Zoe, snap out of it.
Finn ended with, “So what do you say?”
The light of the true food zealot was glowing in Cristina’s eyes, making Zoe smile because she’d seen Lily look exactly like that.
“Lily would kill to take that class,” Zoe said.
But Cristina, after a scrunched-eye moment, shook her head. “No, if it’s on a different island I can’t go.”
“Sure you can,” Zoe said.
“No, Zoe.”
Geez. Not this again. “I’ll be with Matilda,” Zoe remonstrated. “I’ll be fine.”
Another shake of Cristina’s head. “I can’t leave you for that long when I won’t be able to get to you quickly if you need me.”
“Then how about I do the class with you?” an exasperated Zoe offered, not wanting Cristina to go into full-on self-sacrifice mode. “That way I can share the recipe with Lily and she can maybe give it a local Devon twist and put it on The Sea Rose menu.”
Cristina ping-ponged a deer-in-the-headlights look between Zoe and Finn. “What about the spa?”
Zoe brushed that aside with a flick of her wrist. “I can go to a spa anytime. And I haven’t done a cooking class since Thailand. Remember when we made Yam Pla Dook Foo? It’ll be fun.”
There was an arrested moment where nobody moved, nobody spoke; then Finn picked up Zoe’s baton and ran with it.
“Good idea,” he said, and got a sharp look from Cristina. “I wonder, though, if The Sea Rose might be more interested in seafood dishes. I mean, you know, the sea.”
Zoe didn’t know how the conversation segued to the Doherty Berne food philosophy, which was all about fresh produce sourced locally, but segue it did. And as Zoe reefed out her notebook and started jotting down a few notes for her article (and for Lily, who would absolutely agree with everything Finn said), the discussion became focused on French Polynesian specialities. And somehow, by the time Zoe’s pencil stopped scratching on the page, the cooking class was now being conducted in Poerava’s kitchen by Finn’s head chef, no boat ride required. Furthermore, they’d be preparing poisson cru because it would be a “crime” to leave French Polynesia without learning how to prepare the dish of the islands. In fact, it was about time Finn learned how to make it himself, so he’d join them if that was all right.
Next minute, Zoe and Cristina were on their way back to their bungalow and Zoe had no idea how that transition to Poerava and poisson cru had actually occurred.
Nor why Finn would bother joining them when he could invade the Poerava kitchen anytime.
It was the first thing Zoe asked Finn when they joined him at the entrance to the kitchen after the breakfast service had finished.
“Every time I’ve tried I’ve been called away,” he said. He ushered them into the kitchen and over to an unenthusiastic-looking man.
“Gaspard,” Finn said after the introductions, “Cristina is quite a chef as well as a fishing aficionado. Why don’t you run through the essentials with her?”
“You like fishing?” Gaspard said, eyes sparking.
As Gaspard started talking to Cristina, Finn raised his eyebrows at Zoe, simultaneously rolling his eyes toward the conversing couple and jerking his head toward the other side of an enormous table that was being cleared of kitchen paraphernalia by one of the staff. Quite the performance.
Zoe heard something about the catch of the day being yellowfin tuna and deciding that was as detailed as she needed to get, she followed Finn.
“He doesn’t want to teach us, does he?” Zoe hissed, because it was so obvious.
He didn’t bother contradicting her. “She’ll win him over.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s temperamental but she’s one of his kind.”
“No, I mean why are we here and not on that other course?”
He huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Zoe, surely you saw the look of entreaty Cristina gave me when you offered to make that duck-whatever-it-is with her. Pretty sure it has something to do with your Yam Pla Dook Foo. I read about it in one of your blogs.”
Zoe gasped. And up went her hands, over her face, and she was choking on laughter.
“Hey,” he said, “could have been worse.”
She dropped her hands, still laughing. “I assure you it couldn’t!” She grimaced. “So I ruined her lesson.”
“How so?”
“She’ll be disappointed she missed out on the advanced class.”
“I’ll make it up to her. Just remember next time I suggest a cooking class you’re not allowed to offer to go with her. She’ll never say no to you, you know that. No one ever could, Zoe.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. So work with me, OK?”
“Fine!”
“And yeah, she might be disappointed when she sees that poisson cru is nothing more than raw fish marinated in lime juice and soaked in coconut milk—”
“You already know how to make it? Seriously, why are you here?”
“I want to see what you think of our kitchen and our chef. For the article.”
“I can see your tongue in your cheek,” she said.
“OK, OK. I’ve made poisson cru a few times, but I haven’t made poisson cru ananas and that’s what Gaspard’s showing us. It’s much more complicated.”
“How complicated?”
He grinned at her. “You add pineapple slices.”
“Oh! You!”
“And I don’t think Gaspard will cope with a Yam Pla Dook Foo-style disaster so I’m here to take the heat when it all goes down.”
She gasped out a helpless laugh, which was interrupted by an impatient Gaspard telling them he was ready to start.
Gaspard waited until everyone was settled, then waited an extra few beats—for dramatic effect, Zoe thought, and had to squelch a giggle at his seriousness. And then he said: “Most dishes here in French Polynesia will have a French and a Polynesian name. Poisson cru is French and translates into raw fish. Simple, no?”
Zoe and Cristina dutifully nodded.
“But here at Poerava,” he continued, “we prefer the Polynesian name: e’ia ota.”
“And what does that mean?” Zoe asked.
Gaspard gave a Gallic shrug. “Raw fish,” he said.
Finn burst out laughing, which made a giggle erupt from Zoe. Both of them were threatened with being evicted from the kitchen.
“But when I say it is simple,” Gaspard intoned once order had been restored, “it is not!”
Over the next twenty minutes, Zoe scribbled furiously as Gaspard waxed lyrical about the best types of fish to use—sashimi grade yellowfin tuna, which they would be using today, jackfish, striped marlin, even mackerel (ergh, mackerel!) as long as it was fresh, fresh, fresh... The zest of the marinade resulting from the exquisite balance of lime juice—so fresh—and salt... The delight of massaging the marinade into the flesh of the fish... The joy of choosing vibrantly colorful vegetables to make the dish a feast for the eyes as well as the palate—fresh, fresh, the freshest!... The choice of pineapple—the crunch, the juiciness.
“And of course, the coconut milk,” Gaspard said, and waited a beat. “What do we say this must be?”
“Fresh,” Cristina said, as serious as Gaspard, who beamed at her, his star pupil, while Finn caught Zoe’s eye and pulled a cross-eyed face that had her biting her trembling lip.
“Above all,” Gaspard said, finishing his course introduction with a grand flourish of both hands, “time is of the essence. We must be fast. Any longer than eleven minutes in our marinade will overcook our fish, and the flavors will invade the flesh. We do not want an invasion, we want a relationship!”
“No invasion,” Zoe murmured, her shoulders shaking as she bent over her notebook. No way was she going to let Finn catch her eye this time or she’d be in hysterics.
Not that the food itself was funny. Far from it. From what Zoe could tell, poisson cru in any of the permutations Gaspard rattled off was about as close to sustainable eating—the virtues of which Lily was always extolling—as it was possible to get. Always made with the freshest of ingredients, all readily available and abundant throughout French Polynesia.
It was while they were chopping their fresh-fresh-freshest vegetables that Finn moved his chair closer to Zoe and whispered, “Remember that time you asked Ewan if you should freeze the cod for the next day’s fish cakes?”
“Yes! He chased me out of the kitchen.”
“Dare you to ask Gaspard what he does with the fish that’s left over from the catch of the day.”
“No!” Zoe said, feeling a giggle bubbling up.
“Double dare you.”
“Finn, I’m holding a knife!”
“That you barely know how to use. I’m safe to triple dare you!”
“Shh,” Zoe hissed back, struggling not to laugh.
“OK, you asked for it, quadruple dare you.”
At which point they were interrupted by Gaspard demanding irritably: “What’s going on over there?”
Finn cast Zoe a speaking look and mouthed: “Quintuple dare.”
She bared her teeth at him but then blinked limpidly at Gaspard. “I was just wondering what you did with the leftover yellowfin tuna, Gaspard. Do you freeze it?”
Gaspard stared at her for one awful moment. “Do not talk to me of frozen fish,” he said grandly.
“Sorry, Gaspard,” she said, pretending to be chastened as Gaspard returned his attention to his star pupil, Cristina.
Finn was practically wheezing as Zoe tried—and failed—to glare at him.
“Just for that, Finlay Doherty,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, “I’m going to make you eat my poisson cru ananas.”
There was a short burst of laughter, which Finn swallowed as Gaspard swiveled to face him with a threatening look in his eye.
“Sorry!” he said meekly, but he did the cross-eyed thing at Zoe the moment Gaspard released him from his ire, and she had to clench everything in her entire body to stop from giggling.
Zoe gave it her best shot but for all of Gaspard’s instructions, Cristina’s assistance, and Finn’s cheekily offered hints (or perhaps because of those), her poisson cru ended up looking like minced slime.
Finn, to his credit, despite sending her a please don’t make me look that had her giggling again, swapped plates with her, and while she ate his marginally more appetizing offering he manfully swallowed hers, complete with over-the-top grimaces that somehow made her heart feel as light and sweet as sponge cake.
And then the lesson was over.
Finn went to consult with Gaspard about the farewell cocktail party that was planned for Sunday night and she and Cristina chatted as they cleaned up their respective stations at the table.
It had been the most uncomplicated fun Zoe had had in...hmm...she couldn’t actually remember. Even at Christmas when she’d been with the girls on the beach drinking champagne the mood had been shadowed by what was going on with Victoria and Oliver, and the time in Hawaii with Malie had been complicated by Malie’s conflicted feelings about Todd.
That was what love did. Made even the fun things messy.
She thought back to her conversation with Lily about wanting to know what it was like to be in love and there—twisting inside her—was that strange sensation, the tide that kept pulling her, like a...a grief, almost. For her friends, for the past, for Devon, for what might have been. But also there was what Finn had promised on the motu yesterday, to not let her drift too far, and that was like an anchor to who she was now. It felt as though her past and her present were colliding, and she wasn’t ready for the impact.
She pushed the thoughts aside. The past had waited ten years; it could wait three more days. As for the present, the whole afternoon stretched ahead of them and Finn—heading purposefully toward them—would have a suggestion for how to fill it from his “live like a local” list.
“Cristina,” he said when he reached them, “if you ever want a job in the resort kitchen, let me know. It’s not easy to impress Gaspard but you’ve done it.”
He touched Cristina, just a small touch on her elbow, and Zoe held her breath hoping he was going to touch her too. Elbow, hand, arm, hair, somewhere, anywhere. Please!
Notepad. He’d almost brushed fingers with her on Monday night when he’d held it out to her, so maybe if she held it out to him?
“Finn,” she said, and bravely offered it, page open at the poissoncru recipe. “Could you maybe check that I got the thing about the vegetables right? I need it to be perfect before I send it to Lily. She...she’s fussy about this stuff.”
He looked a fraction too long at her mouth before his eyes dropped to the notepad, and then he looked a fraction too long at that. His lips parted, his fingers seemed to spasm, his jaw clenched. Zoe waited, expectant, hopeful, her silent wish—touch me!—hanging unvoiced in the air.
The moment stretched, stretched...
And then Finn said: “Gaspard’s the one to ask about that.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners. “But right now I’m needed elsewhere. I’d better rush. Let Aiata know if you need anything.”
“Oh,” Zoe said, and swallowed. “Of course. Thanks. For the lesson.”
“My pleasure,” he said, but it was at best a perfunctory response, and he strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
“I’ll check it for you, Zoe,” Cristina offered, taking the notepad, scrutinizing the words. “Looks fine. But maybe type it out for Lily instead of scanning it. So what do you want to do this afternoon?”
“Hmm?” She’d been so certain Finn would come up with a suggestion.
“Tilly’s sent a text saying the Taurumi massage is swoon-worthy.”
“Taurumi massage?” Of course Finn had work to do. At least she hoped he did, hoped she hadn’t said or done anything to make him run away. Maybe she should go over it all, moment by moment...
“Er... Zo? Anything in particular you want to do?”
“Sorry.” Zoe gave herself a mental shake, looked at Cristina, caught a soul-destroying flash of sympathy in her eyes, made somehow worse by the fact it was so quickly concealed. What did she want to do? Go to bed and cry her eyes out. But she wouldn’t do that. Never, ever.
OK, snap back. She could go to the spa. She could laze on the beach. Visit the newly opened Giant Clam Sanctuary—Gaz could arrange it with thirty minutes’ notice. Call Kupe Kahale and make arrangements to go to Heia Island, ask a few supplementary questions for her article on him, have an early dinner at his famous restaurant and snap his photo, which would mean she could bow out of the Saturday dinner gracefully.
But, “I think I’ll go back to the bungalow,” she said. “I owe Mum and Dad an email. Why don’t you go and get that massage?”
“If this is like the fishing trip and the cooking class, and you’re shooing me off for a massage because you think it’s what I want—”
“I promise this is all about me,” Zoe assured her. “I want to tell them about the cooking class and I need to do it before the details fade.”
And to her surprise, Zoe realized that wasn’t an excuse, it was the truth. She knew it would make her parents smile to hear about the class, the way she’d felt their smile in their last two emails to her. They’d got back to her so quickly after she’d sent that email this morning, telling her how much they’d loved her description of the beach, and that Matilda sounded like Malie, and Daniel like Brad (who, she’d be interested to know, had become somewhat “unfit” since becoming a father). Again, no cautionary paragraphs, no safety reminders, no suggestions for ensuring her safety. It was weird but it was also wow, and she was determined to keep sharing her life with them, and making them smile and showing them she was not...not lost.