Chapter 1
One
February 25
The turbulence is terrible. I’ve never flown before, so I should be a nervous wreck and afraid the plane will break apart, but I’m numb. Shortly after takeoff, the captain announced that in-flight service is suspended for the remainder of the flight. Looks like no Goose and cran to further dull my senses.
I scroll through the songs I downloaded to my pay-as-you-go phone. Ben canceled landline service at the house when he moved out. He had no reason to talk to me anymore. I’m glad I had enough money tucked away to buy this phone. I don’t have anyone to call—Ben’s family won’t answer—but I want to be available in case my sons need me. A mother can always hope. At last, I pick the ’70s playlist, shut my eyes, and enjoy the distraction of Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s “Southern Cross.”
I startle awake when the car hits a massive road bump at high speed, only to realize I’m on an airplane, not on the back roads in Maine. I was dreaming about Cole’s birthday. After the judge ruled Ben gets full custody, Carol made a point of telling me she was hosting a party next week and I’m not invited. They’re keeping me out of the boys’ lives completely.
Wiping the tears that well in my eyes, I turn my gaze toward the window, where everything’s a blur. When Ben moved out, his parents let me visit the boys every Wednesday and Saturday, but when I asked about Christmas, which was on a Thursday, they said I wasn’t allowed to see the boys at all. I was too greedy. And then since I hadn’t seen the boys in nearly two months, the judge said I’d abandoned them and gave full custody to Ben. I absently rub my chest to soften the pain. Do hearts literally break? I wish I had money for an attorney to fight for my boys.
The Cushings haven’t let me talk to my sons either.
“Cole is running a fever today and won’t be able to come to the phone.”
“Luke has a playdate that can’t be changed.”
Or the worst excuse: “Isa, they don’t want to talk to you.”
I sold the furniture Ben didn’t want and my dead mother’s wedding bands, but that won’t pay for an attorney’s retaining fees. I’m glad Martha was able to convert the second ticket into cash so I can afford to buy meals during my trip. I’m hoping my appetite returns. I just haven’t been hungry these past few months.
The seat belt sign has been on for nearly the entire flight, but now the captain announces we’re making our approach to St. Thomas. I blink, and the beautiful aqua waters of St. John and St. Thomas come into focus.
This trip is perfectly timed. I’ll be so far away I won’t be tempted to show up at the Cushings’ for the party. It’s likely I would’ve been arrested for wishing my youngest son happy birthday. I rub at my sternum and wince. Even if I had the money for an attorney, what family court judge would grant even partial custody to a mother who had to be forcibly removed from her child’s birthday party by the police?
I want Cole to have a wonderful day, even if it is without his mom. I hope someday he understands why I wasn’t there when he turned three. I hope the Cushing clan says nice things about me—even if they don’t believe those things––and hugs the boys when they’re sad and missing me.
The huge bumps don’t rattle me as we come in for our landing at STT, St. Thomas’s airport. Despite the rocky approach, the landing is smooth and unremarkable. I gather my things from the overhead compartment and wait my turn to exit the plane. I make it through customs quickly, but I suppose that’s because I’m an American. Now I need a ride to the ferry over to St. John.
Outside, taxi drivers with vans that would never pass an inspection in Maine are parked in a line. A look around shows these are my only options, so I walk over to the first van, and a driver meets me, reaching out to take my luggage.
“I’m Sebastian. I can drive you wherever you want to go on the island, ma’am,” he says as he puts my bags, which contain everything I own, into the back of his van.
“I need to get to the St. John ferry.” My face is too stiff to smile, so I try to at least look pleasant. The warm breezes feel good on my broken body.
“I will take you, ma’am. It’s a short ride to Red Hook Ferry.”
Once seated in the row behind the driver, I allow him to make eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. “Where are you visiting from?”
“I’m from Maine.” I don’t have a home or family left to be with.
“That’s very north. We welcome many in from the cold! You will enjoy the warm sunshine here, ma’am. It is a beautiful day on St. Thomas.” Sebastian smiles, and it lights up his dark brown eyes.
I watch out the window the winding road takes us over hills and past tropical palms and flowers. The nutmeg scent is relaxing, and the intensity of my body’s aches eases somewhat. The sun hits the island at a different angle than at home, and the change is a nice distraction.
At the ferry landing, I thank the driver and pay him, being sure to tip him as extravagantly as my meager budget will allow, mostly for being the first person in a long time who was genuinely kind to me.
“Enjoy your stay, ma’am, and you call Sebastian whenever you need a ride.” He hands me his business card that says only “Sebastian” and a phone number written in neat blue ink.
“Of course. Thank you.” I tuck the card into the pocket of my leggings as Sebastian gets into his van and drives off, beeping his horn with a happy beat.
I walk over to the small building to look at the ferry schedule and to exchange my voucher for a ticket to St. John. “The ferry is due in about fifteen minutes and departs every hour on the hour,” the woman selling tickets dutifully says.
“Thank you.” I accept my ticket and store it in the front pocket of my backpack, making sure to move Sebastian’s card there too. “I’m thirsty from the plane.”
“Then you want to go that way”—she points across the marina’s parking lot—“and try an island slush. Made with fresh fruit grown right here on St. Tom.”
I follow the ticket seller’s directions and soon find myself with half a coconut in my hands. Its hollowed-out shell is filled with an icy concoction that a sign said contains pineapple, orange, coconut water, and ice. I take a big bite, then wince as brain freeze strikes. Ow! I rub my forehead, finding it somewhat sweaty. A low stone retaining wall borders the street, so I find a section out of the sun and sit down.
My surroundings full of sun and warmth are so different from the land I left behind this morning. I swing my feet idly as sedans, trucks, and motorcycles drive by. Some of the occupants wave as they pass; similarities do exist.
A marine horn sounds, and I look up to see the ferry maneuvering into its berth. I gather my luggage, swing my backpack onto my shoulder, and hop off the wall. The sun beats down on me, heating my head as I cross the asphalt. My fingers are sticky from the island slush, and I’m grateful my path passes a trash can. I dispose of the coconut shell—I’m tempted to hold onto it as a souvenir, but I don’t have the space or a place to rinse it out. I don’t know how far away my lodgings are from the ferry on St. John.
After boarding the ferry, I drop my bags next to my feet at the bow. Leaning against the safety rail, I look out across the most beautiful blue sea to my destination in the distance. This is enough to cheer anyone up, no matter how sad and broken they are.
The other ferry riders are loud, raising their voices to be heard over the boat’s engines. A child screams. The woman next to me at the railing jostles me as the ferry cuts through a particularly rough wave, and I step away, only to bump into another traveler. Does no one know the meaning of personal space?
The ferry easily crosses the four miles between the islands, and we dock in no time. Once on shore, I swing my backpack around to my front so I can retrieve the folder of information from Martha Sullivan. I brush away the memory of the pitying look on her face when I claimed my prize and said I’d be going alone. I orient myself as I look at the map I found in the folder. A pink sticky note tells me I’m in villa eight at the Cinnamon Bay Villas; the key is in the conch shell on the step.
I drag my luggage toward the villas, my feet dragging too. Hot, sticky, and thirsty again, I’m miserable and ready to collapse. A cool shower will be even more impressive than the harbor views.
The key is indeed beneath the conch; how cute. I open the door and smile with relief. This is better than I dreamed of. The kids would love it, and my smile turns into tears at the thought of them.
Once through the door, I drop my backpack on a dining room chair. A bowl of local fruit sits on the table along with a note from the management company. “Please enjoy yourself and if you need anything at all, please call. Thank you, Sam.”
I look around the small villa, marveling at the wooden cathedral ceiling that makes the space look larger than it is. The villa is wider than it is deep. To my right, beyond the dining table, is a tiny kitchenette. To my left is a rattan couch and matching easy chair. The couch acts as a partition, separating the bedroom area and a door that must lead to the bathroom from the rest of the space. French doors open onto a white-sand beach, and I decide to forget the shower. The ocean is calling my name.
I pull my suitcase to the bedroom and heft it onto the webbed stand put there for this purpose. The zipper protests at first, then slides smoothly along the track. I dig out the pieces of my suit and my flip-flops, slather on sunscreen, and grab a towel. I follow the sandy path a short distance to the beach and set my towel down on one of the lounge chairs. My flip-flops are quickly left behind as I dash to the water.
Warmth splashes over my toes, and I shudder with pleasure. The Caribbean Sea is a stark contrast from the icy waves that jab into a person on Maine’s shores. I wade out into the water and push off the bottom so I can float. My body feels good and warm and happy now that I’ve put distance between me and the craziness and lies from over the past few months. But I still miss my babies.
I allow my legs to drop so I turn upright and bob in the gentle surf. The water is crystal clear, and when I look down, I can see the bottom perfectly. My body feels weightless in the new red bikini that I bought for the trip.
Before now, I never owned a bikini. Buying a swimsuit in Maine in February meant I didn’t have much of a selection. I wasn’t sure about the skimpiness of this bikini, but whatever self-consciousness thoughts I may have had about wearing it are gone. Maybe because I have lost weight not eating while going through the custody battle and divorce, but more because the sun is able to touch most of my skin, its rays healing me from the inside out. I’m not here to turn heads anyway.
I lean back and resume floating; it’s effortless. The water is saltier than in Maine, and I feel much more buoyant in this warm salty water. I’m enjoying the serenity until something hits me on the head, pulling my hair clip off. I let out a scream—was I bumped by a shark?—and flail toward shore as fast as I can. I’ve been afraid of sharks since childhood. Swimming in the ocean in Maine, whenever something touched me in the water, I automatically thought it was a shark.
“Hey! I’m sorry. I didn’t see ya,” a deep voice drawls behind me, and I stop fleeing. As I turn around, a small wave hits me and knocks me down in the shallow water. I try to get up, but more waves keep knocking me down again. How graceful. Finally getting myself to my feet, I smooth my wet, matted hair off my face so I can see who scared me.
“I didn’t mean to startle ya.” A blond man with an all-over tan easily jumps the waves as he heads toward me, his mirrored goggles reflecting the sun. As he nears, I notice how perfectly conditioned this shark’s body is. Maybe he’s an Olympic swimmer? He sure has the body of one. I wonder if he’s in training.
He grabs my arm and steadies me as another wave almost takes me down. “Thank you,” I say, coughing up a little seawater I swallowed when I was knocked down. Thank goodness no one is on the beach to have seen me make a fool of myself. No one other than this hot guy in goggles.
The man pushes his goggles up on his forehead, revealing the bluest eyes I have ever seen, along with a few crow’s feet. He’s close enough that I can see the liberal sprinkling of gray in his sun-bleached hair. He’s older than the swimmers I’ve seen on TV, so if he is a competitive swimmer, he’s probably retired. “I’m really sorry. I need to watch where I’m going.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t paying attention either.” Coughing did nothing to clear the water in my nose, and my voice sounds nasally, like I have a cold. “I’m just glad you aren’t a shark.”
“No, not a shark today.” He laughs and puts his goggles back over his eyes, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors. I look like a drowned rat. “Make sure ya wear plenty of sunscreen; you’re a little pink.”
I nod and watch as this gorgeous polite man turns away and dives back into the water. His strong arms slice through the surf, pulling him down the beach, parallel to the shoreline.
After being interrupted by that hot swimmer, I reapply sunscreen, then go back to my floating. I don’t want to work hard at anything, and I can’t allow that handsome swimmer to distract me from doing nothing.
When the tide starts to pull me away from the shore, I rouse from my semi-conscious state. The sun is no longer overhead, so I must have allowed the sea to cradle me for longer than I realized. A Jimmy Buffet song drifts my way as I climb from the water, and I look toward its source. A group of people wearing tropical shirts and khaki shorts are talking and laughing in front of what looks like a beach bar with a thatched roof a short walk away. I sniff the air, realizing that the fresh saltiness has been joined by the fragrance of frying fish. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten much at all today. That bar smells like a great place to have dinner.
After drying off, I wrap my towel around my waist like a skirt and gather my things, then follow my nose. I finger-comb my hair along the way so it looks somewhat presentable.
The man playing guitar and singing “Margaritaville” up-nods when I walk past the tropical shirts and through the doorway made by a retracted roll-up door. That side of the structure is open to the ocean, and I make a note to find out when sunset is. I think I’d enjoy a nightcap while watching the sun set into the sea.
Sand dragged in by customers crunches under my flip-flops as I make my way to the end of the bar farthest from the missing wall. My skin is starting to feel tender, and I want to stay out of the sun. The bartender comes over with a smile. “Welcome to We Be Jammin’, where the tunes are as fresh as our fruit. What can I get you?” She looks about my age, but I feel ancient next to her youthful, easy-going self.
“I should drink some water first, but I really want to try a local specialty. Nothing too sweet.”
“How about a sunburn?” she asks as she fills a glass with ice cubes and water and slides it in front of me. “It’s local rum—made with our own bay grown on the island—and I make all the juice fresh from local fruit. I don’t like supersweet drinks either, but I love this one.”
“Sounds good.”
As she makes my drink, I scan the bar. Not counting the tropical shirts loudly enjoying their drinks outside, there are probably about fifteen people here, including me. Seven couples and me. I sigh, and a wave of weariness sweeps over me. It’s been so long since Ben and I went out together. Hell, it’s been five years since I’ve even stepped foot in a place that didn’t offer a children’s menu. I guess this is my new normal—dining alone, without even the boys to keep me occupied.
“Here you go.” The bartender sets my drink down in front of me. “My name’s Sarah. Are you here by yourself?”
“Yup. I’m alone.” I straighten my shoulders and decide to embrace my new status. By myself, I have no one to answer to, no one to determine my schedule. I can order a dish for myself, not plan to eat my children’s leftovers. I beam. “I’m Isa.” I move the skewer with slices of pineapple, mango, and lime to the other side of the tall glass and take a sip of my drink. “This tastes like sunshine!”
Sarah salutes, then pulls a damp rag from below the bar and starts cleaning the bar top. “Are you a guest here at the villas?”
“Yes.” I take another sip. “It’s beautiful here.”
“How long are you down for?”
“A month, maybe more, if I can make my finances last.” I take another sip of sunshine. “I have to figure some things out, and what better place to do that than on a tropical beach?” My newfound bravery seeps out of me, leaving behind a familiar emptiness.
“Well, if you get lonely and want a friend, I’m here.” Sarah wipes crumbs into her hand and throws them into what I presume is a waste bin out of sight of her customers. Does she see a lot of lonely people like me? Alone and troubled?
“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” Sarah’s accent is distinctive, leading me to ask, “Are you from New England?”
“Boston. Born and raised.” She laughs. “I’m so glad I’m out of there. Too much drama and people trying to take everything from you.” The surface cleaning finished, she moves on to washing dirty glasses. “I came down about six years ago and never went back. Your accent reminds me of home.”
“I’m from Kennebunk, Maine. Not far from Boston, just over an hour away.”
“Ah-ha! See, I knew we were supposed to be friends.” Sarah’s glee is contagious, and I push aside the hollowness inside me, choosing instead to order another sunburn and a tropical salad that has oranges and coconut grilled shrimp on it.
This is just what I need to gain perspective—my tropical island escape. The sun lowers over the water and the man with the guitar continues to sing beach music. I send up a prayer of thanks to the raffle gods. Coming here was the break I needed.
“Thanks, Sarah. I really enjoyed talking with you,” I say as I pay my bill. More than you know.
“See you tomorrow?” she asks, extending her hand to shake mine.
“I’ll be here!” I exit through the open wall and head up the sand path to my villa. I discover a showerhead just outside my bedroom door, so I rinse off the salt and the sand. Inside, I take a longer shower, luxuriating in the coconut-scented shampoo and body wash. I face the mirror as I dry off and comb through my long brown hair. My cheeks and nose are red and tan lines are starting to show on my shoulders.
My body is exhausted from all the travel and the water and relaxed from the sun and the rum. Physically, I feel good.
My arms are heavy as I pull my oversized T-shirt over my head and crawl between the bed’s white cotton sheets.
I pick up my phone and look at the picture of my boys that’s set as my wallpaper. No texts or call notifications block their faces on my home screen.
I love you, sweet boys. Momma loves you always. I set my phone back down on the nightstand, and sleep drags me under in an instant.