Chapter 15
The next morning, I wake up armed with a plan. All I need to do is convince the notoriously inflexible Warrens to completely deviate from their precious schedule and head to an unknown island run by a total stranger I met in passing at a bar. Easy enough.
When I make it upstairs, I see that everyone is already seated outside on the aft deck. Now that Arthur and Patricia are on board, the breakfast setup has graduated from coffee and fruit to a full-on three course meal. And unlike last night, Arthur is actually lucid enough to keep his eyes open.
“Morning, Stella,” he says as I join the table, wiping his mustache with a literal pocket square like the monopoly man. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Patricia looks down distastefully at my blue cotton sundress—the same one I was wearing when she arrived. I imagine it’s the same look she reserves for bugs who need squashing.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I say cheerfully. “Must have been the ginger!”
“Someone’s chipper this morning,” Matthew groans into his toast. The bags under his eyes tell me his night did not end with Whist.
“You might be, too, if you weren’t so intent on draining every bottle of scotch on this boat,” Patricia reminds him. “At this rate we’ll have to send the boys back to Nadi for provisions.”
The single piece of toast on her plate is barely touched, but I notice the ‘coffee’ she’s drinking smells vaguely of schnapps.
“Arthur,” I ask as I load my tray with pastries. “Has the Vela Bianca ever ventured to Narara island?”
I try to keep my tone as casual as possible, but my shaking croissant threatens to give me away. Men like Arthur Warren aren’t used to taking suggestions. But like Caleb said, if I can somehow make him think this is his idea, maybe he’ll bite.
“Not that I recall,” he muses. “What’s the name of the resort there?”
“There isn’t one. It’s the home of the Fijian Marine Conservation Center. It’s actually just a few miles from us.”
“A conservation center, here?” Matthew scoffs. “What are they protecting? Palm trees?”
“Coral,” I tell him. “And mangroves, too. They’re working to replant some of the reefs that have been damaged by bleaching.”
“How educational,” says Patricia disdainfully. This is going to be harder than I thought.
“Usually they’re not open to tourists, but I met one of the program directors while we were at Cloud Nine. She invited us all to tour the facility. I was wondering if we might be able to squeeze it in on the way up to our next anchorage.”
Arthur shakes his head.
“Not possible. The itinerary is set well in advance—any change to the plan would throw off our entire schedule.”
If I weren’t so nervous, I might laugh. Like son, like father.
“Actually, I checked the map, and it’s right on the way,” I tell him. “If we just shave off an hour at the beach—“
“And cut short our picnic?” Patricia half-laughs. “Not a chance. We have a schedule for a reason, dear. We have to time everything by the tides.”
I’m losing them. I look to Jules for support, but she’s acting like I’m invisible. Of course she’s ignoring me after our fight last night.
“Morning, all,” the voice of Satan interrupts from behind me. I turn to see Caleb standing in his uniform at the base of the stairs.
“How’s everyone doing?”
“Ready for our beach day, Captain!” Harry says enthusiastically. Could Caleb’s timing be any worse?
I glare at him, noticing everyone’s attention fall on him as if he’s about to deliver a prophecy. It’s amazing how easily he commands a room. He could probably tell the Warren’s to scrub the decks with their own toothbrushes and get away with it.
He catches my gaze for a brief second before turning back to Arthur.
“Right. I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Caleb announces somberly. “The swell on the north side of the island is looking pretty big—not ideal for a safe drop. We could wait a few hours for it to die down, but we might miss our tide window and lose our anchorage tonight at Mamanuca Island.”
“We’re not missing Mamanuca. We’re already booked in for lunch ashore tomorrow,” says Arthur. Apparently, the only thing worse than skipping one activity is missing two.
“Of course,” Caleb placates him. “In that case, I’d suggest we scratch the picnic today. We can have a nice grill on the stern deck, if you’d like. Pull out the Sea Bobs again.”
“Please, spare me,” Patricia scoffs.
“Isn’t there somewhere else on the island we could dock, Caleb?” Harry steps in.
“Unfortunately, no. Nothing we could access safely.“
“What about Stella’s island?” Harry suggests instead, and pinch myself to keep from squealing. “What did you say it was called, Stella? Narara?”
Caleb nods.
“The island’s not far from here. We could certainly try it,” he says. Am I dreaming? Is Caleb actually doing something helpful?
“Last I checked there’s a dock on the Southside, so we wouldn’t have to beach the tender to get ashore.”
I take a long sip of my tea and try not to look so excited. For the first time since I arrived, Caleb isn’t actively working against me. But if he catches a whiff of my hopefulness, Captain dream-crusher might change his mind.
Arthur considers this for a moment, then asks, “Do we even know if they’ll let us in? We don’t have a reservation.”
Patricia rolls her eyes.
“For Christ’s sake Arthur, it’s a conservation center, not the Palmilla. I doubt they have a long waitlist.”
“I can make a call and find out,” Caleb offers. “Stella, did you say you know someone there?”
“Her name’s Joanna—I met her at Cloud Nine. She told me to drop by anytime.”
All of us look to Patricia: the real captain of this expedition. At least, the one who decides whether my plan sinks or floats. My jaw tightens in anticipation before she lets out a long sigh.
“Fine. Make the call.”
I nearly squeal in excitement—did Caleb’s advice work?—but I stop myself. Showing actual emotion amongst the Warrens, if not actually illegal, is probably grounds for immediate keel-hauling.
“As thrilling as this little expedition sounds, I think I’ll stay here and watch for pirates,” Matthew complains as Caleb trots back up the stairs to radio the island.
“You certainly will not,” says Patricia. “It’s not my first choice, either, but this is a family vacation. Not one of your debauchery runs in Tenerife.”
“C’mon, Matty,” Steven elbows him. “It’s not like we have anything better to do.”
It’s clear from Matthew’s expression that he can think of many better things to do. Not the least of which includes drowning himself in a bottle of Glenlivet on the back deck.
“Don’t worry,” Harry tells his brother, “I’m sure they’ll have a gift shop you can waste Dad’s money in if you get bored.”
A few minutes later, Caleb comes down to give us the green light.
I’m so excited I could almost cry. My plan is actually working!
I mentally thank whatever mythical sea gods decided to pull up a swell today as we all load into the tender and set off for Narara.
Not even Caleb’s perfectly carved forearms and Heathcliff-level tragic expression can distract me today.
Operation Un-Grinch is officially in effect.
But there’s still one problem… Jules. She hasn’t so much as looked at me since I went off on her last night.
I try to make eye-contact with her once we pile into the tender, but she manages to avoid me without making it obvious.
I’m just going to have to sit this one out for a few more hours.
Jules is usually quick to forgive, but I saw how much our fight affected her.
This might take more than a good night’s sleep to smooth over.
As soon as the island is in sight, it’s very clear that any dreams Matthew had of gift shopping are out the window.
The mile-long strip of land is covered end to end in virgin jungle but for a small building on the beach behind a questionably sound wooden dock.
I can practically see Patricia’s near frozen expression deflating as we bounce across the whitecaps towards the shore.
I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of coral restoration and carbon offsets that I don’t even notice how close my face is to Caleb’s butt as he steers us in.
Ok, maybe I do notice. Just a little. But I will not prove Caleb right about the ogling.
So Caleb’s unfairly hot. So was Ted Bundy.
So was Atilla the Hun (probably). As I’ve told Jules for the last hundred years, looks mean nothing to me.
It’s the mind that counts, and truce or not, Caleb’s is seriously miswired.
When we reach the dock, I see a wild-haired figure in a neon blue polo jogging down to greet us.
“Nisa Bula!” Joanna shouts as we tie up to the dock. Her face is covered ear to ear in a smile more genuine than Patricia’s Cartier watch. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it!”
“Neither was I!” I call out from the tender. “Warrens, this is Joanna.”
They take turns introducing themselves to her as Caleb helps them out onto the floating dock. I refuse to take his hand, choosing instead to grab hold of the metal railing and earning a bump to the shin as I trip out onto the wood.
“I’m so glad you could join us on the island,” Joanna beams. “We have quite the program planned for you today.”
“I’m sure you do,” Matthew mocks out of the side of his mouth. I look over just in time to see Harry elbow him in the rib.
“Joanna has a radio in the center,” Caleb informs Harry and Patricia. “Just give me a ring when you’re ready for pickup and I’ll hustle back for you.”
“Oh no,” Patricia says firmly. “Caleb, you’re staying with us. I won’t be marooned in the jungle without an escort.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I cringe, hoping Joanna’s not offended, but she seems perky as ever. She surfs Cloudbreak, I remind myself. It probably takes more than a few snobby gazillionaires to scare her off.
“Of course, Patricia,” Caleb answers. “I’ve got a go-pro on me; maybe I can take some photos for you.”