Backstory Ch 02

Note: This is Part II of the backstory on Jim and Monique, two grieving lovers who find each other on a private island in the South Pacific. In the previous installment, Jim meets Monique, who has anchored on the far side of his island, secretly, to stock up on fresh water before sailing to Hawaii. He tells her that if she had only asked he would have given her all the fresh water she wanted, and cooked dinner for her, too. In this installment, she takes him up on his offer.

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December 27

I fixed us a simple dinner of peppercorn-crusted steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and grilled asparagus with almonds. And then, when everything was ready and the candles were lit I brought out a bottle of Cline Zinfandel. Monique's eyes went wide. "That's my favorite!" she gasped, and that's when I knew that my Christmas wish had come from her.

She confessed during dinner.

It was a beautiful evening. I had set up the table out on the terrace and the sun had just sunk into the Pacific when we sat down. The sky was saturated with deep pinks and purples and a light breeze was blowing in from the east. She had put on a simple floral skirt and a white tank top and she looked amazing--dark hair blowing around her beautiful face and those big, brown eyes reflecting the candlelight. Wow. She had a great smile (among other things), and she flashed it briefly as she began her story.

"I was sailing near your island on Christmas Eve," she said. "As I told you I used to come to this island all the time with my mother and so I guess I just felt drawn here at the start of my trip. I let the boat drift while I had supper and before you know it (here she blushed with embarrassment) I had finished a whole bottle of wine! I was a little drunk. And when I saw your lights in the distance I thought I would just wish you a blessed Christmas, whoever the hell you were. So I wrote that note, stuffed it into the empty bottle, and chucked it in your general direction. I didn't know if it would get there at all. I guess it did." I nodded and told her I had found it on Christmas day, and also how much it had meant to me. She softened a bit when I said that, leaned in a little closer, put a hand on my forearm. I began to wonder if she liked me, but it might have just been the wine.

I opened a second bottle.

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It was during that second bottle of wine that I learned Monique's mother was Polynesian, a native of these islands. Her father was a French diplomat who had come to Papeete back in the 70's, met her mother, and fallen almost instantly in love. They were married within months and within a few years Monique had been born. The combination of French and Polynesian in her was stunningly beautiful. She had spent most of her growing-up years in Paris after her father finished his term of service in the islands. She had learned English at one of the private schools there, under a British professor, which produced the most fetching accent I had ever heard: a kind of French-accented British English with the lilting rhythms of the islands under it all. I propped my chin in my hands and listened to that beautiful voice, letting her tell me everything she wanted to say.

We were about halfway through that second bottle when she told me she was making this trip to help herself over a broken heart. "Yes," she sighed, blinking back tears, "I know it sounds crazy, but I thought if I could just get out in my boat and sail it would help. I'm planning to go all the way to Hawaii. Maybe by the time I get there I'll be over him."

"Hawaii?" I said, surprised. "That's a long, long way from here."

"I know," she said. "That's actually why I was taking on more water. I think I have plenty but I wanted to be sure."

"This guy," I asked, "was he French?"

"American," she sighed. "He was from California. That's how I learned about the Cline Zinfandel. I have to say," she smiled, as she held up her glass, "it wasn't a total waste of time."

And we drank a toast to California.

I told her I had a guest room in the beach house, but in the end she opted to sleep on the boat. She said she would probably be getting an early start in the morning, but she thanked me for a delicious meal, and for being such a good listener. "Sorry to be such a party pooper," she apologized. "You've been great." And then I walked with her out onto the dock and helped to steady her as she stepped up onto the deck of her boat.

"You know," I said, "you don't have to be in such a hurry to leave. I make a really good pot of coffee, and if you're nice to me I'll fix cinnamon rolls for breakfast."

"Cinnamon rolls?" she said. "Hmmmm. Tempting. I'll have to sleep on it." And then she gave me a little kiss on the cheek and disappeared down the hatch. "See you in the morning," I called, and I headed back toward the house. But long after her lights went out I stood at the window, looking at her sailboat bobbing on the water, and feeling--for the first time in a long time--that morning might just be worth waking up for.

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December 28

I was up early, banging around the kitchen brewing Caffé Verona and making cinnamon rolls. I kept looking out the window to see if Monique was up and to make sure she didn't sail away before I had a chance to bring her a proper breakfast. When the cinnamon rolls came out of the oven I waited for them to cool just a bit, glazed them with that sweet, sugary glaze, and then arranged them in a breadbasket, covering them carefully with a white linen cloth (presentation is everything). And then, with a tray that held the coffee pot, cups, saucers, spoons, creamer, sugar, cinnamon rolls, and napkins, I headed out to the dock.

I stepped up onto the deck of her boat and called down the hatch.

"Hey!" I said. "I thought you were going to leave early."

"I was," she called, sleepily, "until you started tempting me with breakfast."

"Come and get it," I said.

A few minutes later she did, dressed only in an oversized T-shirt. She looked so gorgeous—-her hair disheveled, her eyes half-closed—-as if she had just rolled out of bed and might be willing to roll back in again. We sat on the deck of her boat as I poured the coffee and she took the first sip of my favorite Starbucks blend. That woke her up. And then she bit into the cinnamon roll.

"Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed. "That is so good!"

"Well," I said, with a smile, "nothing but the best for you. It's Pillsbury—-right out of the can."

But that didn't seem to bother her in the least. She just kept popping little bites into her mouth and looking at me appreciatively while she licked her lips and sucked the glaze off her fingers. Wow. Was she trying to be this sexy, or did it just come naturally to her? I stole a few glances at her long, suntanned legs and the way her T-shirt seemed to be riding higher and higher on her thighs. When she reached up to push her hair out of the way I could see the fullness of her breasts against the front of her shirt and the hardness of her nipples. I think she caught me looking once, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, the little smile working at the corners of her mouth made me think she was enjoying the attention.

"You say you used to come to this island all the time when you were a girl?" I asked.

"MmHmm," she mumbled, with a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

"Is there anything you like about it, especially?" I asked.

"Oh, everything!" she exclaimed, taking a sip of coffee. "I think it's the perfect size, the perfect situation. I love the old volcano, the deep harbor, the blue lagoon. And have you seen the caves?"

"The what?" I asked.

"The caves!" she said. "At the base of the cliffs!"

Well, no, actually I hadn't seen the caves. I didn't know anything about them. I had only been on the island a few weeks. "You're going to have to show me," I said. "Payment for breakfast."

"Well," she said with a smile, "I guess I could wait another day to get started, but only if you throw lunch into the bargain."

"Oh, I'll be glad to," I said, earnestly. "How about peanut butter sandwiches?"

"Sounds perfect," she said.

"Do you want a shower or anything before we get started?" I offered.

"I usually start with a swim," she said, looking around her at the clear, blue waters of the lagoon. "Do you mind?" Well no, of course I didn't mind. "Great," she said, and with that--as if it were the most natural thing in the world--she put down her coffee cup, stood up, turned around, stripped the T-shirt off over her head, and dived into the water.

I just sat there, holding a half-eaten cinnamon roll.

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To be truthful, Monique wasn't completely naked. She was wearing a white thong, which I had glimpsed just before she dived over the side of the boat. That sweet little triangle of fabric disappearing between the smooth, suntanned cheeks of her ass . . . wow. I had to remember that she was French, born in these islands, and that she probably didn't have the same standards of modesty I had picked up working in Boston these past few years, where we mostly wore heavy winter overcoats. Still, it felt like a come-on. She popped up beside the boat and splashed me playfully. "Come on in," she called. "The water's fine."

I wasn't going to disappoint her, but I did have a moment's dilemma deciding how far to strip down before joining her. I was wearing khaki shorts and a black T-shirt. I knew the shirt had to come off, but the shorts? She was wearing something at least. Under my shorts there was nothing but me. I finally left them on and dived in.

She swam away from me, toward the reef, and although I was a good swimmer she stayed ahead of me until I glimpsed that perfect ass again when she disappeared above the reef in a smooth surface dive. I took a deep breath and followed her down. The water was so clear I could see her body in exquisite detail--the dark hair floating around her face, the beautiful brown-nippled breasts, that edible ass, those lovely legs. Sigh. I don't know that I have ever seen anything so desirable; I wanted her right then and there. But she was swimming down deeper and deeper in a free dive that was more than I could do. I finally gave up and headed toward the surface and a full minute later she joined me, gasping for breath. "Wow," she said. "That reef is just as beautiful as I remember!" And there she was talking about beauty when she was treading water just three feet away from me, her hair slicked back on her head, her brown eyes sparkling, her skin wet and glistening in the morning sun. I didn't see how anything could be more beautiful than that.

We swam back toward the boat slowly and I told her she could rinse off at the house. "There's a shower head near the pool," I said, "or you can come on in. I'll get some lunch together."

"Do you have any snorkeling gear?" she asked. "It's really the best way to explore the caves."

"Sure," I said. "I keep it in the pool house. We can grab it on the way out and just walk down the beach to the cliffs if it's all right with you. It's only a mile or so."

"That sounds great," she said. "You're going to love these caves."

"I'm going to love everything about this day," I thought. "As long as you stay with me. As long as you are here." I could tell I was beginning to fall for this girl, and in a big way, too.