An Unbound Romance

By Dave A. Gardener

As a successful bestselling romance novelist, Alena Romanova thought she knew all there is to know about love and destiny. That was until her fiancé chose another woman, turning her world upside down. Now with her heart in pieces, Alena escapes to the islands of French Polynesia to find the healing her heart so desperately desires. But the waves are not as calm as they appear on the surface. Before she realizes it, she is caught in the undertow between the affections of two men - one a local Polynesian and the other an American expatriate - vying to capture the heart that she was hoping to heal. As she begins to love again, seeking the dream of a romance unbound from her past, she discovers that destiny has a plan even for her, beyond her wildest imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781304572073

Book preview

Dedication

To the woman whose heart has been broken,

To the man who feels lost in this world,

I offer this story of love and hope.

When the shark laughs with the dolphin, there is a devilish spirit at play.

– Tahitian proverb

"My beloved responded and said to me,

‘Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come along.

For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.

The flowers have already appeared in the land;

The time has arrived for singing,

And the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land."

– Song of Solomon

Chapter 1: Paradise Found

Freshly-painted turquoise shutters swung open to a view of a white-sand beach and a teal sea that stretched to the edge of eternity. Sunlight pierced through the second-floor bedroom window of the beachfront villa in Puna’auia, casting its delicate rays upon Alena’s red silk camisole.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the salty sea air deeply into her lungs, soaking in the dream of the Tahitian fantasy island that now surrounded her.

Deep blue skies had awoken before she did, where tranquil white clouds hung like cotton, reminding her that the jet-lag and the double-layover journey across the world to get here were well worth it. Just below her, rolling waves of tumbling froth beckoned, while lazy palm trees waved good morning in gentle trade winds. Tropical birds were singing a song of praise in the early morning, and for the first time in weeks, she simply smiled.

She had arrived. The place of her childhood dreams. The place of magical wonder. But more importantly, the place of escape.

Here there was no grief over a broken heart. If only she could put it out of her mind. He was miles away now. Fate had dealt her heart a near fatal blow this time.

Someone had once told Alena that the difference between fate and destiny was that fate was what you got and destiny was what you wished for. In other words, destiny was much kinder and all good things came from it, including romantic love. It was an interesting concept, she admitted, but it wasn’t long after her third or fourth heartbreak that Alena had stopped believing in that kind of destiny altogether.

This was ironic because the success that she had found as a bestselling romance novelist depended greatly upon her ability to make people believe in finding true love, experiencing love at first sight, and living happily ever after. Therefore, she was expected by her readers, as well as by society in general, to be an expert when it came to love and romance. Yet the sad truth was that her advice, although based on a long history of past relationships and sexual exploits, was nothing more than optimistic hypocrisy.

What she wouldn’t tell them was that deep in her heart, there was a weeping little girl who had lost all hope in the fairy tale that she had once believed romance was or could be. Truly, she knew that nothing short of a miracle would ever change her mind now.

Although she had always loved writing, Alena Romanova had become a romance novelist quite by accident. She blamed it on college. It had all begun in Delta Phi sorority when NYU’s campus newspaper published an article, in which Alena had graphically described her hot date with Sigma Phi house leader, Gil McMahon. Before the article was published, Gil had cunningly tricked Alena into falling in love with him on their first date but later stabbed her in the back by posting intimate photos of their date online. The slightly-censored version eventually landed on the front page of the college paper as part of a sorority-fraternity showdown. The editor then gave Alena one chance to redeem herself to share her side of the story. And write it, Alena did.

Almost immediately after her no-holds-barred account of their date was published, Alena not only became a popular writer on campus, but her sorority sisters also pleaded with her to write more of her sensual adventures and romantic stories, and although her reputation as the sorority hussy eventually disappeared, a blossoming writing career for Alena began.

Fast-forward seven years. Manhattan looked much different from a penthouse suite view and a six-figure income. Alena found herself on top of the world in her career, churning out novels every six months, doing interviews on the Today Show, and becoming a household name in the romantic genre. She had become successful in every area of her life except when it had come to love. 

On the morning after she had arrived at her uncle’s villa in Puna’auia, she was alone on the multi-acre property – the beach to the north, tropical gardens to the south, and miles from the nearest neighbor. Having changed into a comfortable sundress, she felt the strong rays of the sun on her bare shoulders. The sounds of swifts and swallows chirped and sang a melody of stereophonic symphony so foreign to her ears that she would have thought she was in another world. Her own little world – a tropical paradise with such warmth, like a tangible embrace, touching right to a place in her heart that had not been disturbed since she was a child.

Her dark, curly brunette hair fell lazily over her chest as she wandered slowly down windy cobblestone paths, through freshly cut lawns with thick trees and wide palm branches, vibrant tropical flowers, glossy green leaves, and expansive gardens.

Tahiti was as beautiful as her uncle had always described it. Even as a little girl, listening to her uncle’s stories of the tropical paradise with wide eyes and a hopeful heart, Alena had dreamed of one day coming here. It was a longing that would never go away – through her teenage years, in college, and right up until last week. Funny how life circumstances can sometimes push us to accomplish unfulfilled dreams in a matter of hours.

Then she paused, seeing something that took her breath away: the Tiare Tahiti, a native-grown gardenia of delicate white petals around a daffodil-colored center that stood out in sharp contrast to the green leaves around it. Stooping down to inhale its fragrant scent, Alena closed her eyes and remembered the conversation she had had with her uncle back in Manhattan.

Just one week earlier, with the sun peeking over the New York skyline outside her bedroom window, Alena had awoken from a dream in a cold sweat pondering the meaning of the sound of distant yet distinct island drumming. She had seen nothing, felt nothing, but knew that sound, as if from a memory of a life she had never known. The soft beat of the drums had moved in time with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Then the answer came.

Tahiti. It was calling to her.

I only need the place for a week, maybe less, she pleaded with her uncle. Her stature, normally strong and confident, had become vulnerable. Her eyes were puffy from crying, her sniffles fighting back her feelings. I promise I’ll take good care of it, she added in Russian, to further persuade him if he wasn’t convinced already.

Her uncle was Patrov Romanova, the famous publishing tycoon who owned more than half of the industry based in Manhattan. It was because of him that she had been able to publish her first romance novel. To top it off, he was also the proud owner of a recently fully-restored villa in the secluded northwest corner of Puna’auia on Tahiti Nui, the big island, which was the same place he had gone on vacation many times before. Having fallen in love with the South Pacific ages ago, Uncle Patrov would come back to New York after traveling there with golden skin, a glow on his face, and an excitement in his voice. Alena had always looked forward to his stories and the souvenirs from the place that she could only imagine in her mind as heaven on earth.

Now with her life in shambles and the need to get away at a boiling point, there was no better time than the present.

Alena also knew that Uncle Patrov had not become a successful businessman without understanding people, or trusting his instincts. Why don’t you take it for a month, perhaps two? he said gently, touching his niece’s arms. The island sun will do you some good. I’ll make all the arrangements.

Thank you, uncle! she responded in Russian, unseemingly embracing the tall, stately man, using her entire willpower not to stain his suit and tie with her tears. 

He returned the hug and offered some words of advice that took her by surprise. And while you are there, be sure to look around the gardens. You will find a white wild flower by the name of Tiare Tahiti. The locals say it is used for many purposes, but one in particular … for healing.

Her thoughts returned to the garden in paradise where she breathed in the perfume-scented aroma of the delicate flower as she wondered how he had known that was exactly what she needed the most.

Walking further along the cobblestone path, Alena discovered an enclosure of trees and another garden within. Granite slabs surrounded pools of water with cascading waterfalls at one end. Palm branches cast shadows over the pools as sunlight beamed past the wide-leafed tropical trees high above. There were hoots of birds and chirping of the softer sort, and colorful sparrows flitting down to the rocks and ascending to the trees as quickly as they had landed.

She laughed gently and picked up her pace along the path as she realized that Uncle Patrov had designed this place as an actual outdoor bath! Hidden behind thick vegetation at one end of the garden pools was a bathroom that could have been a luxury in a five-star hotel – two large sinks, marble-white countertops, a long mirror above them, and a pure coconut-oil soap bar in a dish shaped like a seashell. A toilet sat behind a glass stall, and next to it, a four-person hot tub made entirely out of marble. An open cabinet contained bath wash, shampoo, and towels.

The place was spotless, having been cleaned only recently, she assumed, by the staff that looked after her uncle’s property. Still, it seemed a shame that none of this was being put to good use, like turning it into a bed-and-breakfast for tourists.

Unable to resist the temptation, Alena slipped out of her sundress and laid it on the marble countertop. Quickly, she wrapped a towel around her torso, tucking it in at her breasts, and took the bar of soap outside. Under the bright sunlight, surrounded by trees, gardens, pools, and nature, she closed her eyes, reached her arms up and stretched in a yoga sun salutation, feeling completely at one with her surroundings. 

After a good minute of deep breathing, she pattered up the small staircase over the granite rocks, let the towel slip to the decorative-tiled floor at the pool’s edge, and slipped her feet into the warm water that was naturally heated by the sun. Sliding in freely and gracefully, she immersed herself completely underwater as the sounds of the world were replaced with the temporary silence and tranquility of the water.

Then gliding back up through the surface, the world welcomed her return, indulging her senses.

At the far end of the pool, she stood under a cascading waterfall fountain that poured over her head and shoulders. From high above, tropical bulbuls serenaded her, sunlight rays crept through the trees, and palm branches slowly danced to a song only they could hear.

Alena closed her eyes and melted into a smile of contentment and bliss as she bathed. The aroma of the coconut soap intoxicated her, casting a magical spell over her, allowing her mind and imagination to come alive in ways it never had before.  

Now Alena was never one to experience what some might call visions, or even understand the spirit world beyond her own humanistic level, but there in the bath, amid the mystique of tropical nature all around, she had without question a vision.

It came as a clear image of a local island male with dark skin, powerful shoulders and chest muscles, and except for a necklace with one shark’s tooth in the center, he wore tattoos painted on his chest and on both solid arms. 

This was not an image of smoke and mirrors. This was as real as any man she had ever met, and he stood directly behind her in the water, towering over her, his thick black hair, long and curly and tight, falling just past his shoulders. There was something fierce about him, animalistic, rugged, and rustic.

As she slid her hands of lathered soap slowly over her body, his hands reached out to touch her, tough and calloused on her smooth skin, starting with her shoulders, with his mouth close to her neck. The touch of his gentle fingertips on her skin was electrifying, and she had the feeling that if she resisted, he would most certainly overpower her, but in a way that she would melt into. With her eyes still closed, she reached over to touch his arm and could swear that she had actually touched that arm!

Snapping her eyes open and whirling around to face the waterfalls, Alena was ready to defend herself with one arm covering her chest and the other hand clenched in a fist. She silently cursed herself for appearing too vulnerable in this place, but after she had spun around, there was nothing there but the water cascading into the pool from the fountain above. Her heart was pounding, her lungs panting. He was here, she swore it. His body, his arm, his breath.

Now that he was gone, leaving a misty aura in his wake, Alena’s loneliness washed away with the falls and a shiver ran down her spine.

Chapter 2: The Waves of Fortune

On the night before Alena arrived on the island, it was as though all of nature were moving in sync as if to answer a distant call to do so. Stars moved in alignment, dolphins jumped higher in anticipation, and waves from the glassy South Pacific rolled lazily up to the beach behind La Plage Bar and Grill.  

Inside the little pub, pleasant strums of a ukulele permeated the air that mixed with the scent of pineapple rum. The early crowd of regulars stood at the bar and laughed in the way that island people did, with liveliness and gaiety, as they swilled their Hinanos and Tabus and slapped their friends on the backs and shouted a joke that everyone around them seemed to understand. They could have sat at the wicker bar stools but preferred to stand because to sit would quench their passion for what beautiful, and consequently boisterous, words they had to share with each other.

Within all the raucous, one man stood apart from the others. Lott Wilkins. An American who felt just at home in this place as the locals at the bar did. Instead of joining them in their riotous conversations, as he sometimes did, he stood off by himself, preferring at least for tonight to be left alone. 

Breathing in the fresh evening air off the ocean, he leaned against the open sliding bamboo doors at one end of the café, gazing at the beach in the distance through an open portico under a thatched roof. His eyes were cold, dark, and distant, and the recent sense of sadness that tugged at his lonely, longing heart refused to leave him, clinging to him, clutching his spirit so firmly that he physically felt tightness in his broad chest. 

Yet there was something different about tonight. He wasn’t sure what it was or whether the longing in his empty soul had simply forced his imagination to play tricks on him, but whatever it was, he knew there was something unusual about to happen. For one thing, the ocean had never been this calm, like a sea of glass spread out evenly across the horizon, glowing with the final pink embers of the evening sunset. Palm trees still waved their fronds, but the wind came from the gentlest breeze on earth tonight, and when the fronds shook, they sounded like they were whispering. Lott had the sense that if he were to move as close to them as he could, he would actually hear them speaking. What would they be saying? What was so special about this evening?

Ivoire! called out the Tahitian barkeep, shaking Lott from his thoughts. Hoanui flashed his wide toothy grin that shined in contrast to his dark skin. Years before, Lott had been given the nickname ivoire, meaning ivory, in reference to his paler skin color, but short for the full nickname, the ivory-bronzed muscleman, which he had acquired from local surfers who had commented on his dark tan.  As an imported Caucasian surfer and sport fisherman, who had spent most of his recent days shirtless on a boat, a beach, or in the tavern by the sea getting drunk, he’d welcomed the nickname as a way to bond with the locals. Although he knew he’d always feel like an outsider in this place far from where he had grown up, he hoped that his presence would make them feel more at ease with him.

Ivoire was more than just a name or insignia for Lott. It was often an invitation to join them. Lott nodded in acknowledgment and meandered over to the bar. 

Jack and Coke, grunted Lott huskily to Hoanui, who was already reaching for the glass before Lott had said it.

What’s with the shirt, my friend? he asked in French as he poured the whiskey over ice, referring to Lott’s simple flowered-island shirt that hung loosely over his muscular exterior. While it was rare to see some people without a shirt, it wasn’t often to see Lott wearing one. Even long pants and sandals. Got a date tonight?

Lott could hardly wait to get the cold glass to his lips. No date, he murmured back in perfect French, downing the drink that went down smooth in one gulp. But I will have another Jack.

Jack is no substitute for the company you desire, my friend, chuckled Hoanui, passing a second glass over the bar that he had already anticipated Lott would order immediately.

Maybe not, but he’s a close second, Lott replied with a cynical grin.

I’m saying you seem different tonight. What’s with you?

Lott sighed. Have you ever had the feeling that there was something different about a night? Like, your life is at a turning point and you don’t know what’s about to happen, but you just know – in one night – your life will never be the same?

Lott’s words seemed to spark something in Hoanui who leaned over the bar, resting his elbows on the countertop, indicating that he was giving Lott permission to share something confidentially. You’re ready for a change? he asked.

The word change felt scary and made Lott bring the second Jack and Coke to his lips. I don’t know, Lott said thoughtfully, shaking his head as he glanced around the bar.

Then something caught his eye. It was a honeymoon couple on the other side of the dining room holding hands under candlelight and being serenaded by a Polynesian ukulele player who sang in Tahitian. The newlyweds were gazing upon one another from across the table, as if everything else in the world, even the whole universe, had momentarily paused in time to capture their unique adoration for one another. Like a Polaroid of the heavens. A sparkle of gold dust flung into the outer reaches of space, shining back to earth, beamed on this couple a spotlight of love. It wasn’t uncommon to see honeymooners on the islands, but this couple’s love for each other, so pure, so unfettered by life’s rough seas, touched Lott deeply.

A soft grin invaded the otherwise hardened exterior of Lott’s face as he watched them dreamily. As he turned back to the bar, he sipped his drink and glanced in the mirror behind the bar at himself. The five o’clock shadow was turning into a rough beard and his skin looked weathered from the sun. Who was he and who had he become, he wondered?

How long have you been in Tahiti? Hoa-Nui asked as he poured a cocktail for a customer.

Lott took a sip of his Jack. Six years.

Hoa-Nui whistled. That could be considered by some to be a long time.

Quite, Lott agreed. The memories of my first few years have already started to fade.

You seem like an educated man, Hoa-Nui commented. Your French is first rate. You speak like us with a Tahitian accent. Maybe that is why we love you, he burst out laughing.

Lott chuckled. Thanks.

But seriously, he said, leaning over the bar. What made you come to Tahiti in the first place?

Government work, Lott said, the familiar sting of guilt tugging at his heart.

As a spy?

Lott chuckled and took another sip. No.

Hua Nui shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Beneath all those muscles, you seem smart. I am not saying you are. I’m just saying you seem smart. But you haven’t always been in Papeete, have you? Some of these characters in here have been telling me that you were down in Tautira."

That’s right, Lott said. I was a coach in the States for kids, so after I arrived here, I was assigned to work with the youth, especially orphans and street kids. I worked with the local YMCA and taught the boys American football, shot hoops with them and tried to develop a rapport.

Did you?

It wasn’t easy at first, but soon they learned to trust me and they taught me rugby and beach soccer. You wouldn’t believe it, but I was the picture of perfect health back then. I was so excited to be thousands of miles away from home in the land of paradise, making a difference in troubled kids’ lives, living off of very little and loving life.

Hua-Nui lifted his hands. Sounds great! What changed?

Times changed, said Lott, swilling his drink. Or maybe I did. After several years of the same thing, I was just bored with teaching a new group of children and teens that arrived in camp every other month. I felt like I wasn’t making much of a difference at all since I rarely saw any positive change in the boys I was teaching. Some even steered their lives in the opposite direction, getting involved in drugs and even crime.

Lott downed the last of his Jack and Coke, and Hoa-Nui put another glass of the same on the counter that had been ready and waiting.

I guess I’d come to a crossroads in my life, Lott admitted, taking the new glass in his hand, staring deeply into the liquid. Hoa-Nui just listened intently, nodding slowly. You ever come to that moment in your life, wondering if what you were doing was what you were supposed to be doing?

Hoa-Nui grinned mildly in understanding.

I thought, Lott reminisced, what is my purpose in life? Have I accomplished the dreams that I set for myself? And did any of it matter at all? What was I really doing in Tahiti? I had to face those questions seriously. Like Gaugin, Lott gestured to the painting above the bar that said it all, words that the famous artist who had painted in Tahiti had inscribed: Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?

Then what? Hoa-Nui asked.

Well, after four years, my tour was up, but I decided to stay in Tahiti and move to another part of the island – here – to get a fresh start in a place where no one knew who I was.

How’d you become a tour guide?

I pooled all the savings from home that I had and placed a down payment on a yacht.

Yeah, I’ve seen your yacht. Sweet piece of boat.

Got that right, Lott said. Helped me find my freedom. I begin my day at dawn, staring at the ocean and surfing the waves, running the tour boat until sunset, and hitting the pubs at night. On days off, I go fishing with Tahitian friends and catch some of the best Mahi Mahi with the toss of a spear.

Tell you what, Hoa-Nui grinned his toothy smile, that about does it, my friend. I’d say you finally found your paradise.

Paradise, huh? Lott scoffed, sipping his drink and staring back into the mirror behind the bar. Then why did he feel so lonely?

As Hoa-Nui left to help other customers, Lott was left alone with his thoughts. He could feel it again, the drink taking him to a place in his mind he didn’t enjoy going.

Recently, he had felt so ashamed at how low he had sunk. Every night, the moon glistened off the ocean waves, but he would find a seedy bar to drink his life away in. His father had once called it wasted potential. That had been when he had stayed up all night his freshman year of college at a drinking party and had failed to show up for an important exam. His grades had slipped and he had found himself on probation with the university.

You are so full of potential, my son, his father had told him. Don’t make it wasted-potential. Street bridges, dark corners of bars, and even jail cells are filled with wasted potential. Lott had smartened up after that, choosing a noble purpose to help others after graduation, but now, many years later, in a dark corner of a bar was exactly where he was ending up, living for himself, filled with past regrets.

Maybe there was a difference tonight. That difference defined itself in the love of this honeymoon couple. As they held hands, Lott was woken up to the fact that there was still some good in this world. Patrons around them clapped when the ukulele player finished his tune, but nothing could put out the candle of love between them, their eyes lost in one another's.

Lott sighed heavily, stepped off his stool, and with glass in hand, wandered back over to the other side of the bar. The open area faced the veranda and the beach beyond it where dark waves with white froth rolled gently to the sand. Lott was so drawn to the ocean that he almost thought of the sea as his close friend, like he could talk to it and hear it talk back to him. Or maybe he was just losing his mind. Loneliness would do that to a man.

Watching the waves, he was reminded of a local story that the islanders had once told him about an old man who had spent his entire life doing good and never once saw any return on what he had done. But just before the man died, he was given a feast in his honor by all the people whom he had helped, numbering over five thousand men, women, children, and their children’s children. Island stories were often greatly exaggerated for effect, but Lott liked it just the same. They always concluded the story with this proverb: Cast a bottle of good fortune out to the sea and watch the waves bring it back to you double.

As he watched the waves lather the evening shore, he wondered if his double would ever arrive, for all he had done for the people of this island. He downed his last glass of Jack and Coke for the evening and tried to brush aside his bitter thoughts of regret. Perhaps he should have gone back to the States to get a real job. Maybe he was just running from responsibility. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left the troubled teens in Tautira who needed him the most.

Forget the waves of fortune, he thought. You don’t deserve a damn thing. Maybe that was the booze talking. Maybe it was the truth.

But he still had a glimmer of hope holding out for even the tiniest wave with his name on it. He turned back to wish the honeymoon couple congratulations, but they had already gone. That night, Lott walked home a dejected man.

Unbeknownst to Lott, however, a tiny wave was about to roll in the next day in the form of a beautiful woman by the name of Alena.

Chapter 3: The Other Fish in the Sea

It had already been a week since Alena’s arrival in Tahiti. Aside from overcoming jet-lag, soaking up the sun, and enjoying all the benefits of her uncle’s private villa, Alena hadn’t ventured out far from Puna’auia. Loneliness was starting to get the better of her. Not knowing where to go or what to do, as well as feeling lost in the local language and culture, left her feeling emotionally drained. She needed help, and meeting Laurette was the perfect cure.

A weathered bluish four-wheel-drive spun into the villa’s driveway, came to an abrupt halt, and parked sideways. Dressed in a long floral one-piece island dress and thick-soled sandals, Laurette hopped from the jeep and greeted Alena with a high-pitched squeal and a showering of kisses on both cheeks. Laurette’s chic sunglasses covered the face of a woman in her mid-forties. With long flowing black hair in the style of golden-age Hollywood, a face-lift, and a tummy-tuck, she looked almost half her age. 

I’ve only known you by photos, Laurette cried in a slicker-than-oil French accent. You were only fourteen or fifteen in the last ones your uncle showed me of you.

Alena forced a wry smile. I’ve changed a little.

A lot, I’d say! Laurette laughed.

Laurette was Uncle Patrov's friend whom he had met many years ago in Tahiti while traveling. She had originally come from France to settle on the islands and open a restaurant with her husband. Their restaurant, called La Cocotte, was located in the heart of Papeete, in the most populated area, and with their elegant atmosphere, amazing fondue, and delicious crepes, they had become the go-to place for French travelers in Tahiti, as well as the top choice for affluent locals. As Uncle Patrov was one of the original investors in her restaurant, Laurette had jumped at the chance to escort his niece Alena around the island. 

They started the day with lunch at La Cocotte, gracefully indulging in a dish of Blanquette du Veau, tender veal served in creamy sauce, of which Alena could have eaten a double portion. With a windowless-view over the ocean, they spoke of the island climate; differences between Lyon, Manhattan, and Papeete; and must-see sights in French Polynesia. Alena found Laurette’s personality to be a complexity of shallowness and intelligence, perhaps a consequence of her living abroad for so many years, but the longer they spoke, the more they realized they had in common, and by the third glass of dry red Bordeaux, Alena felt like she had known Laurette for years. About an hour later, Alena and her new friend stepped back under the strong UV rays of early May, linking arms, and feeling refreshed, vibrant, and ready to shop.

Although there were plenty of shops in town, including the famed Le Marché by the waterfront, Laurette wanted to take Alena to one of the markets further inland to explore some of Tahiti’s untapped natural beauty as she called it. Anything inland, however, seemed to require a ride over unpaved mountainous paths through tropical rainforest-like vegetation, and although rough-going, they offered views of the turquoise ocean and coastline in the distance.

Alena felt every jolt in the passenger’s seat of the jeep that banged its way over pot-hole filled dirt roads up the lush, green mountainside. Laurette was exceptional at maneuvering in this terrain. As the truck dipped and dived over the rugged ground, Laurette sat calmly behind the wheel as if on a Sunday drive.

So tell me, dear, Laurette said, feeling comfortable enough now to call Alena dear. "What are you really doing in Tahiti? Are you doing research for your next novel? I simply adore romantic stories, you know. Of the erotic flavor, I am particularly partial." Her laugh was guttural like a chain-smoker, yet Alena hadn’t seen her smoke a single cigarette.

Alena glanced over at her from across the front seats.  The truth?

Well, yes, dear, she smiled, her eyes on the bumpy roads in front of her.

Alena looked out the window of the jeep at the jungle trees that rushed by. Four weeks ago I was engaged to be married, she began in all earnestness, swallowing the despair in her voice. Even had the dress all picked out. It was beautiful. 

Her mind returned to the bridal shop on Fifth Avenue where she had fallen in love with the dream in the mirror. Strapless, silk white lace covering the arms and upper breasts, elegantly enfolding a princess-cut bridal gown that flowed to the floor. Her dream gown. Her dream wedding.

We were going to say our vows at a tavern on a hill overlooking a river. I picked out the place myself. It was going to be so romantic. Alena had planned everything down to the last detail. The view of the wedding location was like right out of her novels – a sea of green forests sloping across the horizon. She had imagined herself leaning on her groom's arm as they