As we approach the woman is speaking to him, but he focuses on us, instead—barely glancing at me but lingering on Gwen.
“Greetings, fellow travelers,” he says with warm familiarity. “You two ready for paradise?”
Although the question includes both of us, he only looks at Gwen as he asks it. Before I can stammer a reply Gwen responds, “More than ready. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long.”
“Conner Gilroy,” he thrusts his hand towards Gwen, flashing a smile as white as sun bleached bones.
“Gwen Crane,” my wife smiles. “And this is my husband, Phillip.”
Almost as an afterthought, Conner shakes my hand with a grip that feels as though my fingers will splinter like a bundle of matchsticks.
The tall woman next to Conner takes it upon herself to extend her hand to mine. “And hello, I am Alexandra. It appears my husband has forgotten me again.”
With a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, Conner wraps an arm around his wife. “How could I forget you, my love? I was merely saving the best for last.”
Alexandra rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Nice save.”
The pilot, a gruff man with weathered skin, emerges from the plane. “Okay, folks, we are ready to go. I have to assign your seating to ensure proper weight distribution.”
We enter the cramped interior of the plane—Alexandra sitting up front next to the pilot, Gwen sandwiched between Conner and me, the two young women seated at the back—and taxi to the runway. The whirling propellers are so loud that quiet conversation is impossible. Gwen takes short, anxious breaths, and this time I do not wait for her to ask me to hold her hand. In moments, we soar into the sky. Barbados vanishes behind us, replaced by an endless expanse of sapphire blue sea. Gwen relaxes her death grip on my hand.
Alexandra turns in her seat. “How long are you two staying at the resort?”
“A week,” Gwen shouts over the humming propellers.
“You’re going to love it,” Conner chimes in.
“You’ve been to Isla Fin de la Tierra before?” Gwen asks.
“This is my third time; Alexandra’s first.”
“Lucky me,” Alexandra adds.
“We’ll only be there for three days,” Conner continues. “Then it’s off to Tobago, Aruba, Cozumel.”
“You forgot Costa Rica,” his wife reminds.
He slaps his forehead. “Ha, yeah, we’ve scheduled a week hiking in the Costa Rican rainforest.”
“You’ll be hiking,” Alexandra quips. “I’ll be back at the hotel spa getting a massage.”
“You’re job gives you that much time off?” I ask Conner.
“My job?” he chuckles. “I own a venture capitalist company. Not by myself, I have two partners. I don’t want to take all the credit.”
I feel like a fool for asking the question. The resort Gwen and I are going to is incredibly expensive—hell, if we remain together we will be paying off the credit card debt from this trip for years to come, but for some reason I assumed many of the people we would encounter at the resort would be in a similar income tax bracket to ours.
Winds buffet the plane, causing it to dip and rise. Gwen grabs my hand again, and for a moment the back and forth banter inside the plane ceases.
“Just some mild turbulence,” the nonplussed pilot assures us as the plane steadies.
“I could use a good month or more off,” Conner continues when the tension in the plane subsides. “After dealing with the sharks of Wall Street when I encounter a real one out on the reefs I won’t feel a bit of fear.”
“Oh, don’t say that” Alexandra gasps. “If there are sharks out there I won’t go near the water.”
“Aw, baby, the sharks around the island are small. They won’t bite you—but they have been known to take a nibble,” he takes her hand and playfully nibbles her fingers.
Alexandra giggles and swats him away. The breezy affection Conner displays, masculine and completely at ease, has me feeling like a stonehearted eunuch in comparison.
Conner leans over Gwen’s lap and says, “So, Phil, it is Phil, right? What do you do?”
My answer that I am an adjunct professor elicits the type of polite pause people sometimes gives when there is nothing positive to say. I glance at Gwen who has a distant expression I cannot read. Is she thinking of something else—perhaps imagining what it will be like once we reach the resort—or is she wondering what it would be like if she was not married to a poorly paid adjunct professor who is completely dependent on her for health benefits?
“Do any diving, Gwen?” Conner asks.
She snaps out of her reverie. “No, but I can snorkel.”
“You are going to the best place for it,” he replies. “Isla Fin de la Tierra consistently gets ranked as one of the best reefs in the world.”
He proceeds to describe all the high points of the resort—the exceptional service, the exquisite cuisine, the stunning ocean beauty—all things I already went over with Gwen when I showed her the brochure, but she listens to Conner with the enthusiasm of someone who never heard these things before.
Behind me, the young women talk to each other as quietly as the rushing air and propellers outside will allow.
“—Get out. That can’t be true,” girl Number One says to her friend.
Number Two nods emphatically, eyes wide for dramatic effect. “I’m telling you the truth. I got the text last night. Besides, like, why would I lie?”
“Oh, I believe you—for sure. You’re my best friend. Of course, I believe you. I’m just shocked—literally shocked—that Ashley would do this to me.”
“Didn’t I warn you? She’s a snake in sheep’s clothing. I never liked her. All that bullshit ‘No, I didn’t have plastic surgery. I just grew into my nose’. I mean, c’mon, get real. That big nose of hers could have provided us with shelter on a rainy day,” Number One guffaws in appreciation.
“You are so right,” Number One adds, her voice thick with contempt. “Ashley is such a liar. I’m sure she went there just to make a play for Justin. She’s probably rubbing him down with suntan lotion right now—and she said she would never go for him. I’m sorry, but what a lying bitch.”
Number Two nudges Number One to indicate they have an audience. I am eavesdropping so intently I did not realize how obvious I am. Both young women stare at me. Mustering a smile, I decide to adopt Conner’s tactic and confidently extend my hand towards them, “Phillip Crane.”
This direct introductory approach does not work for me nearly as well as it did for Conner. Instead of shaking my hand, the two women offer only a meek wave, recoiling from me as though I were a homeless man harassing them for spare change. From the corner of my eye, I see that Gwen and Conner are watching me crash and burn. My face reddens. If only I could open the door of the plane and jump. I have to salvage this somehow.
“You must be looking forward to going to the resort,” I gamely say, hoping to initiate a face saving conversation.
“We’re not going to the same resort,” Number Two deadpans.
“Then you must be going to Jumby Cove,” Conner interjects, and then turns to the rest of us to explain. “It’s a new four story hotel built right across the bay from our resort.”
“Hey, did you know what ‘Jumby’ means?” he asks. The young women shake their heads. “In the native dialect ‘jumby’ means ghost.”