Page 26 of The Paradise Problem

West looks at me with unmasked concern. “Please, Anna,” he says gently like I’m very, very naive. “Just follow my lead.”

* * *

I MOVE TO TAKE my first step onto the dock and stop, seeing West’s outstretched hand, his expression expectant and the tiniest bit pleading. I reach forward and his fingers wrap firmly around mine. Yes, it’s part of the show, but it’s also a physical reminder that we’re in this together. If he sinks, so do I.

We follow the pilot down the pier and it’s somehow even more beautiful up close. I spy brightly colored fish in the water beneath us, and the corner of a guest bungalow on tall stilts in the distance where the shore begins to curve. What I don’t see—or hear—are the things one usually associates with a resort. Aside from a pair of kayaks cutting silently through the water, there’s no marina traffic, no noisy tourists, no cheeky steel drum serenade. There are no flower beds, pots of foliage, or anything remotely manicured. It feels a little wild; truly isolated but not deserted. A utopia.

At the end of the narrow boardwalk, our feet sink into the sand. It’s so soft and fine it sifts like warm water between my toes. Waiting a few yards up the beach is a group of four employees. The vibe is very White Lotus—all of them stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling in welcome, wearing matching khaki shorts and white polo shirts, and holding something for us: small bunches of local flowers, a bowl with cool, wet cloths, a tray with cups of ice water, a plate with sliced fruit. The four hosts introduce themselves as Maria, John, Eko, and Gede before handing us their items. While we wipe our hands, drink the water, and eat the fruit, Gede steps forward.

“Welcome to Pulau Jingga,” he says. “I am your private butler for the duration of your stay. May I tell you a little about the reserve?”

“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath. A freaking butler. This is amazing. But I remember I’m rich: “That would be lovely, thank you.”

His face breaks open in the most delightful smile I’ve ever seen. “In 1993, dynamite fishing was declared illegal within the hundred-mile radius surrounding Pulau Jingga. Now the island you stand on as well as the five neighboring isles are a certified conservation area.” With a sweep of his arms, he gestures around us. “The entire resort was constructed using traditional Indonesian methods and built to protect the shoreline from erosion as well as from destruction of the undersea ecosystem and the local flora. There are thirty-five guest villas: fifteen tent cabins along the beach, fifteen cottages in the gardens, and five luxury overwater bungalows, which is where you will be staying.”

“Luxury overwater bungalow,” I whisper to West. “The best three-word combination ever uttered.”

He smiles stiffly, and Gede continues. “Hot water and electricity are generated by solar and wind power; waste is recycled and reused. Meals are all locally sourced, and our restaurants are Michelin-starred. Everything is inclusive, including meals, spa treatments, and activities. We offer kayaking, paddleboarding, and snorkeling. You may also take a paddleboat to any of the nearby islands to fish. Snorkeling equipment is available in the boathouse just there,” he says, pointing, “and there are two shipwrecks nearby to explore. The interior of the island is thickly forested, and there are marked trails to follow if the mood strikes. Or, you may do absolutely nothing while you are here.”

“Ah-ha-ha,” I laugh fancily, setting my left hand on my chest to display my ring. “That sounds amazing.”

“I can be of as much or as little assistance as you want,” Gede says. “Just let me know.” He holds out his hand, gesturing down the beach to the bungalows. “You’ll find more information in your bungalow, but we can answer any questions that come up along the way. We rarely keep to a schedule here, but according to the itinerary provided by your party, you have a few hours before the cocktail reception at our flagship restaurant, Jules Verne. Perhaps you’d like to retreat to your bungalow to rest and refresh?”

Frankly, what I really want to do is drop my fancy purse and run like a maniac down the beach, splashing in the surf before taking a nap in one of the hammocks stretched between the skyscraping palms. But West still carries visible tightness in his shoulders, and we both could use a shower and a change of clothes.

“That sounds divine,” I drawl, sliding my arm through West’s. “Don’t you think, sweetheart?”

He gazes down at me, quickly tucking away a flash of amusement. “Yes. Very divine.”

Waving goodbye to our four new friends, we begin the surprisingly long trek toward the overwater bungalows. I do my best not to skip along the sand, because I don’t think a Weston Wife would do that, but the plane hostess was right: the island feels amazing on my bare feet. Meanwhile, West walks beside me, quietly miserable. At least he looks great: his linen pants rolled up just above his ankles, his white button-down flattened by the breeze into his chest, revealing to me that he’s got some great muscles. His flip-flops dangle loosely from his fingers. What must his life be if he can be walking in literal paradise and look like he’s being led to the gallows?

But then I look up to see two figures walking toward us. The man is small-framed and rigid, with salt-and-pepper hair and a boardroom stride that looks wildly out of place in this tropical oasis. The woman is thin and graceful with platinum blond hair. Her glamorous maxi dress billows in the island breeze.

I know without even asking who they are.

Nine

ANNA

Seeing West’s father walking toward us on this tiny island, in linen shorts and an open-collared floral shirt, is a little like seeing a wildcat at the mall: mortal danger completely out of context.

However… he is also oddly compact, standing a good six inches shorter than his barefoot wife. Listen, I try not to play into stereotypes, but as Ray Weston crosses the beach—wiry, unsmiling, irritation hovering like a cloud around him—the aforementioned wildcat looks a little less intimidating.

“Didn’t believe you’d show up,” Ray calls from about twenty feet away.

Not Hello, not Welcome to the island. Just snark from the top of the page. Didn’t West say he hasn’t seen his father in nearly five years?

“Liam, darling!” the woman cries, opening her arms as she jogs the last twenty feet to us. Liam picks up his pace a little, folding her into his arms as they meet. There’s something heart-achingly lovely about it, how real the embrace is, and it catches me off guard. My mind whispers, Celebrities, they’re just like us!

I reach them just in time to see the painfully awkward moment when West looks over at his father and the two men seem to struggle with how to greet each other. They settle on a quick, hard handshake. Now, I read a lot while working at the Pick-It-Up; whatever I could find near the registers. Lots of magazines, journals, comics, travel brochures, newspapers, almanacs—I’m not picky. It means I’ve accrued a lot of random knowledge in my many years spent selling Red Bull and Snickers. I know a little about a lot of things, and I’ve learned about people, too. Ray offered his hand palm down: a classic dominant move.

I try to imagine shaking my father’s hand in greeting and, honestly, I cannot.

I meet Ray Weston’s eyes, and they’re the same color as West’s, but whereas on West I’d describe them as butterscotch, honey, whiskey, on Ray the color lacks all warmth. They are brownish, khaki, muddy beige. His are the amber eyes of a predator.

And even though West greeted his mother first, and warmly, he presses his hand to my lower back and angles me to face his dad. “Anna, this is my father, Ray Weston.”

“Yes, hi,” I say, and extend my hand to him. “Nice to finally meet you.”

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