Vivian had no doubt Amal would find someone suitable for her tropical fantasies. Raven-haired, tawny-hued Amal was smoking hot and never had a problem getting men to fall in love with her.
Moments later, the waiter brought their drinks. Vivian had suggested palmitos, the local St. Killian favorite, featuring mulled pineapples, rum, and mint, but Amal had requested a glass of pinot noir.
“Okay, Amal, now that we have libations, you know what time it is,” Vivian announced, barely able to contain her excitement. “Let’s play raise a glass!”
The raise a glass game, which she and Amal had created following high school graduation during the summer before they’d separated to attend their respective colleges, was similar to a toast. Raising a glass was their special acknowledgment of past events, present circumstances, or future hopes and dreams.
“So, I’ll raise a glass to the present because I’m so happy and excited to be right here, right now, with my best friend that I love and adore!” said Vivian. “You’re like the sister I never wanted!”
Amal rolled her eyes, smiling, and then glanced at her phone, face up on the table near her appetizer plate. “Funny.”
“Seriously, Amal,” Vivian said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Amal tilted her head, her expression probing, circumspect.
Wary, Vivian asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Amal said, voice rising an octave in mock innocence. “Just … I have a confession.”
“A confession?”
“Remember how I told you I was too busy with Phoenix to visit?” Amal asked as she picked up the buzzing cell phone and frowned. “Well, I lied.”
“You lied?” Vivian asked, curious as she saw the crease between Amal’s brows deepen. “Why?”
Amal gave her a sly smile, but it seemed a bit forced, Vivian noted. Amal swiped a thumb across the cell phone, lips pursed in disgust, and then she smiled again, a bit brighter.
“I wasn't too busy to come,” Amal confessed. “I was just hoping you would come to your senses and leave St. Killian, and then I wouldn’t have to come here to visit you, but you’re still hiding out in paradise so…”
“Amal, please, don’t go there.” Vivian shook her head and took another sip of her drink, her wariness turning to discomfort. “We’ve already had the ‘Vivian shouldn’t have moved to St. Killian’ conversation before, too many times.”
“Obviously, we haven’t had the conversation enough because you’re still hiding out in paradise,” Amal said. “I still can’t believe you moved here.”
“You say ‘here’ like I’m living in some overcrowded third-world slum,” Vivian said. She knew the reason for Amal’s disbelief, which had everything to do with Vivian’s decision to make a permanent move to the island at the conclusion of a one-month temporary assignment for the department of tourism.
At a party hosted by the tourism minister, the editor of the Palmchat Gazette had approached her with a potential job offer, and Vivian jumped at the chance to work for the award-winning publication.
Amal had been less than thrilled when Vivian accepted the Palmchat Gazette job. She’d accused Vivian of hiding out on an island because she was too afraid to face the disappointment which had been the reason behind her rash decision to abandon her job at The Washington Post.
Countless times, Vivian had tried to explain why she’d chosen to live in paradise. She was grateful for the lazy, laid-back, “island time” pace. St. Killian was different from life in Africa, but she’d needed the change and wanted a new life.
Following the personal setbacks she’d endured, Vivian had been desperate to turn her back on her former life and all the memories associated with the woman she’d once been—a woman hopelessly in love with a man she’d foolishly thought she’d be with forever.
Leo Bronson. The man who had captured her heart the moment they’d met and then crushed it five years later.
“Look around, Amal,” Vivian advised, snatching another fritter from the platter. “There’s nothing but blue skies, palm trees, and white sand beaches for as far as the eye can see. This is paradise. Why wouldn’t I want to live here?”
“I don’t have an issue with you living in paradise,” Amal conceded, though Vivian suspected she was about to make a point, one Vivian wouldn’t be able to dispute. “I have an issue with why you want to live here. You and I both know that you didn’t pack your bags and head to the tropics for the palm trees and white sand beaches. You stayed in paradise because—”
“We both know why I stayed in St. Killian.” Vivian grabbed a goat fritter and tore into it, chewing angrily. “I was offered a job with the Palmchat Gazette, and—”
“You will never convince me that you’re fulfilled and satisfied writing puff pieces for some island rag—a job you are horribly overqualified for.”
Vivian exhaled. “I took the job at the Palmchat Gazette because it was a good opportunity.”
“You didn’t get a degree in journalism from Columbia University just to end up writing about the top ten things to do in St. Killian.”
“The Palmchat Gazette is an award-winning publication, I’ll have you know,” Vivian said. “I write all kinds of stories about crime and corruption. And, no, St. Killian is not the Sudan, but I do enjoy the work I’m doing. Besides, aren’t you glad I’m not in Africa anymore? Remember how upset you were when I told you I was working on that piece about the Ugandan warlord’s son? Chasing deranged dictators is dangerous.”
“Vivian, you’re an amazing badass investigative journalist,” said Amal. “You should not be wasting your skills, writing about stolen surfboards and hotel crime.”
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I like my job, and my life, in St. Killian?” Vivian asked.
“I don’t believe it because it’s not true,” Amal said. “You decided to stay in St. Killian to avoid dealing with what happened between you and Leo.”
“I know that’s what you think.” Vivian bristled, annoyed by her best friend’s assessment.
