But we’d won.
We’d won so triumphantly, I’d never been so happy, so settled, so sure of my place than I did right here on our beach.
Once the Fijian government agreed to lease the island, we’d officially given it a name.
Yanuyanu ni le Vitu na Vonu.
Island of Seven Turtles.
Vitu na Vonu for short.
Seven people had arrived.
One soul had been born.
One son had died.
Four people left.
And three returned.
Those first few months beneath the stars were the best nights of my life. We shed our city attire and slipped into the half-nakedness we’d embraced. We fished together. We lit a fire together (cheating with the lighter rather than damage my new glasses) and spent the days remembering the bad times, the good times, and the sad.
We were finally able to finish grieving for Conner. For Pippa. For each other. Coming to terms with what we’d embraced and lost.
As the months turned to years, I returned to the mainland often, hiring local workers to help build the infrastructure required to keep us safe and secure for the many decades to come.
Coco stopped being grouchy and cross and blossomed into a brilliant, helpful child. As her birthdays ticked four, then five, now six, she became entwined with the Fijian nationals and culture. She would never fit in with the concrete jungle of a city. And I worried about that. But at the same time...who cared?
She learned the value of hard work and the sacred connection of hunting for your own food rather than ignoring the cruelty and sacrifice of mass marketed meat.
She hung around with my construction worker’s children, being ferried from island to island and attending a local kindergarten.
Soon, she would start primary school a few islands over. Estelle and I would speed over the waves every morning to deliver her and again every night to collect her. We would never own a car but what a way to commute over the aquamarine atolls of our chosen home.
We’d contemplated the idea of using the helicopter taxis that now flew regularly, but I couldn’t get over the fear of what’d happened. I doubted fate would be cruel enough to crash us twice, but I wouldn’t risk it.
Eventually, Coco would head away to university if she was inclined or stay here and do whatever she wanted. But that was far enough away not to be an issue.
We learned, once we’d returned, that our island was located on the boundary of the Fijian archipelago. If we’d ever had a chance to paddle on our kayak, our chances of surviving the current rushing out to sea would’ve been slim.
Our island was classed as dangerous, which was why it’d been uninhabited when we’d arrived. However, the journey to other islands, unseen in the distance, only took forty minutes or so by boat.
The glistening jewels of our neighbours were hidden through sea mist and heatwaves, but we’d never been as alone as we’d feared.
Money was no object (thanks to Estelle), and together, we installed rain tanks that stored years’ worth of liquid; we’d planted an orchard, sugar plantation, and every edible we could grow.
We’d seeded root vegetables, leafy greens, fruits, even medicinal foliage, loving the way they grew like wildfire thanks to the heat and humidity.
The avocados and limes were yet to give fruit, but we were hopeful next year would yield a crop. However, along with the produce we introduced, we still ate island fare.
Turned out, the taro leaves that we boiled and ate in a salad (when we had nothing else) were used for that same purpose on the mainland. And the food we often ate (that we had no name for) were local delicacies such as curry leaf and bush ferns.
One thing we hadn’t sampled was nama, also known as sea-grapes. The delicious seaweed polyps were often eaten here and an abundance grew in our reef. If only we’d known. We’d been surrounded by more food than we realised.
We asked the wives of the construction workers to come and educate us on flowers and other plant life, finally learning their true names and capabilities.
The yellow bark-stringy flowers on the beach were called Vau in Fijian and beach hibiscus in English. The leaves were also good for sprains and swelling, just like the plant with furry leaves we’d used, called Botebote Koro (goat weed).
Estelle soaked up the indigenous knowledge as if she’d turn into a natural healer. She learned that palm trees Fijian name was Niu and the leaves from the sparse guava plants could be pulped and used for dysentery, which was ironic because if too many of the unripe guava fruit were eaten they gave constipation.
As our house evolved with indoor plumbing, septic systems, and hot showers, we opted for the expense of installing a saline purifier and internet satellite to stay in touch with the outside world.
Our many Skype calls were to Pippa.
For so long, I’d worried about her mental health. But as the years turned her from a quiet eleven-year-old into a sensitive teenager, I knew she’d never be boisterous or carefree. She carried too much sorrow in her heart, but she had wisdom, too. Wisdom to know that life happened, and it couldn’t unhappen.
She was alive. She had a life with her grandmother and friends at school. And she visited us every year and each year was easier.
Having her in our lives (even in small doses) was more than I’d hoped for.
At night, Estelle researched new skills to continue evolving our new way of life and relayed titbits of plants we didn’t know, educating ourselves on our island.
It was a humbling reminder that even though we’d become so dependent on technology, we’d done okay without the World Wide Web. We’d done it together through common sense and the willingness to try.
But we were also careful.
Those ingredients meant we were able to turn plants (that at first glance didn’t look edible), into a smorgasbord of eateries without an encyclopaedia or mouse click.
And thank God we had a lot of supplies, because currently, those supplies had been claimed.
Christmas, once upon a time, had been ignored.
However, since we’d been back, that had all changed.
Our finished two-story house had become more than just a home for my family but an idyllic holiday spot for our loved ones.
I was proud of that.
Proud of its unassuming position on our beach, a few metres away from our original (well, second original after the fire) home. That house was now a children’s dream hang-out with hammocks and littered seashells.
Vitu na Vonu was more than just our home. This uninhabited island now housed a family. It’d evolved with us into a wonderful haven. And regularly hosted happy events within its reef-protected boundaries.
“Are you coming?” Coco popped her head around the kitchen island. Her golden ringlets were salt-crinkled and wild. “They want the lobster and told me to get you.”
“Impatient, are they?”
She giggled. “Yep. Me, too. I’m hungry.”
“You just had a prawn cocktail.”
“Don’t care. Still hungry.”
I rolled my eyes. At six (almost seven), Coco had sprung into a willowy, younger version of Estelle. My wife said there were elements of me in my daughter, but all I saw was the woman who owned my heart. From the bleached blonde hair to the high cheekbones. The only thing I noticed were the eyes, which had turned more blue than green.
“Oh, and Grandpa wanted me to tell you that Finnek wants his juice.”
The mention of my two-year-old son warmed my soul. The fact that my father was here to celebrate Christmas with us even more so. He’d left England a year ago, moving into a small bachelor pad I’d built on the opposite side of our island.
The side where Conner and his parents had been honoured.
My dad was still lonely for my mum, but at least, he had a family, sunshine, and a new existence to nullify the old.
“My ears are burning. Who’s talking about me?”
I wiped my hands on a tea towel as my
dad appeared.
In his arms sat my little boy.
The moment Finnek saw me, his chubby hands strained for me to take him. His sky-blue eyes watered with pain as his bottom lip wobbled. “Ouchie!”
I plucked him from my father’s embrace. “What happened?”
“Little tyke took off too fast. Face planted in the sand and scuffed his knee. Again.”
This was a weekly (if not daily) occurrence. Finnek was a walking accident. His coordination skills had a lot to be desired. While Coco took after Estelle, Finnek took after me with his lanky limbs, dark hair, and rascally smirk. We should’ve called him Mischief.
Luckily, his big sister never let him out of her sight.
And as Estelle had ballooned with Finnek’s pregnancy, I’d never let her out of mine. We regularly went to the mainland for check-ups, and when she got too big to brave the sea, we paid the doctor to come here.
The pregnancy had no complications, and Estelle spoke about having another birth on our island.
I’d flatly refused.
Two weeks before she was due, we travelled to Nadi and stayed in a local hotel, close to a hospital, and took it easy. We swam in chlorinated water rather than salt and ate food prepared by others.
And when she delivered, it was in a sterile room with medical professionals and every modern apparatus required if anything went wrong.
It made me feel ten times better knowing that others with expertise were helping rather than just me and a night-shrouded sea like last time.
Another benefit of spending two weeks on the mainland meant I finally took the plunge to have Lasik eye surgery to permanently remove the need for glasses.
When we’d first moved, I’d ordered ten pairs, just in case. I never wanted to go so long without seeing well again.
However, swimming crusted the lenses, sweat fogged them while I worked, and humidity wasn’t kind to the hinges.
Estelle had been the one to suggest the procedure.
And I was so bloody thankful I’d listened.
“You really are a disaster, aren’t you, Fin?”
“No.” Finnek pouted as I put him on the kitchen counter.
Rummaging in the drawer full of creams and Band-Aids, Coco padded to the fridge and yanked on the heavy sealed door.
I glanced at her as I tended to the scrape on Finnek’s knee.
I didn’t say a word as she grabbed the sippy cup full of coconut water and passed it to her brother. “Here you go. This will make you feel better.”
Goddammit, she knew how to overwhelm my heart with her childish kindness.
I love her.
Them.
Everyone.
My dad caught my eye.
We smiled, understanding without speaking how precious this bond between siblings would become.
Kissing my son’s forehead, I passed him back to my father. “Everything going all right out there?”
Along with my dad, we’d invited the foreman who helped me build and his wife and two children. We’d also invited anyone who wanted to come from the islands closest to us, extending the hospitality to those stragglers who had no one to spend Christmas with.
It went without saying that Madeline was here. Just like every Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other random occasion she could find. She might as well move in with how often she visited (claiming the benefits of tax deductions to see her boss about ‘work matters’).
Not that I cared.
I’d grown to love the crazy woman.
Not to mention, she ran our life back in the city with military precision, keeping on top of Estelle’s contracts and obligations, ferrying paperwork and interview requests from her recording company, going out of her way to ensure the symbiotic relationship flourished.
Estelle continued writing and singing and her finished recordings were sent to Madi to deliver to the music contractors or uploaded directly to iTunes for her online listeners.
Money would never be an issue for us.
Time wasn’t stolen in dead-end jobs or hated commutes.
And we were able to be generous with our monetary and material wealth.
We paid for Pippa’s education. Looked after her grandmother’s occasional health bills, and put aside a few blue stock bonds for Coco and Finnek when they hit eighteen. Not to mention, the investment we made into the Fijian infrastructure.
We’d adopted this place just as it had adopted us.
“Yes, all enjoying the sun and beer.” My dad chuckled, clasping Coco’s hand to lead my children back to the beach. “We’ll see you down there. Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t. The food’s almost done.”
All morning, I’d slaved in the kitchen (after shooing Estelle out) to finish the Christmas seafood feast. We had so much food; I doubted we’d eat it all. But the abundance of such banquets never grew old.
Not after those first few days of starvation.
After that, everything tasted better, richer.
Finnek waved, his tears transforming to laughter as his grandfather muttered something in his ear.
“See you soon!” Coco charged outside, bolting down the ramp off the veranda to the large table where our guests waited for the main course.
Everyone but Estelle.
My lips twitched as the haunting melody of the baby grand I’d had shipped over lilted over our island.
The lobsters could wait.
My need to hold her couldn’t.
Padding barefoot across the large open-plan living, my heart squeezed as my eyes fell on Estelle.
Her fingers glided over ivory and black keys, while the sounds of conversation whispered from the beach below, mingling with the clinking of cocktails, and fluttering of white gauze curtains.
Heaven.
Instead of singing a Christmas carol, Estelle sang one of her originals. One I absolutely adored and had been listened to over fifteen million times on YouTube.
I snuck up behind her and wrapped her in an embrace.
Her fingers never stopped dancing, but her head bent as she kissed my tanned forearm. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You think they’re ready?”
“According to Coco, they’re all dying of lobster deprivation.”
“Ah, poor things. What a horrible affliction to have.”
My hand drifted downward, cupping her breast.
Today, she’d dressed in a simple pink sundress but the silver bikini she wore beneath glistened like liquid mercury against her skin. “I don’t know if I’ll make it through the entire feast. Why did we invite so many people?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.” She sucked in a breath as I pinched her nipple. “And you have no choice.”
“Oh, I have a choice.” I licked her earlobe. “You do, too. Fancy ignoring everyone for a few minutes?”
“Just a few minutes?” She giggled. “I think you’re underestimating yourself there, G.”
“When I’m inside you, I’m surprised I last more than a few seconds.”
She shivered as my touch slid from her breast to capture her throat, squeezing lightly, possessively.
Her head tilted to the side, offering her mouth to take.
And I did.
We kissed slowly, sensuously, and through it all, she never stopped playing the softest lullaby.
I groaned as my shorts became far too tight for company. “Does this wanting you ever stop?”
“I hope not.”
“You like having this power over me?”
“Like it? No.” She smiled. “I love it.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
Our lips re-joined.
“Do you think they know?” I asked, pulling away and running a hand through my hair. I’d grown it out again and the length was starting to annoy.
“About Driftwood? I guess. But only if they’ve been sneaky and gone where we told them not to.”
My mind switched to the mongrel
pup we’d rescued from the local shelter on the mainland. A scruffy cross on death row. He was currently hidden in the woods by the orchard, waiting to meet his new master and mistress.
We’d gone Christmas shopping for the children, and just like Pippa had every year the turtles came to nest, they’d begged us for a pet.
We’d finally decided to make that wish come true.
We’d also decided to make the turtle’s survival that much easier for the hatchlings, and (with the Governments Conservations approval) installed a few holding tanks inlaid into the sand so the baby turtles could swim and be protected for a few days before flipper-crawling to the open sea.
“Fancy sleeping under the stars tonight, once everyone has gone?”
Estelle nodded. “I’d love that.”
“Perhaps, do our Christmas wishes in the sand, like old times?”
“I’d love that, too.” Her hazel eyes glowed. “You’re full of great ideas today.”
I smirked. “I try.”
Moments like these made my life complete. However, I wasn’t saying our lives were ease and glory all the time. We had rough moments (if a hurricane ripped through), we still got sick, and still argued.
But compared to what the rat race endured, we lived in utopia.
Even our children hardly moaned or complained.
Because what was there to argue about when you lived in paradise?
Nothing.
And if there ever was discord, our tradition of writing messages helped solve it.
If we were angry, we wrote it in the sand.
If we were sad, we wrote it so the waves could smooth it away.
It was the perfect Etch A Sketch for our problems.
“Talking of messages...” I moved back, waiting until Estelle tapered off her music and stood. “You won’t guess what I found last night when I went for a swim.”
“Oh?” She came toward me, slinking her arms around my waist. “What?”
“Something you never told me about.”
“Like what?”
“Like a bottle...”
“A bottle?” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you—”
“A message in a bottle.”
“What...” She paused then enlightenment brightened her face. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry. It was a low point, and I...I wasn’t thinking.”