Page 170 of Reverie

“I’ll be sure that your transportation is ready within the hour.”

“Thank you,” I reply, mustering every ounce of professionalism I can.

“Now, eat your food,” he demands.

I comply because one, I’m hungry, and two, this salad looks delicious.

And I guess three—because he made it for me, and I know he made it with love.

When I’m halfway done eating, he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” I reply.

“Happy. Carefree,” he says. Then he presses a kiss on my left hand.

“You never told me Patrick’s name,” I say, pushing the salad bowl away when there are only a few bites left.

The sides of his eyes crease at his laugh lines. “It’s Patrick.”

“I know, what’s Patrick’s real name?”

“Patrick,” he replies.

I bark a laugh. “No shit?”

“Nope,” he replies. Giving me a brief kiss and heading back toward his office, he says, “They’ll forever be known as SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick in my mind, though.”

We both start snort-laugh when Squidward and SpongeBob enter the room.

Gettingto the island is a bit more complicated than anticipated. I don’t know why I thought it’d be simple to go from our island to the larger one, but it definitely isn’t.

First, SpongeBob, Patrick, and I—or, I guess, Walker, Patrick, and I—take the motorized Catamaran toward the south shore of Martinique. So we can avoid having to check in with customs, we travel around the backside of the island and dock at an old fishing alcove that looks abandoned. Winter Island is under twenty nautical miles from Martinique, so with the motor at top speed, it takes us less than an hour to get there.

When we arrive, however, a Jeep with the doors taken off idles on the dirt road, and after one of the guards secures our boat transportation back home, all three of us hop into the vehicle and ride in the back of the 4x4. Walker is a short and stout man, a solid block of muscle, so when the three of us try to squeeze into the backseat with me in the middle, I reconsider whether I actually want to get Hunter a gift after all.

Our chauffeur speaks English fairly well from what I can tell, but he isn’t a stunning conversationalist. Thirty minutes after we dock, we arrive at the seaside village of Les Trois-Îlets. Our driver drops us at the end of the line of shops.

The buildings are colorful and scream,Westerners came through and put a ton of money into making this place look island-y yet Americanized. It reminds me a bit of Key West, Florida. Still, getting on solid, dry land and smelling the various plants and trees does something to my soul.

The guards exit the vehicle and assess the area. The square is quiet, barely anyone around.

Still, I’m uncomfortable. On edge. I fidget with my thumbnail. “I won’t be long,” I tell Patrick when he takes up space beside me. “I just wanted to stop at the jewelry store.”

The man tilts his chin down in acknowledgment.

I trail behind Walker as we follow the signs further into the market. Patrick follows me closely, so I’m covered from the front and behind. Another shout comes from my consciousness, repeating that this is probably a really bad idea.

It’s just a small stop. It will be fine. Take a chill pill.

For the first time in several days, I wish I had Kitty with me to soothe my nerves.

Within a few minutes, we’re saved from the Caribbean heat when we run across an elaborate store that appears to cater to wealthy Americans daily.

“May I help you?” comes a bored, accented voice when we step inside. The fair-skinned woman looks at me with a pinch of annoyance. I look down at my casual outfit.

I don’t appear to be the epitome of wealth in my simple sundress and woven sandals, and I suppress irritation that if I looked differently, this woman would likely have a more welcoming attitude toward us.

Nonetheless, I square my shoulders and address the shopkeeper. “Yes, I would like to see your men’s wedding bands. I’m looking for something to complement this.” I stick my left hand out toward her over the counter, and I take immense pride as both of her eyebrows go up.

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