by Rachel Woods
“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. “But, that’s not true.”
“Deny it all you want,” Amal said. “We both know why you don’t want to go back to Africa, and it’s not because you’re afraid of some crazy dictator. You’re afraid to see Leo.”
Shaking her head, Vivian wanted to tell Amal she was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come.
“If you go back to Africa, you know you’ll cross paths with Leo, the love of your life,” Amal said. “I know your feelings for him haven’t changed. You still love him. You still want to be with him. That’s why you’re terrified of seeing him again. I understand that.”
“How could you possibly understand, Amal? You’ve never been in love,” Vivian reminded her. “You've never wanted to fall in love, never wanted to be in a committed relationship. You just go from guy to guy to guy.”
“Yeah, and that works for me, for now anyway,” Amal said, her tone a tad softer. “But who knows, in the future, maybe if I found the right guy, I just might give him my heart.”
Vivian snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Amal shrugged and gave her a smug smile. “Well, you might see it very soon, so get ready to start believing.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?” Vivian asked, curious and excited. “Are you seeing someone?”
“I might be,” said Amal, her tone vague.
“Wait, you might be seeing someone, and you haven’t told me?” Vivian stared at Amal.
“Don’t try to get me in a white dress. It’s not serious—yet.” Amal laughed.
“Well, anyway, enough about me,” said Vivian, lifting her palmito from the table. “Your turn to raise a glass.”
“Give me a minute,” Amal requested, grabbing a goat fritter from the platter between them. “I need to think.”
“You need to think?” Vivian shook her head and laughed. “Amal, you have so many things to raise a glass to! For one, your dream business endeavor, Phoenix, the premier medical spa catering to A-list celebrities, billionaire socialites, debutantes, and fashionistas all over the world.”
“Not exactly, not just yet, but soon,” Amal said. “My clientele is still mostly bored rich housewives whose faces might shatter into a million pieces if they get another Botox injection, but I can’t complain. Their seething, unrepentant vanity pays the bills. For the most part, anyway.”
“For the most part?” Vivian questioned, taking another sip of her palmito.
“Well, you know …” Amal exhaled under her breath as her cell phone buzzed again.
“Everything okay?” Vivian asked as Amal snatched the phone from the table and frowned once more, staring at the screen.
Her thumbs stabbing the small QWERTY keyboard, Amal said, “Businesses take time to get established, to make a profit.”
“Are you having problems?” Vivian asked, concerned.
“What?” Amal stared at her, a trace of suspicion in her dark eyes. “No, I mean, it’s just that being your own boss is hard work.”
Amal’s phone buzzed.
Vivian asked, “You sure everything is okay?”
“Yeah, well, sort of,” Amal said, distracted by the phone. “I’m dealing with a new vendor and a new administrative assistant—Snowdrop Sanders. Can you believe that’s her real name? Anyway, can I tell her to call me at your house in a few hours? That okay?”
Vivian nodded and gave Amal the number to her condo, which Amal texted to her assistant.
After dropping the phone into her purse, Amal said, “Okay, that’s taken care of, so there should be no more interruptions.”
“Good,” Vivian said. “And your sixty seconds are up, so what are you raising a glass to?”
“I want to raise a glass to myself,” Amal said. “Because no one is ever going to make a fool of me again.”
“What do you mean by that?” Vivian questioned, staring at her best friend. “Who made a fool of you?”
Hesitating, Amal took a drink of her wine and then cursed.
“What is it?” Vivian asked.
“Well, it’s not pinot noir, which is what I asked for,” Amal fumed, beckoning for a waiter. “It’s pinot grigio.”
The waiter arrived with an expansive smile. “How may I help you, beautiful ladies?”
Amal glared at him. “Were you paying attention when I gave you my drink order?”
His smile wavered. “Yes, ma’am—”
“You couldn’t have been paying attention,” Amal said. “Otherwise, you would have heard me request pinot noir.”
“Yes, ma’am, I remember.” He nodded. “You ordered the pinot noir.”
“Then why did you bring me pinot grigio?”
Bristling from the rebuke, the waiter said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I—”
“I don’t need your apologies,” Amal snapped. “Just bring me my pinot noir. Now. Please.”
With a slight bow of deference, the waiter scurried off to do Amal’s bidding.
“Seriously, Amal?” Vivian asked. “Did you have to bite his head off?”
“He needs to do his job,” Amal said, unwilling to cut the waiter any slack. “And, I need to go to the ladies room. I’ll be right back.”
2
In the ladies room, Amal closed and locked the stall door and then leaned against it. Removing her cell phone from her purse, she accessed the last text message she’d received. Reading it, she wondered how the hell she could have been so stupid. How could she have allowed herself to be scammed, duped?
Two years ago, she became the owner of Phoenix, a medical spa which offered age-defying medical treatments and state-of-the-art products and services with guaranteed results. She envisioned Phoenix as a leader in the aesthetic industry, dedicated to providing the best in personal enhancement. By her estimation, Amal figured her success would be effortless, inevitable, and destined.
During her final year in graduate school, for one of her classes, the final exam required students to create a business plan outlining a vision for reviving a failing business. Amal had chosen the low-rent medical spa where she worked part-time as a receptionist. The assignment had been a piece of cake for Amal. The spa was rarely booked, and she often passed the time making lists of reasons why the spa wasn’t successful and outlining the changes she would implement to make it a premier exclusive establishment.
Four months later, when she graduated, she turned down several lucrative job offers and decided instead to bring her business plan assignment to fruition. The only good thing about the medical spa was its location, in the heart of Palm Beach, a ritzy town with looks-obsessed women who had access to disposable income.
Amal persuaded banks to loan her the capital needed to make the owner an offer he wasn’t about to refuse. A few angel investors helped fund the massive renovations to the building's exterior and interior.
A year later, she changed the name of the facility to Phoenix, which symbolized the origins of the business, from disaster to triumph. Phoenix would be a medical spa where women and men could overcome whatever physical destruction had befallen them and ascend to a beautiful victory.
More importantly, Phoenix would boast amazing revenues and avenues for growth.
Reality had come quickly, swiftly. Most new businesses failed within the first year. Those that didn’t fail rarely made a profit for the first three to five years. Amal hadn’t been in the mood to wait five years before her bank accounts were in the black, so she’d expanded the services the spa provided.
Soon, she began to amass the amounts of money she deserved to make.
Things had been going well until six months ago. One ill-fated decision and now everything she’d worked for was at risk. Her entire world might come crashing down around her, but Amal would be damned if she was crushed.
Despite her frustration and anger, Amal had a plan. She was nothing if not cunning and creative, and her idea was high risk, but she had no choice. She had been burned, charred, and scarred because she had played with the wrong kind of fire.
She planned to rise from the ashes.
Her cell phone buzzed again.
Yanking the phone from her purse, Amal glared at the display. Another text, one she’d been waiting for. Amal accessed the message and read it: I got what you need
Relief snaking through her, Amal responded. 9 mm?
A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again. Yeah meet me at the bar
Taking a deep breath, Amal summoned courage, reminding herself of the reason for the trip to St. Killian. Paradise wasn’t really about rest, relaxation, and reunion. Her true motive was revenge, retribution, and retaliation. She would be vindicated. And if someone had to die so she could get back what had been viciously stolen from her, then so be it.
3
As lively calypso music mixed with the soft din of casual conversation around her, Vivian reflected on Amal’s opinions of her career choices, trying to be objective and not feel defensive.
Vivian, you’re an amazing badass investigative journalist. You should not be wasting your skills.
Despite what Amal thought, Vivian didn’t consider her work at the Palmchat Gazette a waste of her talent. She enjoyed the job and had plenty of opportunities to write complex stories with multiple angles. When she’d first taken the job, Vivian had been grateful for the distraction of a different landscape, but now she was no longer interested in covering wars in Africa, risking life and limb in lawless lands. The Sudan had taken a toll on her spirit and her soul. And yet, her heart had suffered the worst, because of Leo.
The truth was, she hadn’t been chased out of Africa by a tribal dictator, as some of her former colleagues believed. She’d fled because of her stupidity and foolishness because she’d been misguided enough to believe in happily ever after.
Her fairy tale had turned into a nightmare, and reality had been devastating, confusing, and frustrating. The reality was that Leo didn’t want to get married. When he’d first told her, Vivian hadn’t wanted to believe him. For some reason, she’d been dumb enough to believe she could change his mind. After all, his feelings for her hadn’t changed. By his admission, Leo had claimed to love her still. Somehow, someway, Vivian thought she could convince Leo to walk down the aisle and into together forever as long as they both lived. She was no longer living with those delusions.
Vivian ate the last goat fritter and then started on the jerk fries. Amal had been right. Vivian did still love Leo. Still, she’d spent the last year trying to get over him, trying to get past the disappointment. She wasn’t completely healed, but her wounds were no longer raw and gaping. She didn’t want Leo to walk back into her life and derail what little progress she’d made.
Leo’s rejection of her hopes and dreams had left Vivian feeling inadequate, unworthy, and ashamed. She’d been disconsolate and, more than anything, confused. Leo claimed to love her, claimed she was the only woman he’d ever loved and the only woman he wanted to love, and yet when he should have made her dreams come true, he had destroyed them with five words.
Words she now hated.
As a woman who was passionate about words, relying on them for her livelihood and enjoyment, Vivian never thought she would hate any words. And yet, on that hot Sunday morning in Juba, the Sudanese metropolis where they were based, at the Royal Palace Hotel, less than a mile from the White Nile River, those five horrible words uttered by Leo had nearly destroyed her.
Popping a fry into her mouth, Vivian watched as Amal sauntered alongside the U-shaped bar, turning more than a few heads.
Instead of heading back to their table, Amal sat on an empty stool near the end of the bar.
What was Amal up to, Vivian wondered. The bartender approached Amal, but she waved him away. Moments later, a waiter walked up to Amal. Tall and good-looking, he had lean muscles and short, blond-tipped dreadlocks. As he lowered his head to whisper in Amal’s ear, Vivian frowned. She recognized the waiter. The focus of an investigative crime story at the Palmchat Gazette, the waiter was rumored to be involved with a gang of criminals who got jobs at high-end restaurants with the intent of stealing from drunk, distracted tourists. Thinking about the story, Vivian remembered there hadn’t been enough solid evidence against the waiter to bring any charges against him.
Detective Baxter François, the lead detective with the St. Killian police department, had told Vivian the waiter was savvy. She and the detective had developed a polite, if not friendly, relationship. François had admitted that the waiter was most likely guilty but sly enough to make sure there were no connections between him and the crime.
After the waiter had walked away, quickly disappearing into the shadowy interior of the restaurant, Amal made her way back to the table.
“The stupid waiter still hasn’t brought my pinot noir?” Amal asked, taking her seat again.
“I’m sure it's on the way,” Vivian reassured her, somewhat troubled by Amal’s conversation with the shady waiter.
Shaking her head, Amal said, “Who do you have to blow to get a glass of wine in this joint?”
“What were you and that waiter talking about?” Vivian questioned.
“I knew you were watching me,” Amal said, her smile naughty. “His name is Landon, and I gave him my number. He claims to have a foot-long, but I told him ‘Honey, twelve inches isn’t going to cut it. I need a two-by-four’!”
Vivian cackled at her best friend’s unabashed bawdiness, but Amal’s encounter with the waiter still bothered her.
4
Lounging on a chaise on the terrace, Vivian stared at the Caribbean Sea, thinking about Amal’s toast.
I want to raise a glass to myself because no one is ever going to make a fool of me again. What could the toast mean? Had someone tried to fool her? Was her best friend having some personal problems? Maybe, but if so, Vivian knew Amal would turn things around. Her best friend had always been able to pull off a surprise victory. She was smart and determined, able to go from tragedy to triumph.
Amal would always rise from the ashes.
Thinking about Amal made Vivian wonder where she was. Rising from the chaise, Vivian crossed the terrace. Walking through the opened pocket doors, Vivian headed into the den, thinking about Amal’s conversation with the waiter. When they’d returned to the condo, Amal had retired to her room to freshen up, while Vivian had taken a moment to search the newspaper’s database of articles, looking for more information about the waiter.
After finding the story, Vivian reread it a few times. The waiter’s name was Landon George, and just as she remembered, he hadn’t been charged with a crime. Still, Vivian didn’t trust him. When she’d interviewed him, Landon had been dismissive and smug, as though daring her to prove his guilt.
Heading down the hall, Vivian noticed the door to Amal’s bedroom was ajar. Her best friend’s voice exploded from the room.
“I’m going to kill him!” Amal swore. “Son of a bitch!”
In the ten years she’d known Amal, Vivian had never heard her best friend sound so infuriated, so full of rage. Amal had never backed down from a confrontation. Her best friend had always been the kickass take-no-prisoners type who didn’t take crap from anyone and had always stood up for herself.
She wasn’t one to start a fight but always finished it.
Vivian had witnessed Amal’s anger before, many times, but the wrath permeating Amal’s voice, fueling her words, made Vivian think of a crazed Liberian general she’d interviewed. He’d spewed deranged ideology. His hatred was al
most like desire, a passionate longing to kill his enemies. Shaken, disturbed by her comparison of Amal to an insane tribal leader, Vivian walked to the door and knocked. “Amal?”
“One second,” Amal called out and then lowered her voice to a whisper of tense words Vivian couldn’t understand.
A moment later, Amal opened the door wide and beckoned for Vivian to come in.
“Everything okay?” Vivian ventured, stepping over the threshold.
“Everything is great, especially this room.” Amal twirled around a few times, arms outstretched, like Wonder Woman, and then plopped down on the edge of the bed, laughing. “And this condo. Beyond gorgeous!”
“I’m pretty happy with it,” Vivian said, sitting in the chair across from the bed.
Her unit, on the southwestern section of the sprawling grounds, featured walls of French windows and doors, offering dazzling views of the Caribbean Sea both at sunrise and sunset. A two-story model, the lower level was comprised of a cavernous living room, spacious kitchen and dining room, and an opulent master suite. Through the kitchen, there was an attached garage, and from the garage, a door opened to a quaint, picturesque courtyard.
Upstairs was a large den, a study, and three guest bedrooms. Collapsible pocket doors in the den opened to the second-floor terrace, perfect for relaxing and entertaining.
“Let me guess,” Amal said. “Mom and Dad helped, right?”
“A little,” Vivian admitted, nodding.
“Yeah, right,” Amal said, laughing as she threw an accent pillow in Vivian’s direction. “From the looks of this place, I’ll bet they helped out more than just a little.”
“Oh, shut up,” Vivian warned and launched the accent pillow toward Amal, who ducked to avoid being hit.