by Rachel Woods
Technically, a trip to paradise wasn’t my idea. It had actually been orchestrated by my best friend, Lisa, who began designing it after I’d told her I couldn’t sleep because I’d been having disturbing dreams about shooting myself for the past six months.
“Dreams are a way of dealing with problems or identifying problems that may need to be addressed,” Lisa said.
Lisa was a therapist. A shrink. A neuropsychologist, actually. In her practice, she often encouraged patients to journal their dreams as a way to identify issues and concerns. So, she knew what the hell she was talking about. She wasn’t giving me advice from a dream dictionary she’d picked up from the bargain book bin at Barnes & Noble.
“When did the dreams start?” Lisa asked, as we lounged on chaises by the pool in her backyard and sipped mojitos, basking in the warm sunshine on a lazy late afternoon in May.
“About five, maybe six, months ago.”
“And what was going on in your life?”
“Nothing bad,” I said. “Certainly nothing that would have given me anxiety.”
Things had been going great six months ago, which was why the dreams made no sense.
“Well, if you want to skip the self-reflection and self-examination,” said Lisa, in her “therapist” voice, a slightly condescending, dulcet tone, totally devoid of her urban twang, “then I could prescribe something for you.”
“Something to stop the nightmares?” I asked, skeptical.
“Girl, please.” Lisa dropped the “therapist” tone. “Something to put your ass to sleep so you can get some rest.”
But, I didn’t want any pills, especially any anti-anxiety medication. I knew all too well about the scary, adverse effects of mood-altering drugs. Didn’t need my mind cluttered with rainbow-colored unicorns and psychotic thoughts. I’d made enough bad decisions.
“What are you anxious about?”
Shrugging, I said, “I don’t know. Lots of things, I guess. Nothing really specific, I don’t think.”
“Anxiety is sometimes a tertiary emotion,” Lisa said.
Lowering my sunglasses, I glanced at her. “A tertiary emotion?”
“It’s an emotion that results from the primary emotion, which often hides behind the tertiary emotion, because often, the primary emotion is too difficult and painful to deal with,” Lisa explained. “Once the primary emotion is exposed, it has to be validated and addressed. The tertiary emotion is usually easier to deal with, often with medication. But, the primary emotion may require psychoanalysis or more intense therapy, and most people are averse to that.”
“So, my anxiety is hiding behind some primary emotion,” I said, not sure I was on board with Lisa’s theories, which were beginning to sound a bit like psychobabble.
“The primary emotion is probably fear,” Lisa said, with an authoritative finality I found annoying and worrisome.
“Fear?”
“Fear can cause anxiety,” Lisa said. “So, the question to ask yourself is, what are you afraid of?”
Lisa’s question bothered me, and the defense attorney in me wanted to object. Assumes facts not in evidence. There was no proof my anxiety was based in fear. I suspected Lisa was right, though.
“Anxiety dreams are usually symbolic of some issue,” Lisa went on.
“So, I’m not really suicidal?” I asked. “Even though, in all of the dreams, I end up shooting myself?”
“You might want to kill something that you don’t like about yourself,” Lisa deduced. “That’s probably why you never die in the dream.”
I sat up and stared at her. “But which part of myself do I want to kill?”
“Maybe a personality trait, or a certain belief,” Lisa said. “Could be an attitude you secretly want to rid yourself of because you think it’s holding you back or keeping you from recovering from something.”
“Recovering from what?” I asked, my gaze drifting to the pool, where sunlight glinted on the surface like shimmering sparks.
Recovery implied that something had been damaged, broken, destroyed. Recovery implied some type of trauma had been sustained, either emotional or physical. But I wasn’t broken or traumatized. Or maybe I was. Possibly. Or maybe not.
“You know what I think you need?” Lisa poured herself another glass of sangria from the pitcher on the little glass bistro table between our lounge chairs.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“A good vacation.”
“You think so?” I asked, not convinced.
Lisa was adamant, however, and according to my best friend, the best way to deal with my anxiety was to indulge in a nice, opulent solo vacation. And while on vacation, I needed to have sex.
“How is having sex going to help me get over this anxiety?”
“Dirty, mind-blowing sex with multiple nonstop orgasms is the best way to release tension and stop the anxiety dreams.”
“Multiple nonstop orgasms? Not interested.”
“And there is only one place where it can happen,” she continued, again as though she was not listening to me. “There’s only one place you can go.”
“And where, pray tell, is that?” I asked, already feeling a bit worried by that mischievous gleam in her dark brown eyes. “Kalamazoo, Michigan? Djibouti, Africa?”
“St. Mateo.”
Ah, St. Mateo. That was going to be my third guess. That wasn’t true, though. I didn’t even know where St. Mateo was. I’d never even heard of St. Mateo. But, after Lisa declared St. Mateo as the place to go for wild, mind-blowing sex, she began flooding my email inbox with all sorts of links to travel websites about the place. Eventually, I caved and did research on the island to get the basics. The Internet provided lots of glossy photos of a sun-splashed paradise with white sand beaches, tall, swaying palm trees, and clear turquoise water.
St. Mateo was part of the Leeward chain, about ten miles southwest of Montserrat, and with its four sister islands, St. Felipe, St. Cera, St. Basil, and St. Kilian, it formed what was called the Palmchat Islands. The island quintet was known for its breathtaking natural beauty and diverse culture, but the most interesting articles were about the fact that each island had its own separate and unique personality.
St. Mateo was the hedonistic party island, St. Felipe was the prettiest but poorest island with the least tourists, St. Cera was the island of saints, where lots of missionary work was done, St. Basil was the place to go for a quick, painless divorce, and St. Kilian was the place for lively nightlife.
A few days later while we were having lunch, enjoying grilled lobster tails and drinking too many screwdrivers, I told Lisa I was thinking of booking a suite at the Hibiscus Resort and Spa, the most exclusive hotel in St. Mateo.
“No, you can’t do that,” Lisa said.
“Why can’t I go to the Hibiscus Resort and Spa?”
“Because you have to go to the Heliconia Hotel,” she said.
“The Heliconia Hotel?”
Her smile sly, Lisa said, “It’s the place where all of your fantasies will come true.”
All of my fantasies? Each and every one of them? I’d wanted to scoff and toss her some sarcastic quip about how that was a tall order, one I didn’t think some island hotel could fulfill, but the hint of mischief in her eyes intrigued me, made me want to know more about this Heliconia Hotel.
Later, despite my vodka-and-grapefruit-juice headache, I Googled the Heliconia Hotel, but nothing came up except informational links about the heliconia flower and about a bazillion links to various and sundry hotels. There were no hits for Heliconia Hotel.
“You won’t find anything about this hotel on the Internet,” Lisa said, being vague and mysterious when I called her the next morning. “They don’t have a website. And they’re not on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or Snapchat.”
“What the heck kind of hotel doesn’t have a website?” I’d asked, pissed by her evasiveness. “You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even care because I’m not going.
”
“But you have to go,” she insisted, as though the fate of the world depended on it. “You need some sexual healing to get rid of that anxiety.”
“I don’t have time for sex,” I insisted, slightly less intense.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Lisa said, voice lowered. “But, last year, one of my patients, a high-powered female CEO, was desperate to get over a devastating divorce, and she told me that a friend of hers suggested that she take a sabbatical to recharge and refresh her mind, body, spirit, and soul.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, she was able to make peace with the divorce by getting in touch with her chi and her inner whatever the hell. But, she got more out of it than just deep contemplative meditation.”
“Okay,” I said, wishing Lisa would get on with it.
“She also got some damn good sex during her sabbatical,” Lisa said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Specifically, some damn good sex at the Heliconia Hotel.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I stopped Lisa, holding up a hand. “The Heliconia is a sex hotel? You want me to get rid of my anxiety by going to a sex hotel?”
“It’s not a sex hotel,” Lisa chided. “It’s a hotel where all your fantasies come true and fantasies usually involve sex, so—”
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked. “I am not going to a sex hotel.”
“Will you just think about going?” Lisa asked. “From what my patient told me, you don’t have to have sex, it’s only an option. They also have lots of sensual pleasures that don’t involve intercourse. The point is, you’ll be pampered and catered to, and I think it will really help with your anxiety.”
Sighing, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Listen,” Lisa said. “If you decide to go, I’ll book everything for you, even the plane flight. All you’ll have to do is fly to St. Mateo and get on with getting your mojo back.”
Lisa had fulfilled her promise. She’d booked the entire trip—moments after I’d capitulated and agreed to go to the Heliconia to have all my fantasies come true. I wasn’t so sure I could fulfill my end of our bargain. I was starting to think I should get off the plane, go to the reservations desk, and book an immediate departure flight back home.
Except I didn’t really want to, and I suspected I knew why I was reluctant to go back home. So, the question to ask yourself is, what are you afraid of? The answer was simple though hard to admit. My career was in shambles, which was both an overestimation and an over simplification of the issue with my current employment. Suffice it to say, anyway I looked at it, and I had looked at it from all conceivable angles, things were not looking up for me at the firm.
Not anymore, anyway.
I’d gone from the top of the heap to the bottom of the pile in less than six months. After losing my last three cases, I’d suffered a long, heart-stopping fall to a hard, unforgiving landing. The most recent case I’d botched would be appealed, and I’d hoped to have the chance to redeem myself. I was desperate to convince the firm’s founders, senior partners, and, most importantly, the partner steering committee responsible for recommending senior associates for partnership in the firm that they hadn’t been wrong about me. I wasn’t a fluke or a one-trick pony or a flash in the pan, which was what my colleagues said about me behind my back.
I could still be the rainmaking litigation superstar they expected me to be. I needed to prove I could be trusted to litigate for my clients and secure unimpeachable verdicts in their favor. Most of all, I had to get back on the track to partnership. At twenty-seven years old, I had been on the fast track to becoming the firm’s youngest partner before being derailed by crucial verdicts against the clients I’d represented in three separate causes of action.
Last month, however, I’d been informed that the client had refused my continued representation of their company. Thus I would not be working on the appeal, which, thanks to my faulty decision making and negligent strategy, would most likely be eschewed in favor of secret settlement negotiations.
Three strikes and I appeared to be on the way out, much to the delight of a few fellow employees who’d joined the firm when I did but were still languishing at the junior associate level. Rumor was they were taking bets on how long I would last, though none of them were shedding any tears for me.
They figured I would end up back on my feet, walking right into a plum job at A.B. Miller & Associates, P.C., the premier powerhouse personal injury firm founded by my grandfather, Absalom Bartholomew “A.B.” Miller, and currently managed by my dad, Absalom Bartholomew “A.B.” Miller, Jr. However, the last thing I wanted was to be bailed out by my father. I didn’t want to end up in a cushy corner office at my grandfather’s firm trying to ignore the whispers of nepotism and wondering if people were only being nice to me because I was the boss’s daughter.
After I passed the bar, Dad had been disappointed when I’d announced I was taking a position with Ellison, Zupancic, and Cox, LLC. My father had predicted I wouldn’t last long at a firm specializing in “defending evil, greedy drug dealers” and prayed I would escape without having to sell my soul.
“Quinn, good lawyers don’t belong at bad firms,” Dad had said after I’d told him about the last case I’d screwed up, something he’d been telling me for the past five years. “Ellison, Zupancic, and Cox are the evil dead. Eventually, those vampires will demand blood, and once they’ve sucked the life from you, they’ll leave your rotting corpse for the vultures.”
Despite my dad’s penchant for melodrama, he was sympathetic about my current professional dilemma. Though, I suspected he secretly hoped I would get fired. Then I would be free to work for him, which was what he’d assumed I would do upon my graduation from law school. I’d been able to resist my dad’s wishes and had gone against his carefully constructed plans for my legal career. I wanted to control my own destiny and chart my own course.
For a while, it had been smooth sailing. Five years of spectacular, stunning victories, and then, six months ago, the first setback. A verdict against my client. The wrong expert had derailed the case. A month later, I didn’t pick the right jury and lost again. Last month, I didn’t employ the correct legal strategy. With my logical reasoning skills failing me, I made bad decisions, multi-million-dollar mistakes which could very well cost me the career I worked so hard to achieve. Pragmatism, intelligence, keen discernment, critical thinking, and rational judgment had guided me through all sorts of legal quagmires, successfully, efficiently and productively. With the recent failure of these skills, I felt unmoored and adrift in unfamiliar waters.
I had to get my career back on track, but I wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to make logical, sound decisions. Case in point, the trip to paradise for no-strings sex. What the hell was I thinking? Did I really believe engaging in wanton escapades could get rid of my anxiety? How could that possibly make sense? The attorney in me wanted to argue it wasn’t practical or rational, but the attorney in me had recently lost three cases, so what the hell did the attorney in me know?
The attorney in me could no longer be counted on to make the right decisions, I reminded myself.
As the plane glided over another air pocket, I grabbed my purse, opened it, and took out the envelope I’d received from the hotel. Removing the letter, I unfolded the fine, smooth paper and skimmed the words, focusing on the phrases that inspired trepidation and excitement.
Your fantasy awaits and will begin as soon as you arrive.
My gaze traveled to the second paragraph, below the welcome and introductory salutations.
We are delighted that you have chosen our deluxe luxury fantasy experience, which is the story of a woman, undervalued and unappreciated, who embarks on a journey to paradise and—
“Feeling better?” the supermodel lookalike asked, her gaze sympathetic.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, I am,” I answered, putting the letter away. “I’m fine now.”
“Which island
are you going to?”
“St. Mateo. What about you?”
“I’m taking a hopper to St. Marco,” she said and then added, “Quickie divorce.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure how to respond, with sympathy or congratulations, because from her passive stare, I couldn’t really tell if she was upset about the dissolution of her marriage or not.
“Well, hopefully, you’ll have a better time than I will,” she said. “I’ve heard St. Mateo is really fun.”
“Hopefully,” I agreed, though I wasn’t convinced paradise could help me get my mojo back. I had to get over the crazy nightmares, relax, and restart my career. I had to become, once again, the smart, savvy, superstar litigator. Once my sabbatical was over, I had to go back to work, start winning cases, and then make partner.
If I couldn’t, then my career was over and so was my life.
Chapter Two
As the United Airlines 757 floated over the island archipelago, I looked out the window, spellbound as the island came into view, gazing at the verdant tropical rainforest, ringed by brilliant, shimmering turquoise waters.
The plane banked left as the captain announced the beginning of our initial descent into the St. Mateo International Airport. Ten minutes later, we landed. After grabbing my purse and Louis Vuitton carry-on from the overhead bin, I followed my fellow passengers down the narrow aisle and eventually stepped over the threshold of the opened cabin door.
It was a gorgeous day in paradise. The sun was shining, the palm fronds were swaying lazily, and the breeze wafting across my flushed skin smelled slightly floral.
Stepping out onto a set of metal stairs, I walked down the steps to the tarmac. Heat rose from the concrete as I headed into the airport terminal, a low, squat, one-story building surrounded by towering palm trees.
Inside the airport, the mood was lively and festive, like a mini carnival. Making my way through security and then customs, I passed several groups of old men sitting on overturned crates. Some played steel drums, others beat bongos, and another quartet shook maracas and sang a rousing chorus of a salsa-inspired version of “The Girl From Ipanema.” Despite my nervous trepidation, I found myself entranced by the festive island mood and swaying to the lively rhythms.