Lady Sun: Marni MacRae

by Marni MacRae

  Lady Sun

  Marni MacRae

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses,

  places, events and incidents are

  either the products of the author’s

  imagination or used in a fictitious

  manner. Any resemblance to actual

  persons, living or dead, or actual

  events are purely coincidental.

  Editing by Patrick Hodges

  Cover design by Allyn Images

  ISBN-13: 978-1508851462

  © 2015 Marni MacRae. All rights reserved

  For Nehemiah,

  may every day be Sunday-Funday.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 1

  Paradise was within reach. I could see it, right there, off the starboard bow of The Lady Sun.

  Long white beaches, aqua clear water, leaning palm trees. A postcard-perfect island, waiting for me to revel in its perfection.

  It would continue to wait, for my feet would never touch the warm sand of that perfect beach. At least in my current situation it didn’t seem likely, locked in this tiny cabin, staring out the small porthole at my intended destination. Right now, the question was whether I would survive this ordeal at all, let alone enjoy a tan on a white sand beach.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Anna and all her worries and warnings of a woman traveling alone. The likelihood of a plane crash, or contracting a nasty tropical illness.

  “Anna would have never predicted this, though,” I muttered to myself turning away from the porthole. The yacht was moving again and I couldn’t bear to see my vacation slip away. I mean who would ever think I would be trapped on a gorgeous yacht, most likely about to die before I ever set foot on a beach.

  That thought shot a bolt of fear through me, and I sank down to sit on the opulent bed in my cabin-prison.

  Oh my God. I could die here.

  The boat began to pick up speed and I knew I wouldn’t reach my island. Paradise lost. Right now, I would settle for anything, not just returning to my vacation plans. A flight back to the cold, miserable winter in the States. A trip to the dentist, a long session with my accountant to deal with my forever-confusing taxes. I would give anything, go anywhere, rather than be right here right now.

  Perhaps my fears are exaggerated, my soothing alter ego tried to comfort me. Maybe it’s not as bad as you assume, Sophie. But I knew I was fooling myself. It was most likely much worse than I assumed.

  I could only pray that Lucas would keep his promise.

  My arms wrapped themselves around my waist, attempting to ward off a chill that had started deep in my bones. Fear and stress and shock had my body vibrating, beginning a shiver that no amount of warmth could cure. Knowing panic lay just beneath the surface, that my mind was beginning to travel down the dangerous road of accepting this chilling reality, I lay down, closing my eyes to block out what I knew was true.

  Why did I ever book this vacation?

  Thinking back to the cold December winter in Washington, recalling how miserable I had been and how excited to plan the trip of a lifetime, I let my memories distract me from the ominous feeling of pending doom.

  Chapter 2

  I've followed most of the classics concerning deserted islands. I had struggled through the long-winded prose and painfully-detailed descriptions of life alone with raisins, goats and his boy Friday, of Robinson Crusoe. Frankly, when finished with the trial of the read I came away with a sense of frustration, no closure and a craving for shriveled grapes.

  My siblings and I grew up watching Swiss Family Robinson (no relation to the former Crusoe) and as with the rest of my generation, were romanced with the idea of a tree house in the jungle and witty battles with pirates.

  Then came the Survivor series, which served to prove there are a goodly amount of people who could not survive and yet do it with as little class or effort required to entertain those of us who judged from our couches.

  Best of all, there was the now classic Castaway, where only Tom Hanks could make you cry over the loss of a volleyball. And I cried. I wept loudly, trying to hide it as I sat in the theater and Wilson drifted away. Then at home (once everyone in America had confessed to the tears jerked from them as Tom lay on his raft, wracked with sobs and burnt to a crisp on the open ocean), I wept openly, no longer afraid of judgment. I loved that ball. All of America loved Wilson. It was pure genius on the part of the writer and mad skill from Tom that caught all of us in a trap where we had to admit: Hollywood had the power to romance anything. Even a volleyball.

  So, with the aid of long-dead authors, a family of tenacious Dutch children and the well-loved Tom and Wilson duo, I fell in love with the dream of escaping to a deserted island, building fire from a couple of sticks and blisters, eating lots of raisins and fighting off pirates. The Buccaneer type of course, not the ones with machine guns and speed boats. No romance in those pirates and no sense of fashion either. I was hoping more along the lines of Johnny Depp, with maybe a bath or two under his belt.

  No one offers a truly authentic escape to a deserted island, and after much Googling it was clear why: no island is truly deserted. First, we can Google Earth anything nowadays, so escaping is quite hopeless. I think it might be in the welcome statement at prisons now, just to deter the prisoners from attempting to climb over the barbed wire and costing us little taxpayers any medical bills. Google will find you.

  Second, everything is owned. I mean everything. Cataloged and named and many a war fought over it - or about to. Island or sand bar, somebody has dibs.

  During my search (I know, you ask, how do I expect to find anything lost on the Internet. If it’s there, then it's not lost, but such reasoning does not apply to my inner logic. So, I Google because I believe in my heart that if there was an island I could get lost upon, preferably with Sawyer, not Jack and minus the smoke monster, then Google would tell me the secret location and I would be able to book a flight, or boat, or ferry, or aborigine canoe and go there for a weekend.) I found that a man in Mexico had built his own island, floating on thousands of collected plastic bottles. Although I was impressed, I wasn’t sure if it was an island – more of a really cool raft with Mexican sand on it. Which, by the way, Mexico wanted back. There was a lawsuit.

  There is the smallest kingdom island comprised of one man who ruled as king over himself. And there were a few brand-new islands that popped up from volcanoes that were yet to be a vacation spot, but as soon as the lava cooled, whoever had dibs was sure to have plans to that end.

  No secret island. No Sawyer, no Jack, no Johnny Depp.

  I almost gave up. But like I said, Google is my friend. A random search about hurricane season (I wanted a vacation, not a horror story, to survive -- Katrina taught us all a very sound lesson), and up popped a little brochure cla
iming a getaway to a private island. The ad boasted sandy beaches, crystal-clear water and a private hut a mile from any other hut.

  After reading further, I discovered it was much like the Gilligan’s Island theme song. A three-hour boat tour through an island chain in the Maldives comprised of over a thousand uninhabited little pieces of heaven would bring you to a privately owned island, around eight square miles in size. The destination island had five small huts scattered about it. Each hut was far removed from each other (hence the mile claim) and was stocked with food, sundries and basic living needs for a one-week stay. I was sold.

  I devoured every page and link inside the website, Google Earthed the island myself, researched the weather for the season in the Maldives and began arranging my life to get away, if only for one week, and find my castaway island.

  * * *

  The packing was easy. Living in Eastern Washington, we enjoy every single season to its absolute degree. Spring is wet and hopeful, summer is scorching and too short, autumn is wet and beautiful and winter takes up its own half of the year as wet cold - snowy cold - gloomy cold - then wet and cold again. Thus, the hope in spring is that winter may forget to come the next year and that the scorch of summer will dry our winter-chilled bones. So, I had at least a week’s worth of summer-scorch clothing. All of them my favorites.

  I’m not one to bundle up. Well, actually I do, I bundle up in layers and waddle around for four to six months, however long winter punishes us with cold or soggy or gloomy, but the minute it's bearable, I prefer to strip off the layers and bask. I’ve been caught many a time sunbathing nude on my lawn in hopes that the tan will last the whole year and even bigger hopes that for once, I won’t be caught naked in my own yard. Neither hope ever pans out.

  But just to be clear, my yard is twenty acres of farmland, which is surrounded by many more acres of farmland. I believe my neighbors and family have fine-tuned their nudity radar and find great joy in dashing my hopes and watching me try to be subtle in covering up my almost perfect tan, each time they catch me. My point, you ask? My wardrobe of wraps and cute sundresses, little shorts and tanks, is well filled out.

  A month before I was due to leave, I began packing. The next thirty days was then spent unpacking and then repacking my favorite suitcase as I decided on what to bring -- then changed my mind. The struggle was deciding if I should pack more like Bear Grylls survivalist, with sturdy shoes and some multi-tools, or fun-loving vacationist with little sandals and tiny bikinis. It was a real battle. I tend to be prepared and am known for always having what is needed for almost any situation. I could practically do full surgery with what I carry in my purse if the need arose, or if I had any medical training – which aside from a few biology classes in college I did not – but I was still prepared.

  Since no one makes steel-toed sandals and it sounded painfully uncomfortable even if someone did, I eventually opted for the bulk of my suitcase to be sexy, light, and fun, with the remaining percentage to be functional and useful. For the week planned in paradise, I settled on; four sun dresses, three wraps, four shorts, three tanks, two tees, three sandals, two bikinis and a light jacket. I obviously included the necessary bras and panties and I caved and packed one multi-tool. I figured with my surgery set and the miscellaneous in my purse; I would be able to survive as well, if not better, than Bear Grylls. Maybe not as comfy as the Dutch kids, but way better than Tom Hanks.

  * * *

  The travel arrangements were trickier than I had thought they would be. The Maldives are situated near the Equator in the Indian Ocean. Getting to paradise was not only going to be costly, but it would also take two days to get there. Eighteen and a half hours on a plane, with no direct flight.

  Leaving from Spokane, my options were to layover in Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Istanbul, Singapore, Hong Kong, or Dubai.

  All of them terrified me. I wasn’t sure who was warring with who at any given moment, or who spoke what language, and was even less sure about the money exchange.

  The layover would be overnight, and I had a nightmarish vision of arriving and not being able to read the signs at the airport, of not being able to find a room and having to huddle in a corner of the airport with jet-lag and end up missing my connection. I feared I would be sold into slavery or human trafficked.

  The castaway dream was almost given up entirely at the thought of landing in Korea or Turkey and never being able to escape or find an American Embassy. I don’t even know what an embassy looks like or, really, what it’s used for. Other than what Matt Damon taught me in the Bourne movies, I’m pretty confused on the whole issue. I may sound ignorant, but really I’m quite brilliant in my own categories. I would just skip the embassy questions if ever I were on Jeopardy.

  I finally discovered that I could take a flight to London, where they speak English (mostly) and the British pound or European Euro didn’t scare me. From there I could take a straight flight to Malé where my boat would leave, taking me to my week of escape. Either way it would take two days, but at least my layover in London had the potential to be fun and exciting, instead of potentially becoming a blonde country item on the human trafficking market. I watch way too many bad movies. I vowed, once I booked my safe flight to London, not to bring any murder mystery or action thriller novels. I love Matt Damon, but I was hoping for less adrenaline, more endorphins.

  All said and done, with every detail addressed and accounting for any minor emergencies, my week of ‘lost on an island’ was going to be the most expensive thing I had ever done. My savings were completely spent. When I returned it would be back to living paycheck to paycheck until my savings account slowly built up again, but I was so excited I didn’t regret a dime spent. I had saved for the last five years hoping to do something grand, and the money was just numbers on a balance sheet sent by the bank each month. It did me no good unless I spent it, and I was going to spend it in style.

  I packed my camera and extra batteries, as well as extra memory cards. I downloaded new e-books on my tablet for the flight, brought a paperback in case I couldn’t charge my tablet, then packed a Sudoku book in case the book sucked, and earplugs in case my neighbor on the plane snored or had a baby. Like I said – I prepare.

  The trip was planned for the last week of December. The New Year would be spent laying on a white sand beach while all the Washingtonians were struggling to chain up or scrape ice off their windshields. January in the Maldives was perfect weather. No monsoons, twelve hours of daylight and bikini sunshine days.

  * * *

  Christmas was a blur. I trudged through the holiday grind, driving the icy streets, chanting in my head; everyone is an idiot, everyone is an idiot.

  I had taught myself this bit of wisdom at sixteen when my mother had thrust me into the driving world with the keys to our old Chevy truck – standard drive – and a fresh sheet of ice on the roads. She had proclaimed that if I could learn to drive in the dead of winter in a stick shift without killing myself, then I deserved a license.

  I had put the big lumbering truck in many a ditch, but after traipsing home to my mother, she had sent me back to the ditch with the admonishment “If you got it in the ditch you can very well get it out.” So, with chains and curses, and more than a few frostbite scares, I had mastered the ditch-removal maneuvers and the don’t-get-there-in-the-first-place skills.

  I now agree with her, for I do indeed deserve a license, but my idiot chant is that so many others do not.

  I was raised a country girl by a tough, no-nonsense woman who taught all her children (four of us) that you fix what you break, but you’re smarter not to break. But if you have to and you’re on ice – do it slowly. Thus, December was spent staying out of ditches, braking slowly and getting here and there in one piece.

  Most of my shopping is done through beloved Amazon, so the holiday masses were more quaint than an annoyance. As for my dose of Christmas spirit, my family obliged by throwing all the usual holiday parties.

  My little sister Li
ly held the annual cookie-making party, which she traditionally guilted all the women in the family into attending. We, in turn, guilted our men to join because; ‘It’s Christmas.’ (Code for; Please don’t leave me alone with my family.) My cousin Anna threw the Christmas Eve party, which I had started years ago, before my husband showed his true snake form and which then had passed to my cousin, for although I am the hostess with the most-ess, no one cared to drive to my farm in the winter.

  I find it's better to attend these functions than to host anyway. There are fewer questions if you have less responsibility. The most common queries directed my way that never failed to make me flinch were; ‘Sophia, I am so sorry to hear about Jon – that snake. What happened?’ Or; ‘Sophia, are you dating yet? I know a great guy.’ (Code for; a guy I know can’t get a date, will you pity him.) Or; ‘Sophia, why don't you call me anymore, you don’t go on Facebook, you don’t email, you didn’t come to the cookie making party.’

  Yeah, I had avoided the parties ever since the Snake and I finalized the divorce. It’s been two years now, but everyone seems to think I need to make cookies. I spent the last two months living on water, coffee, and raisins in preparation for the perfect bikini body, no way was I going to screw it up with candy canes and sugary treats. Plus, I’m thirty-two, how many cookies does one possibly need that I should attend a party for them?

  All said and done; it was the usual Christmas. Which, in the end, I survived. (Despite idiot drivers, guilt about baked goods and the repeated; ‘Yes Mom, I am still single’ and, ‘No, I am not canceling my “crazy” trip to a deserted island’).

  I couldn’t wait. I was ready. Holidays were over. The weather sucked. It was time.