A coconut thumped to the ground not far from the hammock Marissa had stretched out in, shortly followed by another, then a third. “That’s plenty.”

“If you say so.” Linda inched her way down the curving trunk.

Marissa couldn’t believe Linda’s thighs weren’t full of scrapes. She wondered if she could suggest checking them out for Linda, but wasn’t sure she’d find the nerve. She laughed at herself—so much for not feeling besotted any more. She scolded herself, or tried to. So Linda was incredibly desirable. That didn’t give Marissa the right to ogle and lust like some adolescent. “Why are these called the same as the stuff they make chocolate out of?”

“They’re not.” Linda paused in her delicate shimmy movements, the firm, lean muscles of her arms tensed. “They look a bit like monkey faces, the three holes. See?”

“Oh. I guess. So the natives named them after monkeys?”

“The Portuguese sailors named them after monkeys.”

“What do they call cocoa beans in Portugal, then?”

Linda swung around the trunk, and dangled there for a moment. “I have no the hell idea.”

Marissa had long enough to admire the curved silhouette before Linda dropped lightly to her feet. “I thought you knew everything.”

“I do not—you’re the brain here. Like, I have no idea how to open these up.”

“Drill?”

“I was thinking big rock.”

Marissa grinned. “Well, this should be fun. I’ll just be right here in the hammock.”

For the next forty-five minutes Marissa rocked and watched Linda try to bash, kick, stomp, hurl and pummel the coconut open. She was nothing if not determined, Marissa had to hand her that. Beyond Linda the surf continued its gentle, endless churning of the sand as tiny, brightly hued birds hopped along the shore.

She didn’t want to go home but all good things came to an end. Tomorrow morning they would fly to Papeete. By evening she would be in Hawaii and the following morning at home. Linda would be in New Zealand. She didn’t want to think about how far away New Zealand was and the fact that Linda didn’t have a cell phone, e-mail or snail mail address.

Maybe they were just friends, just hanging out. But it would have been nice to have kept in touch after spending this time together. Nice was an understatement. She liked being around Linda. Liked looking at her, being looked at. Her earlier scolding wasn’t the whole truth—Linda looked at her with desire, Marissa was almost certain of that. What else could it be?

Dear Dad:

You’re the only one I can ask.You’re the only person I know who found it and kept it until death did you and Philip part. How did you know? How will I know?

Confused,

Marissa

P.S. Feel free to send a sign.

P.P.S. I really am going to tell Mom.

But if it was desire, then why had there not been another kiss? Not even holding hands. Just those looks. Sometimes short and quick, between words. Sometimes instead of words.