I waited for Jared to demonstrate his fluent Spanish, but to my surprise he and the driver conversed in the only language I understood.

Once again Jared took charge, issuing orders and getting the crates and our things secured in the vehicles. I stood next to him this time, and I was more than pleased when he took my hand.

“We’re ready, Mr. Ryel,” the short man said with a thick Spanish accent and a discolored smile.

“The boat is waiting, correct?” Jared asked in a commanding, dispassionate tone he’d never used with me.

“Yes, yes. The boat crew will take you to the Little Island and has been given instruction. You will be quite satisfied, Mr. Ryel. You and the wife will have a happy time.”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as the small man nodded to both of us with a grin so wide it made his eyes close. Jared squeezed my hand, pulled it up to his mouth and pressed his lips to my fingers, keeping my hand against his chest. His eyes turned a bit softer as he thanked the man and handed him several American bills.

When we went on holiday during my formative years, I loved to pretend. I felt I could be whoever I wanted when we left Providence, and of course Jack encouraged my fantasies. Mostly I was a princess; a few times I posed as a famous ice skater, and once I was even an up and coming young actress. With my father keeping drivers and assistants, it was easy to appear as someone important. Letting the locals think I was Mrs. Jared Ryel was by far the best role I’d ever played on vacation. I righted my posture; I was flattered by what was being assumed and wanted to portray my part to perfection.

Forty-five minutes after we left the wharf, our boat pulled next to another dock, and the fresh hands of the boat crew went into action. Instead of pacing back and forth, they walked down the sand-covered pier to a trail, continuing around a corner past the thick, lazily bent trunks of native palm trees.

We followed the same path the crew had taken to another set of aging vehicles. Jared informed me these were two of just a handful of automobiles on the island. That fact came to light when I noticed some of the inhabitants straddling their bicycles and staring at our caravan with minor curiosity.

The morning had disappeared and evening quickly approached by the time I had settled into my room. At first glance, I was wary of what I would find inside, but once I climbed up the steps of my whimsically painted bungalow, the inside was spacious and clean. Palm trees surrounded my temporary residence, and I noticed Cynthia’s casita peaking out of the trees to one side of me, and Jared’s on the other.