Uh, doubtful. She wasn’t much of a screamer. Sally said it was because Dorie didn’t let go enough, but she thought it was mostly because she hadn’t had sex in two years and she couldn’t remember much about the screaming factor.
Sally believed that not having sex was bad for the skin and bad for the body, and that certain parts of said body could actually shrivel up and fall off from neglect.
Dorie didn’t want to lose any parts, that was certain, but the guys weren’t exactly beating down her door.
Still, she couldn’t help but yearn for the occasional scream of joy-or otherwise.
“Dorie Anderson?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Prepare yourself. This isn’t just any contest win, this is a special, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
He was clearly reading from something, and Dorie waited eagerly for him to get to the point. Maybe she’d won a new coffeemaker. Or a blender…
“You’ve just won a weeklong, all expenses paid trip on a sailing yacht, amongst the small, intimate, beautiful islands of-”
“Ohmigod. The Bahamas?”
“Fiji.”
Definitely more than a toaster. This couldn’t really be happening. Could it? “You mean the South Pacific Fiji?”
“Is there another?”
“Just clarifying.”
“Yes, the South Pacific. You and a handful of others will be spending most of your time on a luxurious sailing yacht, complete with a captain, chef, and crew hand, and in return all you need to do is attend a seminar on the joys of resort sailboat ownership-”
Ah, there it was. The scam. How disappointing. “Look, thank you, but if you have a toaster or a coffeemaker-”
“You don’t want to go to Fiji?”
“I don’t want to buy anything, not today.”
“No purchase required, Dorie Anderson.”
Okay, his use of her full name was beginning to creep her out.
“You filled out a form at Roger’s Gym last week, correct?”
She had. Her sister had bought Dorie a membership for her birthday. She’d taken a yoga class where everyone but herself could balance on one leg with their other wrapped around their neck like a pretzel.
Dorie, on the other hand, had fallen flat on her face.
Lying there humiliated on the mat, amongst a few snickers and some pitying looks, she’d decided she was better off dressing to hide the extra few pounds rather than make a fool out of herself again.
“Take a week off and pack your bags, Dorie Anderson, because the South Pacific awaits you! A dream come true!”
It did sound like a dream. She pictured pristine white beaches, with gorgeous cabana boys serving her drinks… “So this is completely one hundred percent free?”
“That’s right!”
At least he didn’t say her full name again.
Mr. Stryowski poked his head back in the door, still wearing his favorite expression, which could scare a ghost. He tipped his freakishly big nose down at her, which caused his toupee to slide down his forehead. Slapping a hand on it, he pointed at her with the other. “You’re clocked in but not working. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “Apparently I just won a week’s vacation in the-”
“I don’t care if it’s on the moon-”
Of course he didn’t.
“Get your butt to work.”
“Dorie Anderson?” Peter said in that eerily cheerful voice. “Are you interested in this fabulous opportunity, at no cost to you?”
Hands on his too thin hips, Mr. Stryowski looked about ten minutes past annoyed, and in that moment Dorie realized something-he was truly and completely sucking the soul right out of her.
So was her life.
New goal-no more letting anyone suck on her soul. No more letting anyone suck anything…
Unless it was that cabana boy.
“Hang up,” Mr. Stryowski demanded.
She held up a finger, but he kept coming.
Oh boy.
He was going to take her phone and close it. But she wanted the prize. She needed the prize. “I’m interested,” she said quickly to Peter Wells, and turned her back on her soul-sucking boss. “Very, very interested.”
Behind her, Mr. Stryowski snorted his disapproval, but she didn’t care. For a week, for one entire week, there’d be no bullying, no working her fingers to the bone for too little pay, no wondering when her life would kick itself into gear and become the adventure she’d always dreamed of.
Because it just had.
“Peter Wells? How soon can I leave?”
TWO
Day One-Kicking Life into Gear Day.
Or Finding a Cabana Boy Day.
Pick one. Hell, pick both.
Dorie had done it. She’d packed a suitcase-okay, two-and flown for a day and a half, first to Australia (ohmigod, Australia!) then onward to Fiji, specifically Viti Levu, and the international airport there.
She got off the plane and into a bright green taxi without windows. On the console sat a humongous parrot, singing along in falsetto to Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life after Love,” the warm, salty breeze ruffling its feathers. Dorie joined in, and at the harbor, got out and stood on the dock, grinning from ear to ear at the beauty around her. Let the adventure begin!
More of that light wind rolled over her, rustling the stiff fronds of coconut palms edging the streets and beach. There were people everywhere, in all colors and sizes, speaking a myriad of gorgeous-sounding languages with delightful accents.
She’d wondered if she’d fit in, and she had to say, she did. She was wearing one of her own designs, a white sundress, with brand-new heeled sandals-her cruise splurge-which gave her more height and confidence than practicality. But she figured the confidence was more important at this point.
At anchor on the bay sat a dozen gleaming sailboats, their hulls slashes of white on a backdrop of startling blue so bright it almost looked like a painting.
I’m in the South Pacific…
So hard to believe, and she took a moment to soak up the ambiance. That, and the fact that this whole Kicking Life into Gear thing felt good, really good. Following the directions she’d been sent, she walked to a slip at the north end of the docks, where she stared up at a very large sailboat. A very large sailboat that looked like something right out of one of the history books she’d done her best not to read while in school; tall, proud, and… sinkable.
Gulp.
The Sun Song.
She knew from the info that Peter had sent her that the sailing yacht had been made in France, was eighty-two feet long, and was a ketch, whatever that meant. The exterior was made out of welded aluminum alloy, which sounded good and well and extremely water worthy, but it was nice to see the safety raft strapped to the side in case of emergency.
Although come to think of it, she didn’t know if she wanted to think emergency in the same sentence with the words sailboat vacation…
Nope, no negative thinking. She’d gotten the week off, and to do so she’d only had to promise Mr. Stryowski she’d work Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Easter-for the rest of her life. But it was done, and she would enjoy herself. After all, it was her new mission statement.
That, and to not think of Mr. Stryowski, or her slowly wasting away life… not once.
The plank to get on board was flat and wide enough, assuming she was very careful, and she planned to be very, very careful. There were chain handholds on either side, protecting her from the long fall to the water below, but her age-old fear of heights gripped her hard, making nerves flutter in her tummy.
Or maybe it was the king-size candy bar she’d consumed on the plane over here. As she stood there, frozen by her own shortcomings, she contemplated the plank, and how long it seemed. From above, what seemed like miles of white sails seemed so pristine against the azure blue sky.