Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

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Preparing for the feast, Richard took a mollified Titi out to collect coconuts. Surprisingly, she was docile about the kitchen takeover and made no protests.

Dex and Cooked shook hands (no hard feelings) and smoked pot on the beach. Ann sat on the sand and watched the sunset while she dabbed oil over the burning wound of her tattoo. The unfinished shark had the look of an initiation rite gone bad.

At sunset they gathered for mai tais made by Dex. Loren came out of his fare , resplendent in a dark-red sleeveless T-shirt and a black pareu knotted around his bony hips. He had a tiare flower behind his ear, carrying off the whole Polynesian mixing of feminine with masculine while still looking hot. He cradled a magnum of vintage Burgundy that Richard took charge of decanting.

“In thanks for the patience of my friends. No charge for the last three days.”

Titi flinched as if she had been hit with a stick.

Ann and Richard exchanged looks, the first they had dared in days. Free changed the whole equation, at least for the last three days. Ann wished that she had known in advance so that she could have enjoyed the time more. At the steep price they were paying per day, all inclusive, including the two bottles of alcohol a day (which meant not inclusive enough by half), even paradise could appear parsed and open to criticism: Is this worth it? This hut, this beach, this meal, this sunset? Happiness commodified?

The meal started with an amuse-bouche of tuna sashimi, garnished with a salsa of mango and Maui onion. At first, Titi and Wende served, but as the flow of food increased, Ann pitched in. Giddily she had worked out the math to convince Richard that the three free days should be added to rather than deducted from their allotment of escape. Why couldn’t she get herself to do the responsible thing, pack her bag, and go back home?

As she waited at the stove for the final touches on yet another dish, she noticed Titi in the corner stirring a small blackened iron pot over a stone fire, trying to hide it from Richard’s prying eyes.

“What’s that?” Ann asked.

“Shark fin … other ingredients.”

“A local dish? Are you making it for us?”

Titi gave her a long appraising look. She liked this unhappy woman whom she heard crying at night more often than making love. “Keep a secret? It’s a love potion.”

A couple of weeks before, Ann would have burst out laughing, but her world had been turned upside down. She could accommodate the possibility of this. “For Cooked?”

Titi nodded.

“But we all need it.”

Two things had become clear in Ann’s mind since they had arrived on the island: one, she did love Richard; two, she was done with their previous life. She could only guess at what he was feeling. She supposed he loved her, but he had come back to life when he returned to a kitchen. He, like Dex, had his vocation. Memo to future child: Find something or someone that makes your heart sing. Passion made you like Teflon against life’s disappointments.

Ann ladled Titi’s potion into demitasse cups, then put them on a tray. She would make sure each person drank his or her portion.

“What is it?” Richard asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Consommé. Don’t hurt Titi’s feelings.”

He reached over her and grabbed a cup, critically sipping it. “Needs salt.”

“Finish, or she might kick you out of the kitchen.” Ann watched till his cup was empty.

More appetizers appeared: greens dressed in wasabi vinaigrette, caprese salad of heirloom tomatoes and burrata, tuna carpaccio with giant capers, shrimp in a silky coconut-milk curry. Loren, Cooked, and Dex slowed their eating, but the main courses came at an accelerated pace, a stillborn restaurant’s worth of food: maa tinito , a mixture of red beans, vegetables, and rice that Titi had taught Richard to make; grilled calamari with marinated scallions; tempura zucchini with miso-vinegar dipping sauce; sautéed mahimahi with seared pineapple.

In a state of bliss, Richard stood at the kitchen door, watching his delirious diners. He held a bottle of wine and periodically took a deep slug. “The discovery of a new dish confers more happiness on humanity than the discovery of a new star.”

He would not tell Ann until the night was over, but he, too, had done some soul-searching over the gas-ignited flames of the six-burner stove — like Dex and Wende, he also would leave tomorrow. His time on the island had been a reprieve, but it proved what he already knew — cooking was his life. Hopefully Ann would follow, or she would not. Now that his decision was made, he felt relief mixed with sadness.

This had been the only thing resembling a vacation that he and Ann had ever been on. His previous boredom, worrying, marking time, was now replaced by impatience that he had not enjoyed himself properly. Even as he cooked his swan song of a last meal, he wondered if he should agree to another three days since technically, as Ann argued, they would be free. He had not gone drift diving yet. Since he was cooking, contributing, getting inspiration for a whole Polynesian-inspired series of dishes, perhaps he could justify staying a bit longer? But then he thought of Javi mired in all his problems. Self-inflicted, but did that hurt any less? What kind of friend, what kind of family, abandoned his own in time of need? He was a little chagrined by Ann’s callousness toward Javi. No, he would go home tomorrow.

They sat around the table, red-faced, sweating, emitting a raucous laughter that was gut-busting, rib-breaking. More bottles of wine had been drunk than there were people — Titi counted. Richard ran out, his face sweaty and red from the heat of the stove, for quick bouts of eating before he ran back to the kitchen for the next dish — Jalisco-style sweet corn pudding.

“It’s good? You like?” he said.

“You could be French,” Loren declared, staring down dreamily into his plate. “It is divine.”

Richard glowed, in possession of himself for the first time since they had arrived. He would stay and fight for his wife.

Loren burped. “Excuse me, I was just recalling … Aren’t there steaks in the freezer?”

Richard looked at Ann a minute. She held her breath.

“Not for this chef.” He signaled to Wende, who rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Quiet everyone,” she yelled from the kitchen door. “We have a surprise.”

Richard appeared behind her, carrying a three-layer cake smothered under fluffy coconut frosting, burning with so many candles it gave the appearance of a bonfire. Surely he didn’t put all thirty-eight candles on? Richard made his way to the table, staggering under the weight of his love offering. Wende brushed back plates and silverware with her arm, knocking over bottles, breaking glasses in her drunken haste.

“It’s Ann’s birthday!”

Dex stood up, holding the table for balance, and sang “Happy Birthday,” jazz-style. He then sang the Police’s “Roxanne,” except his version was “Oh, Ann.” She was living out her teenage-girl dream. This was as close to groupie nirvana as she was getting.

The cake was huge, gigantic — disproportionate to the occasion, of which there was none. It was the size of a happy couple’s big family and circle of friends, of a successful restaurant and thriving law practice, of raised gold lettering on the door of a corner-view office, of a big McMansion, chemically induced triplets, fancy cars, and all the many people hired to keep the whole thing afloat — not so different, in fact, than this resort. Not . The cake was a lie, and even if she pretended to be happy about it, she couldn’t, because even if all those things had been true, she had a premonition that these weren’t even close to being enough. They were the fast-food solution to happiness. Besides, her birthday had been two weeks ago.