Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

Jackson smiled, and when I looked into his eyes, I saw the same craving I felt. He rose and took me into his muscular arms, carrying me to the bedroom where we fell to the bed, bodies entwined. We slept afterward — I’m not sure how long, but soon after we awakened and made love again, the captain phoned Jackson to let him know we would be making our descent in a few minutes. He was careful not to name a destination, but when I peered out the window, I saw miles and miles of blue water beneath us. Wherever we were, it looked like paradise. Jackson threw off the bedcovers and came to my side by the window, putting his arm around my naked waist. “See that?” He pointed to a glorious mountain that seemed to emerge like a noble monolith out of the sea. “That’s Mount Otemanu, one of the most beautiful sights in the world. And soon I’ll show you the magnificence of Bora Bora.”

Polynesia, I thought. I turned to look at him. “You’ve been here before?”

He kissed my cheek. “I have, my darling girl. But never with you.”

I was somehow disappointed but didn’t quite know how to put it into words. I made a clumsy attempt. “I just assumed we would go someplace neither of us had ever been, so that, you know, we could experience everything together. For the first time.”

Jackson pulled me down onto the bed and tousled my hair. “I’ve traveled a lot. Any place worth going to is a place I’ve been. Would you have preferred Davenport, Iowa? That’s a place I haven’t seen. You know, I did have a life before we met.”

“Of course,” I said. “I just wanted this time to be new for both of us, something only the two of us shared.” I wanted to ask him if he’d been here alone or with another woman, but I was afraid to ruin the mood even more. “Bora Bora,” I said. “It’s a place I never thought I’d go to.”

“I’ve booked an over-water bungalow. You’re going to love it, my sweet.” And he pulled me into his arms once again.

We were back in our seats as the wheels went down, and we landed at the airport on the tiny islet of Motu Mute. The door opened, and we walked down the jet stairs to be greeted by smiling islanders who draped leis around our necks. I reached out to touch his.

“I like your lei better. Blue’s my favorite color.”

He took it from his neck and put it around mine. “Looks better on you anyway. By the way, in Bora Bora, they’re called hei s.”

The warm, fragrant air was intoxicating. I was already in love with the place. We were whisked by boat to our bungalow, which looked more like a lavish floating villa, with glass floors that offered a vision of the lagoon life below.

Our luggage arrived, and I changed into a casual sundress, Jackson into navy pants and a white linen shirt. His tanned skin against the white shirt made him look even more handsome, if that was possible. We had just settled on our private deck when an outrigger canoe pulled up to our bungalow to serve us champagne and caviar. I looked at Jackson in surprise. “Did you order this?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I were a naive little country girl. “This is part of the service, my dear. They’ll bring us anything we want. If we choose to stay in for dinner, they’ll bring it to us; in for lunch, we get lunch — whatever our whims dictate.” He spooned a dollop of caviar onto a round cracker and held it to my mouth. “Only the best for my girl. Get used to it.”

To tell the truth, caviar and champagne were two of my least favorite things, but I supposed I needed to develop a taste for them.

He took a long sip of champagne, and we sat there feeling the fresh air waft across our faces, mesmerized by the turquoise water before us. I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the water lapping against the pilings.

“We have a dinner reservation at eight at La Villa Mahana,” he said.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Oh?”

“It’s a little gem with just a few tables. You’ll love it.”

Once again I had that initial feeling of disappointment. Obviously he’d been to the restaurant before. “I suppose you can tell me precisely what to order and what the best things on the menu are,” I said, somewhat flippantly.

He gave me a cold look. “If you’d rather not go, I’ll cancel the reservation. I’m sure there are throngs of couples on the waiting list who would love to dine there.”

I felt like an ungrateful fool. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Of course we’ll go.”

Jackson had already unpacked and carefully hung everything he’d bought for me. The clothing was lined up not only by type of outfit but also by color. Shoes sat on a top shelf over the rod and were separated into flat sandals and heels, every color, every type. He held up a long, white dress with slender straps and fitted bodice. There were more clothes than days we would be there: evening shoes, sandals, bathing suits, cover-ups, jewelry, casual daytime outfits, and floaty slip dresses for evening. “Here,” he said. “This will be perfect for tonight, my beautiful girl.”

It felt so odd, someone choosing my clothes for me, but I had to admit the dress was lovely. It fit perfectly, and the turquoise drop earrings he’d picked were set off beautifully by the pure white material.

We stayed in the second night and had dinner brought to us. We sat on our deck and savored the food as well as the setting sun that made pink and blue ribbons across the sky. It was magical.

This was our pattern — alone in our bungalow one night, the next night at a restaurant like Bloody Mary’s or Mai Kai or St. James. They each had their own delightful ambience, and I especially loved the casual island feel of Bloody Mary’s, with its sand floor and delicious rum cake. Even the bathrooms had sand floors. When we had dinner out, we’d walk along the beach holding hands and make love after getting home. On the nights we ate in, our lovemaking began earlier and lasted longer. My skin was turning a warm brown, and it felt clean and taut, after days in the sun and water. I’d never been so aware of my body, the touch of someone’s hand on me, the thrill of coming together and feeling as one.

Every moment had been planned by him, from swimming and snorkeling to private tours and romantic dinners. We made love on the sands of a private beach, in a boat on the lagoon, and, of course, in the private haven that was the bungalow. He had thought of everything, down to the smallest detail. And even though there were times I had a small, nagging feeling in my stomach, I never consciously understood how much his need for order and control would overpower my life.

I was packed and ready when he came home, excited at the prospect of four uninterrupted days at the Greenbrier with my new husband. We had been married a little over three months. My suitcase was sitting on the bed, and after kissing me hello, he went over to it and opened it.

“What are you doing? Your suitcase is right there.” I pointed to the matching one by his dresser.

He gave me an amused smile. “I’m aware.” He pulled out what I had packed, a frown appearing on his face as he looked through all my clothes.

I stood there, wanting to tell him to take his hands off my things, but the words wouldn’t come. I watched, frozen, as he rifled through everything and looked at me.

“You do realize this is not some hick bed-and-breakfast like your parents run?”

I recoiled as though I’d been struck.

He noticed my expression and laughed. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that this is the Greenbrier. They have a dress code. You need a few cocktail dresses.”

My face was hot with embarrassment and anger. “I know what the Greenbrier is. I’ve actually been there before.” I hadn’t, but I had looked at it online.