Page 4 of Duty and Desire

Chapter Three

Gio

M y dad once asked me if I’d ever experienced a certain phenomenon, as he called it, something he couldn’t explain that happened a lot.

“There was this one time I was looking to change my car. I decided on a particular model, not one I’d seen around often, and certainly not one that appeared in any great numbers in the usual car sales sites.

But here’s the weird thing. Once I’d made up my mind to buy this model?

” He grinned. “I saw them everywhere . It was as if some unknown force smiled and said, ‘Here, this is what you’re looking for.’ And it happened over and over again. ”

I could relate to that. Ever since Kai had planted the seed in my head of using this Nick guy as a character?

I saw him everywhere.

Okay, this is where I share the fact that Bora-Bora isn’t that big an island.

Maybe fifteen square miles. Hell, it’s five miles from north to south, and only three from east to west, so the likelihood of running into familiar faces was pretty high.

But there are approximately ten thousand people spread over three main villages.

So why did I keep seeing Nick everywhere I went?

The day after his visit to Kai’s bar, I drove the buggy down to the south of the island, to Matira Beach, a beautiful stretch of soft sand lined with palm trees.

I’d read about the beach during my research, and it was every bit as gorgeous as the photos proclaimed it to be.

People snorkeled in the clear emerald waters and boats were moored out in the lagoon, sun worshippers lying on decks or guys sitting with caps shading their eyes as they relaxed, fishing rods in their hands.

And on the beach, there was Nick, sitting under a palm tree, a sketch pad propped against his knees, and a box of pencils beside him, his gaze focused on the boats.

I was dying to wander over and take a peek, but that would’ve been weird as hell. He didn’t know me. He’d probably never even registered me in the bar. And if he spotted me, he’d wonder who the strange guy was who was stalking him.

Later that afternoon, after I’d eaten my lunch, I spotted him again. This time he was driving a boat, and from the look of it, he was giving lessons in kitesurfing.

Maybe I should take up a sport while I’m here . More fuel for the writer brain, right?

The following day, I drove around the southern point to the Tiare Market, another store Aulani had told me to check out.

Nick was in there buying groceries, seemingly lost in thought as he picked produce.

For the life of me, I couldn’t see why choosing fruit would shove someone into such a contemplative state.

Later the same day I visited the Ukulele Bar, and there he was again, sitting alone under one of the parasols, a glass in front of him, staring out at the blue-green water.

I was close enough to see his face, and what struck me was his expression. The same thoughtful look I’d witnessed at the store, as though his mind was someplace else .

But where? And what does he see when he gazes out there?

When I woke up one morning and discovered it was already April fifth, I felt as though all I’d done was waste time.

Thus far, I hadn’t ventured inland, but a sign caught my eye as I drove through Anau on the eastern side of the island.

It was a board advertising trips to Mount Otemanu to climb the peak, visit a cave…

Tourist stuff, but I’d done little of that.

I stopped the buggy to check out the details pasted to the store window.

But when I peered at the guy behind the counter, talking with a couple of tourists in loud shirts, I stiffened.

Man, he really is everywhere.

For the first time since my arrival, I had the urge to scribble in my notebook.

The one I’d left on the table back at the bungalow.

I climbed on the buggy and headed north, silently begging the impulse not to vanish before I had a chance to commit words to paper.

Nick had piqued my curiosity. It hadn’t been his numerous jobs, nor his skills as a water sports instructor, but that lost expression.

Maybe he’s as lost as I am .

By the time evening arrived and the sun had begun its slow descent, setting the lagoon on fire as it sank, I’d filled four pages, and while that wasn’t a lot, every word was as precious as gold, as life-giving as water.

It was a start.

What did my mom used to say when I was little, and I kept putting off a school project I knew would eat up my time but couldn’t be avoided? “Well begun is half done”.

I smiled. She told me once she’d learned that from watching Mary Poppins .

I put my pen down and read my notes.

On one page, Nick—I stuck with that name for the time being, knowing it would change later—was a traveler, exploring the world, earning his keep as he went to provide him with funds to finance more trips.

But he was also nursing a broken heart, running from pain and misery, and although each new destination was captivating, he always carried that secret hurt with him, never able to cast it off.

I liked the idea of him meeting his soul mate, finding new love and new hope.

On another page, Nick was an artist, searching for inspiration, ultimately finding his muse on a beach.

I hadn’t decided whether Nick was straight or somewhere along the rainbow, but that would come to me as his character evolved.

I imagined him returning to the place where his artistic efforts had been scorned, only to find himself lauded as an amazing new talent, his name on everyone’s lips, his main critic silenced by a wave of public acclamation.

The next idea was a shade darker. Nick had witnessed a high-profile crime and was placed in witness protection.

The island was supposed to be his safe haven, but he had a feeling someone had tracked him down.

Then there was the idea that he was a fugitive on the run, accused of a crime he didn’t commit back in his home country.

Rather than face an unjust trial, he’d disappeared and was now living under a new identity, doing odd jobs to survive.

Some of my scribblings were a little more fanciful.

Nick had been aboard a yacht that had mysteriously exploded at sea.

He’d washed up on the island and had been living there ever since.

According to official reports, all the passengers had perished, but he’d survived.

So why hadn’t he tried to return? Then there was the idea he’d been born into a cult that controlled every aspect of his life.

One day, he’d fled and ended up on the island, trying to experience freedom for the first time, but always watching over his shoulder, afraid they’d come for him.

Stranger still was the idea that he was a brilliant scientist who had created something dangerous—maybe a new energy source, maybe a deadly weapon.

When powerful people tried to control his invention, he’d disappeared to prevent it from being used for harm .

I laughed out loud. I’d gone from zero to sixty in about ten seconds, from no ideas to pages of them, and all because of one man.

Maybe the next time I see Nick, I should thank him.

He’d provided a well-needed kick-start for my writer brain, and that had to be worth at least a cocktail or three.

If he even drinks cocktails. He could be on the wagon.

There was only one way to find out.

It was time to strike up a conversation with the mystery man.