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22 | The Voodoo That You Do SASHA

There is a plane without legroom. A duty-free catalog. A safety demonstration that no one watches. There is a choice between pretzels and cookies. A flight attendant in dangly shell earrings. A toddler running up and down the aisles followed by bleary-eyed parents muttering, “ Sorry, sorry, sorry .”

There is a view out the righthand window of sea foam and turquoise water, drippings of white sandbars and gargantuan hotels that look like miniatures. There is a wait on the tarmac while the gate frees up. There is an indoor-outdoor baggage claim area that smells like island and runs on island time. It is balmy and sunny and delicious.

And this is all expected. But what is less expected is the drive in a van that smells like diesel fuel to a private jet airport and a transfer to a private flight, a sea plane that takes off from the ocean’s surface. A plane that can walk on water.

Derek, the managing editor, flew ahead yesterday, so I share the six-seater with Stephanie, Peter, Jackie and a pilot, a local man in a classic airplane captain’s cap and a yellow T-shirt that reads “Turks & Caicos: Beautiful by Nature!” His name tag reads “Jimmy Baptiste” and his wide smile is contagious.

I feel like I’m buckled into the jump seat in an old-school checkered cab. Not exactly stable. But I push my fears away before going to that What will happen to Nettie and Bart if I die? place. I will not sabotage this experience for myself.

The plane flies so low and the water is so clear that, out the porthole, I can literally see stingrays gliding in slo-mo beneath the surface like I’m watching a nature documentary from above. Like I’m in a nature documentary! I can see tiny sand islets topped with toupees of greenery that shrink when the tide is high. Out the left side of the plane, Jackie spots a creature with a fin.

“Is that—?!” she says with alarm.

“It’s a gray reef shark!” the pilot Jimmy proclaims gleefully, like it’s a special breed of puppy.

Jackie is wide-eyed. “Are they—?!”

“They’re not aggressive,” he says. “Attacks are rare.”

“Rare is not never,” she murmurs to herself like a mantra.

“But what a way to go!” Stephanie exclaims from behind rose-gold aviator sunglasses, her feet propped up on the empty seat in front of her. Not a care in the world.

Peter, our cameraman, is green and has not spoken for the duration of the journey, except when he efficiently handled accounting for our vast array of production equipment at baggage claim. Now, he is hunched over, his hands clasped tightly in prayer or restraint.

“Are you okay?” I whisper to him.

“I do not like planes,” he says. “I especially do not like small planes.”

“Peter is afraid of flying!” Stephanie announces, swatting his worries away with her manicured hand like one would a gnat. Phobias are a drag.

“But what a way to go!” she says again.

Looking around at my fellow passengers, I can safely say we would all prefer not to “go” no matter what the way, however arresting the landscape. Jackie is shaking her head like she has not signed up for this.

Soon enough, we teeter toward a tiny airstrip on what looks like a mostly untamed island. We bounce and rebound upon landing. And, when we hit the ground, Peter holds his head in his hands, shouting, “Oh Lord!” But we ease to a safe stop. He stays in that position for minutes afterward. We give him grace to recover.

As soon as we’re told it’s okay, the rest of us unbuckle our seat belts (as if they served a purpose) and, with Jimmy’s assistance, climb one by one out onto a portable step stool on the tarmac.

I step down to solid ground and look around. There is no other sign of life. At first, it’s just us on this alien planet, surrounded by dry earth, savage shrubbery and the embrace of that humid tropical air. There is only the back of a large white Georgian-style house ahead of us that I assume is the reception center. It has heather-gray asphalt shingles on the roof and teal shutters.

I close my eyes for a moment and breathe it all in, feeling my shoulders drop. I am here for work. The stakes are high. I need this job. But I might as well enjoy it.

As we begin to walk as a group toward the entrance, a tiny lizard skitters past. Cute! Wildlife! But, as we reach the door, framed by brush and strategical palm trees, the lizard’s much larger cousin lumbers across our path. Welcome to Citrine Cay! Peter and Jackie both shriek, taken by surprise. Jackie actually skitters away herself. But she returns, quickly, catching her breath with a hand to her chest.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says to me.

I nod with understanding.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says to Jimmy the pilot, who laughs heartily.

Inside, this is like no hotel reception area I have ever seen. It’s like a home in heaven. Everything is white. Everything is plush. The space is entirely indoor-outdoor with a seductive breeze blowing through. Below a bamboo ceiling fan with palm frond–shaped blades, I am led to a wicker couch that cradles the world’s cushiest cushions. There, I am handed a glass of bright red rum punch with an umbrella and a chunk of sweet pineapple in it. It tastes like vacation.

So this is how the other half lives.

I pretend it’s all normal to me. An average day. Stephanie is chatting up a manager who has come to greet us. Peter, recovering on the couch beside me, seems grateful for the alcohol. Jackie is already checking out a rack of organic cotton caftans in a gift shop off the main room.

I take out my phone to snap a few photos—a portrait of my drink sitting poised atop the rattan coffee table. I sign release forms, delivered on a clipboard directly to my lap, promising not to smoke in or otherwise destroy my room. Then, just as I’m signing into the hotel’s Wi-Fi so my phone will work, an older white man in a starched uniform and a name tag that reads “Michael O’Connor” approaches to say he’ll take me to my room. In the distance, I can see that my luggage has already been loaded into a golf cart that’s nicer than any car I’ve ever owned.

“See you at dinner!” Stephanie chirps, winking as I’m led away. In that moment, I have a sensation like I’m back in middle school playing truth or dare, being led into a bedroom by some boy. What might happen next? I am a lamb to the slaughter, and I am cool with it.

That’s when my phone starts binging as my texts populate.

“Ah, so sorry,” I say, fumbling with my purse latch to try to extract and silence the noise pollution.

I pull my phone out: there’s a text from Celeste. I quickly click on it in case it’s about the kids.

Sash! Code red!

I have a small heart attack.

I finally realized why Demon Dad looks so familiar to me!

In that moment, sensing an energetic shift in the room, someone new and important entering the vortex, I glance up. And there is Ethan, standing in front of me. Ethan . On this deserted island. Looking drop-dead. In shorts. I drop my phone.

“Hi, Sasha,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Us both being here, on a private island, with all the lizards.

Michael scrambles to grab my phone off the ground, dusting it off and handing it back to me. I take it numbly and murmur thank you. What planet am I on? Am I dead? And, if so, is this heaven or hell?

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Michael looks confused. “Showing you to your room, miss?”

“What am I doing here?” Ethan asks, pointing to himself.

“Yes.”

“Me?”

Michael’s gaze ping-pongs between us.

“Yes! That’s what I asked: What are you doing here?”

Derek walks up before Ethan can respond. He is also in shorts and a T-shirt, only it’s all black and somehow incongruous. Like his resort wear is in mourning.

“Oh, good!” he says. “You’ve met! I came here from my room all ready to do charming introductions.”

“Well, don’t let us stop you.” Ethan smirks, slipping his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. Like he could do this all day.

“Okay! Ethan, this is Sasha Rubinstein. The amazing video producer I’ve been raving about, who has swept in at the last minute to save us all.” He turns toward me, squinting through his glasses against the sun. “Sasha, this is Ethan Jones. Our incomparable newish editor in chief, who will guide us all toward manifesting a remarkable shoot and lifting the magazine from the ashes! We worked together before at another publication too, so I know his excellence to be fact.”

My mouth drops open. My phone bing s with a text from Celeste. I look down dumbly.

He’s the new EIC at ESCAPADE! I totally styled for him when he was creative director at another magazine!”

I look up at Ethan’s grill.

“Nice to see you,” he says, grinning.

I stare at him, dead-faced. “Seriously?”

Derek senses something is up. Probably because it is deeply obvious. “Do you guys already know each other?”

“A bit,” says Ethan. “Our kids are in school together. I recently gave Sasha some jogging tips in the park. So, I guess I’m kind of like her running coach.”

“That is definitely not accurate,” I counter.

Derek looks from Ethan to me, then exhales sharply. We are clearly stressing him out.

“Rum punch?” offers a waitress who has approached with a flower behind one ear.

Derek takes a glass and chugs its entire contents, then returns it to the tray. I have known him for no time and know this is out of character. He is about PowerPoint proposals, not pi?a coladas.

Why is he so tense?

“Excuse me for a second,” he says, then heads off to anywhere else. Even Michael has inched farther and farther away until he is safely situated in the driver’s seat of my golf cart. Ethan and I sure know how to clear a room.

Now, he and I are alone, for all intents and purposes. I run a hand down my cheek and sigh, unable to right myself. “I’m so confused. What is happening? Is this a coincidence?” But I know it’s not. Because Ethan doesn’t seem remotely surprised. I am the one off-kilter. I am the one off my game.

“No.” He shrugs. “I heard you were a good producer, so I suggested that Derek take a meeting with you when we realized we needed someone.”

I give him an impatient look.

“Seriously! I looked you up. I saw what you do. I asked around. It was perfect. The timing felt fated.”

Fated? “But why didn’t you say anything? Once you knew I was hired for the shoot?”

“Honestly? I thought you knew. Who applies for a magazine job and doesn’t look up the name of the editor?”

Me! Me . That’s who. Someone who needs the job so badly that she doesn’t care. I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. And I can’t help but feel like Ethan designed it this way.

Suddenly, our cotton candy bonding session feels null and void. I am hoodie-era frustrated all over again.

“Didn’t you think it was odd that I never mentioned it?” I say.

“Yes, a little. But I figured you were trying to keep your professional and personal lives separate.”

“But I didn’t see you at my interview—at the Escapade offices!”

“Oh. Yeah, I was kind of locked in my office on calls.”

Yet another humiliating scene flashes before my eyes. I cover them with my hand as if I can stop from seeing it. “When I saw you at the supermarket, I told you I was going on a trip! Like you didn’t know!”

“That did seem weird. But, honestly, that whole interaction was weird. I mean, you saluted me, so.”

So he noticed that. A part of me dies.

I drop my hand. He holds my gaze for a beat. I sip my rum punch, resigned. I’m experiencing a cocktail of emotions, but, above all else, I’m confused.

I am not the only one.

“You really didn’t know? That it was me?” Ethan seems almost disappointed. He thought I knew and still came. Could he have wanted me to come? I can’t begin to unpack that.

“I really didn’t know,” I manage. “I thought we were strictly in the Monster’s Ball zone. Celeste thought you looked familiar, but…”

“Who’s Celeste?”

“Celeste Alameddine? Tall, statuesque, beautiful? I’m always with her at PS421 events? You’ve worked with her as a set stylist, I think?”

He racks his brain, then begins to nod. “Oh! Celeste! Of course. She’s fantastic. I didn’t even know she was a parent at the school.”

“How is that even possible?” I ask. But I know.

“Well, I never did drop-off really until six months ago. I still don’t do pick-up. I haven’t been around.”

And that makes me angry all over again. I don’t even know why. Because he’s a man? Because I have to do both?

“Hi, Sash,” says Stephanie, who has appeared at my side bearing the gift of a new nickname. She leans her elbow on my shoulder, tilting her head toward me. “So, I see you’ve met Ethan . Our fearless leader! Isn’t he the greatest?” This is the first time in my life I have actually seen someone flutter their eyelashes.

“The greatest,” I say.

“Ms. Rubinstein?” prods Michael, who has left the golf cart and bravely crept closer again. “Should we take you to your room? You’re going to love it!”

I look at him adoringly, like he is a saint for getting me out of this. And I think he knows because he widens his eyes and then winks at me.

“Thanks, Michael,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Ethan. “Yes! Sorry to keep you waiting.”

I turn to leave and don’t look back. We hop in the getaway car and make our escape.