Pulling up outside The Paradise Hotel, the driver jumped out and opened the passenger door, to find Lucy fumbling around on the floor.
‘Is this what you are looking for, madam?’
She turned to meet his gaze. ‘Yes, but how did it…? Thank you.’
Clasping the phone in one hand and the driver’s arm in the other, she clambered out of the car and straightened up.
‘Thank you – again,’ she murmured, rummaging in her bag and handing him two twenty-dollar bills.
‘You are most kind,’ he said with a gracious bow and a dazzling smile.
On entering the airy, glass foyer, Lucy was greeted by a bellboy in pristine uniform who placed her luggage on a trolley.
The immaculate receptionist rose from behind the exotic floral display on her desk with a luminous smile. ‘Welcome to The Paradise Hotel.’ She pointed to the silver name badge pinned to the lapel of her well-cut, navy blazer. ‘I’m Tamara. May I have your name please?’
‘Lucy Anderson but the booking is in the name of Macintosh,’ said Lucy in a wobbly whisper.
Tamara tapped on her computer. ‘Ah yes, you’re in the bridal suite on the sixth floor.’
‘Could I speak to the manager please?’ Lucy was barely able to get the words out.
‘Yes, of course. Please take a seat.’
A waiter in a white jacket with gold buttons, balancing two flutes of sparkling champagne on a silver tray approached, a look of bewilderment flickering across his face as he noticed the receptionist subtly but frantically gesturing at him.
Lucy forced a weak smile and downed both glasses in quick succession.
Her brain was starting to thaw now. How could Stewart do this to her? Let her travel halfway across the world before dumping her, leaving her stuck on this most romantic of islands, the sapphire sea, the white-sand beaches, the hibiscus flowers, the palm trees, the cloudless skies, the romantic sunsets, all cruel reminders of what should have been. She had to get away from this place as soon as possible.
She tried to look on the bright side: at least her family and friends weren’t there to share in the shock and humiliation, and Stewart hadn’t been involved in some tragic accident, as she’d feared. But to tell the truth, at this moment she’d have preferred the role of grieving fiancée to jilted bride.
‘Miss Anderson?’ Lucy looked up. Her gaze was met by a tall, elegant woman in a mint-green linen suit, her glossy, jet-black hair swept into a polished chignon.
‘Hafsa Jackson. I’m the manager of The Paradise Hotel,’ she said warmly, extending her manicured hand. ‘Is there a problem?’
Lucy nodded, unable to speak, resisting the urge to fling herself onto the marble floor and howl like a coyote. She bit her lip, painfully aware of the manager’s intense scrutiny.
Noting the troubled look on her guest’s face, Hafsa said discreetly, ‘Let’s talk about this in my office,’ her thin heels echoing across the shiny atrium.
Hafsa had been the manager of The Paradise for twelve years. She’d overseen countless weddings, and each was memorable in its own way. Weddings were her favourite part of the job. Of course there were occasional hitches: lost luggage, tears, tantrums and tropical storms. Hafsa prided herself on her tact and diplomacy when dealing with delicate situations, and welcomed a challenge.However, she had a feeling that what she was about to hear would put those well-honed skills to the ultimate test.
She poured two small glasses of rum from the crystal decanter she kept on the whitewashed side table by the window. The lawn sprinklers hissed, sending arches of water back and forth, while the gardener put the final touches to the roses, bougainvillea and palm leaves that formed the wedding arch for the next ceremony. A romantic setting of sparkling white, vibrant pink and glorious green, straight from the pages of a bridal magazine.
Hafsa straightened her shoulders, turned to face Lucy, handed her the heavy, faceted, crystal tumbler and sat down.
Lucy took a huge glug of rum, drew a deep breath and began to recount the last eleven life-changing, nightmarish hours. It wasn’t until she’d finished that her emotions began to simmer over, and the tears began to fall.
Ever the consummate professional, Hafsa wasn’t given to public displays of emotion, never allowing her opinions to be aired at work. Her job was to resolve problems in a practical, calm and unbiased manner. However, as she listened to the woman’s story, she felt her heart rate quicken and found herself mentally berating the absent bridegroom. What a cruel and cowardly thing to do. After twenty-odd years together, surely he should have had the decency to discuss it with her, instead of leaving her literally in mid-air?
Her thoughts then turned fleetingly to her own wedding, a decade ago now. Having been cheated on by her fiancé, she had thrown herself into her career, vowing to never allow a man into her life again. Then she met Glen, a professional golfer from Miami, and everything had changed. Theirs was an equal partnership. This time round Hafsa had learned to take as well as give, and allow her man to earn her love, for without being conceited, she now knew she was worth the investment.
From the little Lucy had told her, Hafsa understood she too was a giver. She wanted to tell her that in time her broken heart would mend, just as hers had done, and that the way would then be clear for her to meet and be valued by a good man; one who didn’t need bulldozing into commitment.
She pushed a box of tissues across the desk. ‘Leave all the practicalities to me, Lucy. I quite understand your wish to leave the island, and I can call the airport to try and arrange that for you. But why not give it a couple of days? You’re in shock and—’
‘I need to go home,’ said Lucy firmly, mopping up her tears. ‘As soon as possible.’
Jacinta Cumba, head of housekeeping at The Paradise Hotel, had just completed her final checks of the sixth floor bridal suite. Everything was ready, from the champagne chilling in the silver ice bucket, to the heart of red rose petals she had so carefully arranged on the white, Egyptian cotton throw on the king-sized, four-poster bed.
