Beyond the ordinary

Tide and Flame

 

  A Novella by Dianne Dunchie-Coley

"Some fires are meant to leave ash. Some tides don’t return, but they leave you forever changed."

 

Chapter One: Arrival

Joyce Bannerman had not planned to fall in love again—least of all in a place where the sky bled color at dusk and the water was warm enough to dream in.

It was Ruth’s idea. Her younger sister was forever seeking reinvention: salsa lessons in Santiago, reiki in Rotorua, a brief romance with a man who made artisanal cheese in Tasmania. She thrived on movement, on transformation. Joyce, on the other hand, had spent thirty years teaching English to sleepy high schoolers in Dunedin, thirty-five married to a man who believed love was best expressed through scheduled oil changes and quiet loyalty. She didn’t complain. She had liked the rhythm of her life—until it stopped.

Five months ago, Michael had died on a Tuesday. A quiet heart attack while pruning the plum tree. Joyce had made him tea, called him twice from the kitchen, and found him slumped in the dirt like someone merely resting. Grief, she quickly discovered, wasn’t a storm—it was a fog. Constant. Clinging. Invisible to others.

When Ruth emailed with flights already booked, Joyce replied with a terse “Fine.” The idea of warm air, fruit she didn’t have to slice herself, and people who didn’t know her as “the widow Bannerman” had a certain appeal. Besides, the house was too quiet.

Ruth bailed a week before departure.

“Pre-op consult for the hip. You understand,” she said, guiltless.

Joyce almost canceled. But then she thought of the quiet, of her dressing gown always damp with morning tea, of the way the grocery boy hesitated before asking how she was.

So she packed. Sensible clothes. Three novels she’d been meaning to read. And one rarely used swimsuit, folded at the bottom of the suitcase like a secret.

The plane descended into Port Vila under a sky thick with violet clouds and late afternoon light. Joyce felt her stomach twist—not with nerves, exactly, but something adjacent. What kind of woman flies alone to a South Pacific island two weeks before turning fifty-nine?

The kind whose life no longer has a fixed orbit, she thought. The kind who isn’t done, even if she sometimes feels she should be.

Immigration was swift. Outside, the air pressed itself around her like a lover. Everything smelled lush—green, wet, spiced. On the ride to the Sunset Cove Bungalows, she watched the island unfold: children barefoot on the roadside waving with both arms; women balancing baskets on their heads like something sacred; bougainvillea crawling over tin roofs. The driver, a man named Jojo, spoke softly about the village, the mango season, and a cyclone that had passed two years before.

“First time in Vanuatu?” he asked.

“Yes,” Joyce said. “And first time traveling alone.”

“Then Vanuatu will treat you gently,” he said with a smile. “You’re lucky. Sunset Cove is peaceful.”

She hoped that was true.

The bungalows were modest—pastel walls, wooden shutters, and a small reception shack with a hand-painted sign that read Slow Down, You’re on Island Time. A young woman with a flower tucked behind her ear led her to her room. Inside, it was simple: mosquito net over the bed, a ceiling fan that ticked slightly when it spun, and a narrow balcony overlooking a stretch of golden sand.

Joyce stood by the open window, breathing in the salted air. She’d read somewhere that grief changes the shape of your brain—that loss literally rewires you. In that moment, she felt every tangled strand of it, stretched thin and heavy like the heat.

Michael’s photo was still tucked in her wallet. She pulled it out, stared at it for a moment. His face, his gardener’s squint, the expression of a man content with compost and crossword puzzles. She had loved him. Still did. But she was starting to wonder whether love had ever really seen her—the woman beneath the roles, behind the routines.

Joyce set the photo on the dresser. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, turned it face down.

She slipped off her shoes, letting her toes sink into the polished wood floor. Outside, the sea called in a hush of waves, steady and patient.

She walked toward it.

Down the narrow path between palms, over soft sand that clung to her heels, the beach opened wide like a sigh. A few people lounged in hammocks strung between trees. Someone strummed a guitar in the distance, the notes rising with the wind.

And that’s when she saw him.

He was waist-deep in the water, tossing a fishing net with a movement so fluid it could have been dance. The net opened wide in the air—a silver crescent—and settled over the water like lace. He pulled it back in, fast and sure. His skin gleamed with seawater, his hair tied back in a thick knot at the base of his neck.

There was something elemental about him. He didn’t just exist in the scene—he belonged to it.

As if feeling her gaze, he turned.

Their eyes met.

He smiled, quick and bright and easy. The kind of smile that doesn’t need words to introduce itself.

Joyce’s heart stumbled. Not out of attraction, not yet. But because it had been a very long time since a stranger looked at her as though seeing her was reason enough to smile.

She gave a small nod and kept walking, heart humming in her chest.

It wasn’t love. Not even infatuation.

It was the first flicker of a match, struck in darkness.

Chapter Two: The Island Breathes

The next morning, Joyce woke to the sound of birdsong unlike any she’d heard back home—liquid, melodic, almost conversational. For a moment she forgot where she was. Then the soft creak of the ceiling fan, the scent of hibiscus wafting through the shutters, and the faint roar of the nearby reef reminded her: she was no longer in Dunedin. No longer Mrs. Bannerman, the widow. Here, she could just be Joyce.

She pulled on a light cotton dress and sandals, tied her silver-streaked hair back, and wandered down to the dining area—an open-sided thatched pavilion with wooden tables and a buffet laid out under mosquito nets. Pineapple, pawpaw, coconut scones, dark local coffee.

“First breakfast on the island?” a voice said beside her, accented, playful.

She turned. It was him.

The man from the water.

Now dry, he wore a loose shirt open at the collar and board shorts faded by the sun. Up close, he was even more arresting—his eyes dark but warm, his smile as easy as breath. Younger than she’d guessed from a distance. Late twenties, maybe. A boy, really. But he carried himself with a calmness that suggested he’d lived deeper than his years.

“Yes,” she said, blinking. “First full day.”

“You’ll like it here,” he said. “If you stay long enough, the island remembers you.”

She laughed, a little too surprised by her own voice. “That sounds like poetry.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “Everything is poetry if you listen slowly.”

There was a silence between them—not awkward, but electric. He extended a hand.

“I’m Maanatu.”

Joyce hesitated a half-second, then took it. His palm was warm, callused. Real.

“Joyce.”

He nodded once, as if tucking the name away somewhere private.

“You’re staying in bungalow seven?” he asked. “I saw you arrive yesterday.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you keep track of all the guests?”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who look like they needed to arrive.”

Joyce wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she took a sip of coffee to buy time. It was strong and slightly smoky. Like it had something to say.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I work with the reef tours and the fishing charters. My cousin runs this place, though. So I help when I can. This morning, I’m taking a group up to Mele Cascades. You should come.”

She shook her head politely. “Oh no, I— I’m not really into hiking in groups.”

“Then come another day. Just us,” he said with a shrug. “No schedule. We’ll move slowly. Let the island show off.”

She laughed again, involuntarily. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“No,” he said. “Just sure of the island.”

Joyce looked at him carefully then. Not just at his face—the lines sun-etched at the corners of his mouth, the light beard shadow on his jaw—but at the ease he carried, the absence of hurry or hunger for approval. That kind of ease was magnetic.

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave her a mock salute and turned to leave, lifting a basket of fruit onto a side table as he passed. Joyce watched him go, something uncoiling in her chest. It wasn’t attraction, not quite. It was presence. His, certainly—but also hers. She hadn’t felt so aware of her own skin in years.

Later that afternoon, she walked along the beach, the sun high but tempered by a breeze that carried the scent of salt and frangipani. Children played in the shallows, chasing each other with palm fronds. An old man sat in the shade of a breadfruit tree carving a turtle from driftwood. A dog trotted past with a sandal in its mouth.

She rounded a bend in the beach and found herself alone. The sand here was darker, finer. Crabs scuttled from hole to hole. She sat on a smooth rock and closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of the sea.

When she opened them again, Maanatu was standing ten feet away, barefoot, holding a small woven basket.

“I was hoping you might wander this way,” he said, as if they’d arranged it.

“You appear like a magic trick,” she said, amused.

He held up the basket. “Mangoes. Just picked. Sweetest in this cove.”

She accepted one. It was warm from the sun. He pulled out a small pocketknife and sliced it expertly, offering her a slice.

The juice dripped down her fingers as she bit in. It was bright, almost floral, and more alive than anything she’d tasted in years.

“You weren’t lying,” she murmured, mouth full.

He sat beside her, close but not too close. “I never lie about fruit.”

They sat like that for a long time, the silence comfortable. He asked about her life—gently, without pressing—and she surprised herself by answering. She told him about teaching, about Michael, even about the poetry she used to write when she was young and reckless.

“Do you still write?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I stopped. There didn’t seem to be room for it. Or time.”

He studied her face. “Make room. Time won’t ask your permission.”

Joyce blinked. The wind lifted her hair. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

There was something in that look—not romantic, not yet—but knowing. A recognition. Two people who had both, in their own ways, given pieces of themselves to family, to duty, to the quiet patterns of ordinary life. And now—maybe—were wondering what might still be waiting.

The sun tilted lower in the sky, casting long gold streaks on the water.

Joyce stood, brushing sand from her dress. “Thank you for the mango.”

He nodded, still seated. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you where they grow. If you want.”

She smiled, not answering. She liked the feeling of having a choice again.

As she walked back toward the bungalows, the warmth lingered on her skin—not just from the sun, but from something she hadn’t known she missed:

Being seen.

 

Chapter Three: Kava and Conversation

That evening, Joyce found herself drifting through the dusk toward the sound of music and laughter.

At the edge of the beach, where the sand met the brush of low trees, a group had gathered—locals and a few travelers—around a small fire. A guitar was being passed from hand to hand, people singing in both Bislama and English. Lanterns hung from palm branches, casting golden halos over smiling faces. Someone had set out carved wooden bowls on a low table beside a large plastic bucket filled with an earthy-looking liquid.

Kava.

She had read about it in the hotel booklet: a traditional drink, made from the root of the pepper plant, with calming effects. Traditionally communal. Shared slowly, in rounds, accompanied by talk, story, and stillness.

“Joyce!”

She turned, recognizing the voice before she saw the face.

Maanatu appeared from behind the fire with two bowls in his hands, his face lit by flame and mischief. He had changed again—now barefoot, shirtless, a thin cloth sarong tied low around his hips, revealing the sculpted lines of his torso. Not showy, not intentional—just the body of someone who worked in the ocean and under the sun. Joyce’s eyes caught briefly on the slope of his collarbone, the faint curve of his ribs beneath taut skin.

She pulled her gaze up quickly.

“You came,” he said, offering her one of the bowls.

“I wandered,” she said, accepting it. “I didn’t know there’d be… an audience.”

“Everyone’s welcome,” he said. “This is my cousin’s place. We do this every few nights. Food, music, kava. No tourists, no price. Just the good kind of slowing down.”

He raised his bowl.

“Cheers?” she asked.

He grinned. “Lukim yu. Means 'I see you.'”

They drank.

The kava was bitter, thick, earthy. It numbed her tongue almost instantly, and she made a surprised face.

He laughed. “You get used to it. Or you don’t, and drink it anyway.”

They sat on a driftwood log together. The fire warmed one side of her face; the ocean breeze cooled the other. Maanatu leaned back on his elbows, his profile sharp against the darkening sky.

“So,” she asked, after a moment. “Is this where you charm all the foreign women?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Only the ones who look like they might need reminding they’re allowed to feel things.”

Joyce blinked, startled by the directness. “That’s quite an assumption.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I was raised to trust my instincts. And yours?”

“My instincts usually tell me to take an aspirin and rebook a quieter room.”

He laughed again, that easy, deep sound that came from somewhere unhurried.

“You don’t strike me as a quiet room person, Joyce. Not really.”

She sipped again, surprised by how natural it felt to sit here beside him, how her body seemed to relax without permission. The kava, perhaps—but something else, too.

“Alright then,” she said. “Tell me something real. Not something a guidebook would say.”

He looked at her, not smiling now. “My father drowned when I was eleven.”

The wind paused. So did she.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, but gently. “He was a fisherman. Taught me to throw a net. Taught me to watch the stars for weather. But he didn’t come back one night.”

Joyce swallowed, her throat dry.

“My husband died five months ago. In our backyard. Just—stopped breathing.”

Maanatu looked at her. Not pitying. Just present.

They sat in that shared silence for a while.

He reached forward and refilled both their bowls. The second round tasted worse, but went down easier.

“I studied marine biology for a bit,” he said. “In Suva. But I didn’t finish.”

“Why not?”

“My mother got sick. And… I missed this. The land. The ocean here. You can’t measure what it gives you.”

Joyce nodded slowly. “So now you fish. And guide. And philosophize?”

“And I make bad ukulele covers of pop songs for tourists. Want to hear my Beyoncé?”

She laughed again—too loudly this time, and a few people looked over. She flushed, but Maanatu smiled like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

“I think I’ll pass,” she said.

He leaned closer, his voice softer. “You laugh like someone who forgot she could.”

She turned to face him. His knee was brushing hers now. She didn’t move away.

“You talk like someone who gets away with too much,” she murmured.

“Maybe,” he said, eyes still on her. “But only because people don’t expect much. You’d be surprised how often people look through you instead of at you.”

His words weren’t flirty. They weren’t even heavy. Just honest. And somehow, that cut deeper than anything sweet or rehearsed could have.

“I see you, Joyce.”

She felt it—not just the words, but the intention behind them. Her cheeks burned.

“Alright,” she said, rising suddenly. “That’s enough kava for me.”

He stood, too, not reaching for her, not pushing.

“Will you let me show you the garden tomorrow?” he asked. “Where the mangoes come from.”

She hesitated. Her heart beat in her ears.

“Yes,” she said.

“Come barefoot,” he added with a wink. “The ground likes it better.”

She walked back to her bungalow under a sky thick with stars, her feet brushing soft sand, her mouth still tingling. Behind her, the firelight flickered, and his voice trailed over the music and wind.

Joyce didn’t turn around.

But she smiled.

 

Chapter Four: The Flame

The next morning arrived in honeyed light, slanting through the mosquito net like soft fingers. Joyce had slept deeply, lulled by the sea and the kava and the strange new rhythm Vanuatu was playing in her bones.

She wore a pale blue blouse and a cotton skirt, tied her hair in a loose braid, and skipped the shoes.

When she met Maanatu by the path near the bungalows, he was already barefoot, shirt tied around his waist, carrying a small basket.

“You listened,” he said, glancing at her feet.

“I’m trainable.”

He grinned and handed her a slice of pineapple. “Fuel. We walk fifteen minutes.”

The trail took them inland, winding between tall grasses, banana trees, and groves of tamanu and breadfruit. As they walked, Maanatu greeted nearly everyone they passed with a mix of English and Bislama.

“Halo, sista. Yu oraet?”
“Mi oraet nomo, Maanatu!”

“What did she say?” Joyce asked, curious.

“She said she’s fine. But the way she said it means better than fine. 'Nomo' adds a little smile.”

Bislama sounded like English seen through water—familiar, musical, a rhythm rather than a structure. Joyce found herself falling in love with it a little.

“Do you speak French, too?”

“A bit. And Nakanamanga—my first language. But Bislama’s the bridge. It carries everything.”

They crested a small hill and emerged into a wide clearing, a mango orchard unfurling before them—trees twisted and low, heavy with ripening fruit.

“This is it,” Maanatu said. “My uncle’s land. He lets me pick what I like, as long as I share.”

Birds sang overhead. The air smelled sweet, green, and humid. The grass was thick underfoot, wet with dew.

A little farther on, the land dipped—and Joyce heard the trickle of water.

“A river?” she asked.

He nodded, leading her toward it. The river was narrow, winding through the orchard like a ribbon of glass, slow-moving and clear. Smooth stones lined its bed, and overhanging trees dappled the surface in shifting light.

“It’s shallow,” Maanatu said. “And cool.”

He stripped off his shirt and waded in without ceremony, his body golden in the light, lean and sculpted by real labor. His shorts clung to him as he splashed water onto his face, then slicked back his curls.

Joyce stood at the edge, heart tapping fast.

“Come in,” he said, voice low. “Just for a moment. No one’s watching.”

She hesitated. Then, slowly, stepped down the bank, lifting her skirt to her knees.

“Keep going,” he urged. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

So she stepped in. The water bit at first, deliciously cold. It soaked her skirt, her blouse. She gasped as it climbed up her thighs. She felt ridiculous but more alive than she had in years.

Her clothes clung to her as she moved deeper. The wet cotton hugged the curves of her hips and thighs, pulled against her breasts, translucent in places where the sunlight caught it. She caught Maanatu looking. Not hungrily—reverently.

Joyce had never thought of herself as beautiful, not really. But something about the way he looked at her made her stand taller in the water, own her body as it was now—fuller, softer, yes, but strong, capable, still hungry for experience.

“You have the body of someone who’s lived,” he said quietly.

She arched a brow. “Is that supposed to be flattering?”

“It is when you mean it.”

He moved closer, his presence thick in the air. The water rippled between them. A mango floated nearby, bobbing in slow circles like it, too, was suspended in the moment.

Joyce reached up to brush a wet strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers lingered.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.

“Because you showed up.”

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and sure. His lips were warm despite the water, his hands gentle as they found her waist. She kissed him back, surprised at the certainty in her own body.

The kiss deepened, not rushed, but real. He held her like something sacred—no demand, only invitation. When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of sun and salt and something faintly citrus.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she said into his skin.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m just reminding you you’re not done.”

They stayed like that in the water, arms around each other, swaying slightly with the river. Around them, mangoes hung like lanterns. The trees whispered. The sun moved behind a cloud.

Joyce closed her eyes.

For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like a widow, or a visitor, or a woman trying not to disappear.

She felt like Joyce.

Alive.

Chapter Five: Mango and Memory

They emerged from the river slowly, clothes clinging like second skin. Joyce peeled her wet blouse away from her back and wrung the ends of her skirt. Maanatu stood beside her, his body shining with water, skin golden and smooth. A strand of hair curled at his temple, and his eyes—dark, steady—never left her face.

“I must look ridiculous,” she muttered, smoothing her skirt down, trying to reclaim a sense of composure.

“You look,” he said, stepping closer, “exactly how someone looks when they stop caring what people think.”

She laughed—a low, amused sound. “That’s generous of you.”

He bent, picked up a fallen mango from the soft grass, and rolled it in his palms.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s find a ripe one. Not one the bats got to first.”

They wandered barefoot beneath the low-hanging trees. Maanatu pointed out how to spot the best mangoes—color streaked red and yellow, slightly soft at the tip, sap sticky on the stem. The orchard smelled sweet and earthy, the air thick with sun and moisture.

He found a tree with good fruit, climbed it barefoot with the ease of someone born in branches. Joyce stood below, arms crossed, smiling like a girl watching her first crush.

“Here!” he called, and tossed one down. She caught it—barely.

“Not bad for someone who spent her youth grading essays.”

He laughed and dropped another. “That one’s for eating. The first’s for pressing.”

They sat on the riverbank, juice-sticky and barefoot. Maanatu used his knife to peel the mango in long spirals. The flesh was warm and fragrant.

“Try,” he said, offering her a dripping slice.

She bit. The flavor burst across her tongue—sunlight and sugar and something feral beneath.

“Oh,” she whispered. “That’s obscene.”

He grinned. “It’s life.”

They ate slowly, fingers slippery, juice running down their wrists. Maanatu leaned close and licked a drop from her thumb without asking. Her breath caught.

“I could die right here,” she murmured, half-joking.

He leaned in, brushing his lips across her neck. “Let’s live here instead.”

She turned to him, serious now. “Maanatu… can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you… seeing anyone? Involved?”

He paused, watching the way the sunlight caught her collarbone.

“No. Not for some time.”

“Why not?”

He looked out over the water.

“Because I’ve seen what it looks like when people love with half their hearts. And I decided if I couldn’t give or receive the whole thing, I’d rather wait.”

Joyce swallowed. “So you’ve been waiting.”

He looked at her again. “I still am. Maybe not forever.”

She reached for his hand.

He took it.

Then, quiet for a moment, he whispered, “What about you?”

Joyce hesitated. “I loved my husband. But I think… I lost parts of myself while I was loving him. Or maybe I gave them away, one permission at a time.”

Maanatu leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers.

“You get those parts back,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

She kissed him then. Soft. Certain. This time not with surprise, but with recognition.

The kiss stretched. Deepened. He pulled her onto his lap, her knees straddling his thighs, skirt hitched and forgotten. His hands slid slowly over the damp cotton at her hips, up her back. She traced his jaw, the lines of his shoulders.

Neither rushed.

Neither afraid.

Eventually, he pulled away and reached into the basket again.

“Wait here.”

He returned minutes later with two green coconuts, freshly cut at the top. He handed her one, along with a short wooden straw.

“Coconut jelly,” he said. “Sweet. And good for heat.”

She sipped. The cool liquid slid down her throat, calming and bright. The meat inside was soft, like pudding.

“You’re trying to seduce me with fruit,” she said, mock-serious.

He smiled, cradling her face. “No. I’m trying to remind you that this world still wants you to taste it.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, coconut in hand.

“Don’t disappear when I wake up,” she whispered.

“I’m not a dream, Joyce,” he said. “But I’ll let you pretend, if that makes it easier.”

They stayed like that while the wind stirred the mango leaves, the river whispered nearby, and somewhere in the orchard, a bird sang a high, hopeful note that didn’t quite end.

 

Chapter Six: The First Full Night

They walked back to the bungalows at twilight, their fingers laced together, sticky with mango juice and river water. Joyce’s wet skirt clung to her legs as they moved, and her bare feet were dirty from the trail. But she didn’t care. Not about the clothes, the sand in her hair, the age in her knees. Something inside her had cracked open—and warm light poured in.

The sky behind them flared in shades of molten orange and indigo. The air smelled of salt and woodsmoke. As they reached the edge of Sunset Cove, Maanatu paused and turned to her.

“Come to my place tonight,” he said, not a demand, not even a request—just an offering. “No pressure. Just sleep. Or not sleep. But be there.”

Joyce looked at him. The island had stripped so much from her—mourning, fear, the quiet tightness of widowhood. What was left was only what was real. Her hands. Her heart. Her hunger.

“Yes,” she said.

 

Maanatu’s home was small and built mostly of wood and woven palm, set back from the main path among banana trees. A single string of lights wound around the awning, casting a soft yellow glow. Inside, it was simple—clean bed, books stacked on crates, a shell wind-chime hanging in the window. The floor creaked when they entered.

He lit a candle and placed it near the bed. The flame flickered gently, warm and low.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he said. “You’re soaked.”

Joyce touched his wrist. “So are you.”

They stood there for a long breath. And then she reached for the hem of her blouse and slowly pulled it over her head.

The fabric fell to the floor.

She wasn’t young. She wasn’t taut or tanned or surgically perfected. But she had a body that had lived—carried laughter, endured grief, worked long hours and stretched to meet love. A body that still had heat in it. Still had need.

Maanatu looked at her like she was not a woman to be compared, but a woman to be witnessed.

He stepped close and kissed her forehead first. Then her cheek. Then her mouth—soft, open, sure. She unbuttoned his shirt slowly, revealing the lines of his chest, the curve of his shoulder. His skin was warm, his breath steady.

They undressed in slow, unhurried pieces—every gesture deliberate, quiet. No urgency. No performing. Just two people learning each other’s landscape with reverence.

When they lay down together, it wasn’t about sex, not entirely.

It was about skin against skin, breath syncing, hands in hair, soft sounds and softer silences. He kissed her neck. She held his face. They moved together with a rhythm older than language, slower than time. She forgot to think. He never looked away.

Later, they lay tangled in the sheets, her leg over his, his fingers tracing the length of her spine. The candlelight flickered.

Joyce exhaled into the hollow of his throat.

“Do you always do this?” she asked quietly. “Bring women here. Make them feel…”

“Held?” he offered.

She nodded.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t want to hold everyone. Just you.”

She blinked, eyes hot.

“I feel ridiculous,” she whispered.

“You feel real,” he said, cupping her cheek. “That’s rarer.”

Outside, a gecko chirped somewhere in the rafters. The wind shifted through the palms.

She curled into him like she belonged there. And for the first time in years, Joyce didn’t ache for what she’d lost.

She was too full of what she’d found.

Chapter Seven: Morning Light

Joyce awoke slowly, as if surfacing from a warm, still sea. For a long moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Then she felt his arm around her waist. The steady rise and fall of his chest behind her. The soft exhale against her shoulder.

Maanatu.

Her body ached, but not with pain. With fullness. A deep satisfaction that lived somewhere behind her ribs and between her thighs. A quiet hum of being known.

Light seeped through the bamboo slats of the window, casting lines across the wall. The scent of coconut oil and morning dew drifted through the room. A bird chirped lazily outside.

She didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the spell. His hand was warm on her stomach, fingers curled as if he’d fallen asleep memorizing  every dip, every crease of her body

After a while, she whispered, “Are you awake?”

A beat. Then: “Only because you are.”

His voice was low, groggy, but amused.

Joyce rolled to face him. His hair was tousled, his eyes still half-closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones.

She traced his collarbone with a fingertip.

“I thought I might feel strange,” she said. “Waking up.”

“Do you?”

“No,” she murmured. “I feel… honest.”

He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose. “That’s the best kind of morning.”

They lay there a while longer, tangled in each other, the world quiet around them. But eventually, life began to call—softly at first, then with increasing clarity.

Joyce sat up, brushing the hair from her eyes.

“I should go. People will start to wonder where I am.”

“Let them wonder,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow.

She smiled. “I’m not the kind of woman people expect to disappear overnight with a man.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s exactly the kind of woman you are.”

Joyce laughed, but there was a flicker of truth in the words that made her chest tighten.

She pulled on her blouse, now dry and wrinkled, and searched for her skirt. Maanatu rose too, slipping into his shorts and walking barefoot to a small shelf in the corner where he kept a tin pot and a cloth bag of ground coffee.

“Stay for breakfast,” he said.

She hesitated.

“Please.”

She nodded.

While he boiled water over a tiny flame, Joyce stepped outside. The morning was fresh, the leaves still damp from dawn. The sky above the trees was soft blue, streaked with gold. She looked at his little house—humble, open to the air, filled with light—and felt something pull in her belly. A kind of longing she hadn’t named before.

He joined her moments later with two enamel mugs, one slightly chipped.

“You’ve got a whole life here,” she said, sitting on the porch steps. “One that fits.”

“It fits,” he agreed, sitting beside her. “But there’s always room for more.”

She looked at him sideways. “You mean people?”

“I mean meaning.”

She sipped her coffee, bitter and rich. “And what about when people leave? How do you hold meaning then?”

He was quiet a moment.

“You don’t hold it. You feel it. Let it shape you. Then you keep walking.”

She stared into the trees, thoughtful. “You talk like someone much older.”

“I was raised by women who lived through war, storms, and love. They say wisdom’s not about age. It’s about listening.”

They sat in silence again, companionable, the air sweet with damp earth and roasted beans.

And then, almost without meaning to, she asked:

“What happens next, Maanatu?”

He looked at her gently. “You mean with us?”

She nodded.

He didn’t rush the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to put you in a fantasy. I don’t want to pretend the ocean isn’t wide between your life and mine.”

Joyce nodded slowly. “But this… what we shared… it was real?”

He reached for her hand.

“Yes. It is. Still is.”

She swallowed. The truth of it settled in her chest like warm stone—solid, grounding, bittersweet.

They finished their coffee in silence. When she rose to leave, he stood with her.

He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

He only touched her shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, “When you walk, walk knowing someone here carries your name.”

She didn’t speak. Only placed her hand briefly over his heart.

Then she turned and began the slow walk back toward her bungalow—each step both lighter and heavier than the last.

 

Chapter Eight: Before the Leaving

Joyce spent the next two days in a state of soft disorientation.

Her body moved through familiar motions—coffee at the beachside hut, afternoon swims in the cove, reading on the porch of her bungalow—but nothing felt quite the same. It was as if she’d stepped out of one version of herself and into another, barefoot and blinking in new light.

Each night, she returned to Maanatu’s home. They talked late into the dark—about the ocean, about grief, about what scared them and what kept them alive. They made love without shame. Sometimes slowly, sometimes laughing. Sometimes not at all, just curled together in silence, his chest against her back, their breaths aligned like waves.

But the date on her return ticket loomed, unspoken but ever-present.

On her last full day, they walked to a rocky outcrop that overlooked the reef. The tide was low, and the exposed coral shimmered like buried treasure.

They sat on a warm flat stone, knees touching. He held her hand in both of his, his thumbs moving in slow, absent circles over her skin.

“I’ve been trying not to talk about it,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he said.

“But it’s coming.”

He nodded. “Like all tides.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to go back to who I was.”

“You won’t,” he said. “She’s not waiting for you anymore.”

Joyce looked at him, her eyes stinging. “And you? What are you going to do?”

He shrugged gently. “Fish. Guide. Sing terrible pop songs for tourists.”

She smiled despite herself.

“I’ll write to you,” she said.

“You can,” he replied. “But if you don’t, it’s alright. I don’t need to be reminded.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because I already carry you. In the way I look at the river. In the way I wait longer before speaking.”

Joyce looked away, blinking hard.

“I’m too old for this,” she said quietly.

He leaned in, kissed her temple. “No. You’re just awake now. There’s no age for that.”

They watched the water for a while. Below them, a single turtle moved between coral heads, slow and ancient and utterly at peace.

Maanatu handed her something small and cool.

It was a piece of sea glass—smooth, ocean-worn, pale blue like her blouse from the first day they met.

“Keep it,” he said. “Not to remember me. Just to remember that things can be broken and still shine.”

She held it in her palm, silent.

That night, they held each other longer than usual. She didn’t sleep. Neither did he.

They didn’t talk about the morning flight.

They didn’t need to.

Chapter Nine: The Longest Night

 

The ceiling fan turned lazily above them, casting slow-moving shadows across the mosquito net. Outside, the air was thick with summer heat and the sound of distant waves. The jungle murmured with crickets and frogs, a lullaby written by the island itself.

Inside, Joyce stood at the edge of Maanatu’s bed, candlelight flickering across her collarbone. Her breath was shallow. His eyes found hers and held them.

“I don’t want this night to be about goodbye,” she whispered.

“It isn’t,” he said, stepping toward her. “It’s about now.”

He reached for her gently, fingers grazing her arm, then her waist. The touch was reverent, slow, as though memorizing. She leaned into him, her cheek brushing his chest. His skin was warm, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart under it.

They kissed—soft at first, then deeper, unhurried. The kind of kiss that says I see you, and I want you, and you are safe here.

Clothing fell away piece by piece, not torn or rushed, but peeled like fruit, their hands learning each other again. Joyce's breath caught as Maanatu’s lips traced the line of her shoulder, her collarbone, the soft rise of her breast. His hands slid down her spine, firm but tender, grounding her. Her skin hummed with memory and anticipation.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

She laughed softly, touched his jaw. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

They moved to the bed, and he laid her down like something precious, not fragile. The sheet beneath her was cool; the air warm. Every part of her felt alive—nerve endings singing, heart open. When he moved above her, there was no need to speak. Her fingers curled around his shoulder. He looked into her eyes the entire time.

When they joined, it wasn’t a collision—it was a return. Their bodies moved slowly, rhythmically, as if the tide had crept up around them and they were floating. His mouth brushed her ear, her throat, her name. She arched beneath him, eyes fluttering closed, not to shut anything out, but to feel more fully.

He whispered words in Nakanamanga, soft and low.

“What does that mean?” she asked, gasping.

“Yu mi wan,” he translated. “You and I—we are one.”

Tears welled in her eyes—not from sorrow, but from the ache of being seen, touched, wanted in full.

They made love like it was the only night that had ever existed.

Afterward, tangled together in sweat-damp sheets, she lay against his chest, tracing small circles on his skin.

“What were you like at twenty-six?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “Busy. Polite. Afraid of disappointing people.”

“You’re not that now.”

“I think… I finally like who I’ve become,” she said.

He kissed her shoulder. “Good. Because so do I.”

They drifted in and out of sleep like a tide—holding, whispering, reaching again and again through the night, as if their bodies didn’t believe in time, only touch.

When dawn crept in under the door, Joyce was already awake, watching the shadows shift.

Maanatu stirred beside her, eyes barely open. “Still here.”

She nodded. “Still.”

He pulled her close once more, his voice thick with sleep. “I’ll remember this night like it’s a place.”

Joyce closed her eyes.

“So will I.”

 

Chapter Ten: Home, and Not

The plane touched down with a jolt that jarred Joyce from sleep. For a moment, she thought she was still in Maanatu’s arms, warm skin against hers, the hush of the fan turning above them. Then the rush of brakes, the sterile hum of the cabin, and the flicker of overhead lights reminded her: she was back in New Zealand.

Dunedin looked exactly as it had always looked in winter—gray light pressing against the windows, drizzle streaking the glass, people wrapped in coats and silence.

But something in Joyce had shifted.

She moved through customs in a daze, pulling her suitcase behind her. Her skin still smelled faintly of coconut oil. Her muscles ached in the best way. Her lips still remembered the taste of river mango.

It wasn’t heartbreak she carried. It was weight. A knowing. A memory that had settled into her body like salt in a tide pool.

She made it home by afternoon. Her little townhouse was just as she’d left it—quiet, orderly, a folded newspaper still on the table, the heating system blinking its polite red light. She stood in the center of her living room for a long moment, not quite ready to unpack.

Instead, she ran a bath.

The water steamed. She poured in eucalyptus oil and sank beneath the surface, her eyes closing as her hair floated around her. When she surfaced, she saw her reflection in the mirror—older, yes. But not faded.

She looked inhabited.

That night, she sat at her kitchen table in a cotton robe, hair wrapped in a towel. She made tea and opened the small canvas-bound notebook she hadn’t touched in over a decade.

Her hand hovered over the page.

Then she began to write.

In Vanuatu I learned how skin remembers what the mind forgets.
That sweetness doesn’t always mean safety.
That love can be the shape of a name spoken slowly, in a voice that never needed to shout.

She stopped, pressed her fingers to the corner of her mouth, and smiled.

Then she turned the page and kept writing.

Three weeks later, she mailed a parcel.

Inside: a small book of poems printed at the local shop, bound with twine and soft green linen. On the first page, in her careful handwriting, she wrote:

For Maanatu—
who reminded me the body is not a memory, but a place.
And that some fires are meant to leave ash.

She didn’t include a return address.

But she didn’t need to.