Paradise

I'm floating naked in an infinity pool overlooking the Indian Ocean. Having just admired the sunset, I'm mesmerized by billions of stars blinking on overhead. A soft sea breeze moves the warm humid air. The wine is cold and crisp.

"What a lovely view." His voice is rich, soft and has a hint of a smile.

I'm busted!

But let me start at the beginning.

Eight months ago, Alex took me out for lunch at a coffee shop near his office. We both had to be back at work, so lunch was going to be quick. He said since it was my birthday, he didn't want to wait till the weekend. Just as the waitress put the bill on the table, Alex handed me a stack of papers. The top one had among others, the word divorce in the header.

"What's this?" I was confused. This does not look like the birthday gift I had been hoping for.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm divorcing you, That's what."

Nine years ago, I married my high school sweetheart. He wanted to go to law school, I wanted to major in English. I took a job as a hotel maid, instead. Cleaned toilets, changed sheets and left little chocolates on pillows. I often worked double shifts and picked up odd hours in room service. My wages paid the rent, utilities, food and his textbooks. His scholarship didn't cover much, so he applied for student loans. When he graduated with a bachelors, his parents took him to Jamaica for two weeks. My boss wouldn't give me the time off. Said I could quit and reapply when I came back. So, I missed that trip and many holidays.

Yes, I know now, I was naive, gullible and stupid.

I worked while Alex was in law school. We saw even less of each other; his schedule was as demanding as mine. He promised that 'my time would come'. We agreed that I would continue working for 'a little while longer', since he wanted to make a start on paying down his loans. Apparently, entry level lawyers don't make all that much.

When he looked as if he was about to leave the restaurant, I stood, rested my hands on the rickety table, accidentally splashing ice water on his crotch, and leaned toward him.

I did not use my indoor voice.

"You want a divorce? After I've worked my fingers to the bone for the past nine years, putting you through law school? You want out now? Even for a lawyer that's low!"

"Don't make a scene, Connie." He hissed.

"Not a scene! You take me out for my birthday, and give me divorce papers! I'm more than entitled to make a scene. How dare you!"

There was a smattering of applause, some boos and hisses.

"Sit down and listen. I've had the locks changed, but the landlord will let you in to pack your stuff." He then walked out, leaving me with the bill.

Still in shock, staring at the thick pack of papers, I barely noticed when someone sat down across from me.

"Who are you?"

"Give me ten dollars and I'll be your lawyer." She handed me her card. Cheryl Fabelhaft, Attorney at Law. As it turned out, when you hire a lawyer in a coffee shop, you get what you pay for. Alex and his friends at the new law firm - he hadn't told me he had switched firms - were much better at their job than Miss Cheryl Fabelhaft.

When I went to the apartment to pick up my belongings, I noticed that Alex had been very busy labeling everything there as being his, except for my clothes and toiletries. Later that week, I learned that he had all but emptied our bank account.

For months I slept on my friend Agie's couch.

Alex and his cronies scheduled meeting after meeting. I had to take time off for each of them. The fifth time I missed work, my supervisor told me not to bother coming back the next day. Each time we met, Alex blindsided me with more twisted facts. He claimed, for instance, that since I had co-signed on the loans and, at the time, had been the sole breadwinner, the loans were mine to pay.

That's when I started fantasizing about murder.

By the time the divorce was final, I had less than four hundred dollars to my name, owned my grandmother's old-but-never-antique curio cabinet and was responsible for half his student loans. More, if he defaulted. I had no doubt he would.

Not long after that I saw the ad.

Come work in Paradise, an exclusive resort.

Premium compensation, health care, great working conditions and many perks.

A variety of positions available.

When you are huddling at the back door to Hell, just to stay warm, going to Paradise sounds pretty good. And you don't read the fine print. I was hired as housekeeper for one of the private cottages.

During the flight from New York to Dubai, the four-year-old girl next to me, decided that my lap was nicer than her mother's. Mom did not seem to be offended. In Dubai, we were flown by private jet to the larger of the three islands for orientation, which was lengthy and boring with lots of paperwork.

The housekeepers were given thick dossiers on the owners of our assigned cottage. I had been assigned to cottage four, which belonged to Mr. W. The dossier listed his food and beverage preferences and any allergies. There even was a detailed outline on how to unpack his luggage, which had been send ahead. How to organize his closet and where to store his toothpaste and other such important tasks.

All in all, I was feeling pretty optimistic about the job. Apparently, Mr. W. traveled alone, all his likes and dislikes were clearly spelled out for me. I just had to put his favorite dishes on the table and clean up after him. I had done this for the past nine years. How complicated could this be?

Finally, we were ferried to our island and given a brief tour. We had a glimpse of the tennis courts, golf course and helipad. Those of us who would be live-in staff were dropped off at our "cottage", a very fancy -two or -three-bedroom villa. Each with its private beach and pier.

Cottage four had two luxurious Master suites. Mr. W.'s luggage, as promised, was waiting for me to unpack. The kitchen was a chef's dream. Unfortunately, I was not a chef. The rest of my day was spent unpacking Mr. W's luggage, stocking the fridge and pantry and finally, storing my meager belongings in the teensy housekeeper's apartment behind the kitchen.

I had been told that Mr. W. would not arrive till the weekend. So, once I was finished with my chores, I decided to open a bottle of wine and take a swim in the pool off the living room.

"What a lovely view." His voice is deep, soft and has a hint of amusement.

I barely stifle a scream and whirl around. Smiling, while standing in all his glory at the edge of the pool, is Mr. W.

Once you have seen the Taj Mahal, the National Monument, the Space Needle or the Eiffel Tower, you can't unsee them.

If Mr. W does not fire me this minute, I believe Paradise has just become a whole lot more complicated.

TBC?