“This…is just a one-time thing,” Lucy began. I nodded in ascension.

“What happens in New Zealand stays in New Zealand,” I reassured her.

“It’s for the best,” Becca agreed. We were all silent again, but the breathing was easier. The next day we met Frank at the airport to drop of his ute. I gave him a look and a handshake that said, “Meet me at the pub, I’ve got a tale for you,” and he drove off with a polite nod and smile to the girls. Becca and I took Lucy into the airport as far as security before saying our goodbyes. She still looked amazing, standing there, happy but slightly sad, dressed all pretty in her light skirt and sandals, her deep cleavage once again beckoning. I gave her a long, strong hug when it was my turn, and she surprised me by giving me a long, deep, loving kiss. When we finally broke I saw that Becca was flushed and smiling. She squeezed my hand. I was getting laid that night for sure. Lucy bit her lip and ran and hand down my chest as she took a step away and picked up her things.

“I’ve got some free time around Christmas,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “And I hear this country is beautiful that time of year. Perhaps I’ll come visit you two? Besides…”

“What happens in New Zealand,” I began.

“Stays…in New Zealand,” Becca said, smiling at her sister and pulling in close to me. Lucy winked at us both, turned, and was gone.


Christmas. She kept her word, technically, as she never did indicate what year that might be. 2007 ended without a word from Boston as Becca and I settled into our tiny, cold flat in Dunedin. It had been a terrible hassle to transfer all of our credits, but after four years I finally returned to school and finished my degree, as did Becca. Finally employable beyond selling river-running trips to hipsters and slickers, we moved into a comfortable little bungalow south of Auckland. By the end of 2008, I had a job overseeing a drilling project at the gold mine in Waihi, and my pretty little bride-to-be was donning her brightly-colored scrubs each morning. Weekends on the beaches of the Coromandel, vacations to the forgotten valleys of the Fiordland…life was good.

But still, no word from stateside. Our questions were finally answered in a letter from Mrs. Castel.

“Does this not seem strange to you?” I said, sitting at our little kitchen table and holding the hand-written letter. Their mother was a stickler for traditional correspondence.

“Does what seem strange?” Becca answered. She had finished the letter before I returned home from the mine, and left it out for me to read. I waited for her to look at me, then gave her a ” ‘scuse me?’ look with my eyebrows.

“The fact that Lucy’s getting a divorce because he slept with another woman? I never took her for a hypocrite,” I said. I immediately winced, regretting my choice of words as Becca stopped putting away dishes from the drainer and gave me a stern look. “I didn’t mean that-” I began.

“I’m not even going to go into all the reasons why that’s wrong, because I think you know all of them,” she said, winding down from her momentary temper and turning back to the sink. She was right. Our backcountry tryst of the previous year was something entirely different, indeed. Infidelity? Maybe, technically. But the phrase “cosmic command of the highest echelon” comes to mind. There was no way it could not have happened.

I paused, leaning back in my chair and allowing the letter to wave in the breeze from the open window. The kitchen was silent for a moment.

“We should call her,” I suggested. Becca shook her head.

“Despite what little you know of her, Lucy is a very private person. Let her handle this on her own, and when she’s ready, she’ll do the calling,” Becca said. Ready for what? I wondered.

I was silent for another moment, then got up and began to help her put away the dishes. “Then write to her,” I said.

Becca stopped and looked out the window, then looked at me. She shrugged.


Becca did. She wrote a beautiful long letter that we both signed, then slipped in a photo of the two of us at Lake Taupo. We didn’t really expect a response. And, well…we didn’t get one. Not for another year.


I managed to pick up the phone on the fourth ring, dripping wet and holding a towel around my waist. It never fails. Always when you’re in the shower. Becca wasn’t home from the hospital yet.

“Hello?” I said. Silence. I wiped the water off the side of my face. “Hello?” I said again.


“Oh, hey babe!” I said quickly, thinking I had recognized the voice as Becca’s, “Could you stop and grab some brew on the way home? We’re fresh out,” I said. Musical giggling sounded from the receiver.

“Well, I would, but I don’t think it would keep on the flight over.”

“…..Uhhh….” I said, furrowing my brow. I felt suddenly like I was being put on.

“Peter, it’s Lucy,” she said with a laugh. I was flabbergasted for a moment, my jaw dropping.

“Peter, are you there?” she said, laughing more. What a wonderful sound. My chest flooded with heat as a huge smile spread across my face. I was still in the towel and still talking to her forty minutes later when Becca arrived home and wrestled the phone away. I let the sisters talk privately for as long as they wanted, then joined back in at Becca’s behest about an hour later. If her out-of-the-blue phone call was a wonderful surprise, news that she would be attending our wedding and reception was positively spine-tingling. Becca jumped on the couch like a little girl, practically crying with happiness.

The next month passed with amazing rapidity. Christmas came and went, and on January 15th my bride’s parents arrived with Lucy, and my father and brother later that same day. The tiny outdoor ceremony was completed with only our immediate family in attendance, witnessing our union (at least, our lawful one) beneath an oceanside Pohutukawa tree exploding with its trademark red blossoms.

The reception was another matter all together.

Everyone would later recall the night, if they could recall it at all, as perfect. The air was warm and balmy beneath the same bursting red trees, the breeze calm. Long strings of paper lanterns hung from the branches, food and booze flowed with a pace that would have shamed the most raucous of Roman orgies, and the crowded dance floor pulsed with the beat from the live band as over 200 friends and family members partied until sunrise. For that night, everyone acted like we were back in college, complete with a couple of highly inappropriate keg stands, streaking runs, and even a good ‘ol rasslin’ match between some drunken miners from work. As morning brought the harsh sun, those who weren’t carted off by taxis littered the deck furniture, couches, and guest beds of the huge house on the water that had been rented for the occasion. I would later vaguely recall being helped to the master suite by two little pairs of hands, and awoke mid-afternoon to the lovely, familiar, exotic, and all-together welcome scent of Lucy’s hair.

I blinked. Then blinked again. It took a lot of blinks to clear the bleariness from my eyes, let me tell you. Lucy stirred under my arm with a soft little moan, nuzzling into the fluffy white pillow that we shared. I finally began to gain my bearings and raised my head, only to be greeted with the pulsing pain of a hangover. I immediately let my head back to the pillow. I lay flat on my back, still wearing one shoe. My bow-tie was loose around my neck, my shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, and there was a girl on each shoulder, both snuggled close. Becca had at least shed her expensive white dress, and had climbed into bed wearing her stockings, panties, and bra. Lucy must have been a bit further gone. The only things that were missing were her shoes. She even had her purse slung over one shoulder, her beautiful and revealing red dress lightly rumpled from her night-time tossing. There wasn’t a man at the party who didn’t try to pick up Lucy, and look where she ended up! I smiled to myself and closed my eyes, drinking in the feel of their warmth against me.

It took a few minutes to gently extricate myself from their arms and weave my way across the carpet to the bathroom. I left the lights off as I downed glass after glass of water from the tap, adding a few migraine-strength headache pills on top of the last. Out in the bedroom the sisters had yet to stir, so I thoughtfully placed glasses of water and their own soon-to-be-needed doses on the nightstand before struggling out of my clothes and into the shower.

The power of bathing after a night of heavy drinking cannot be understated. By the time I finished scrubbing every inch and washing my hair twice, I felt like a new man. When I exited the bathroom, towel-clad, the girls still slumbered on. I quietly pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then wandered downstairs to bid farewell to the remaining couch-guests. There wasn’t any food to speak of, as the caterers had done a wonderful job of cleaning up after the rest of us slobs passed out. Breakfast would have to wait until we got back to our place.

I returned to the master suite to find that the water and pills I’d laid out for the sisters had been dutifully consumed, and both were rubbing their eyes and temples while sitting on the edge of the bed. They nursed their hangovers in a silent way after a soft ‘good morning’ and genuine smile, and both fell asleep in the car on the way home. I wasn’t sure at that point if there had been any prior arrangement with Lucy, but much to my happy surprise she seemed all too prepared to stay for at least a few days, judging by the size of the bag I had loaded into my trunk. Our contact in the presence of guests had been limited to knowing looks and furtive glances, but it was clear she was glad to be there, and Becca and I made it clear she was welcome.

Sunset over the ocean found us outside again, seated comfortably on padded deck furniture around a small fire set in a big steel dish. The hair of the dog was in each of our hands, and we comfortably sipped the deep red wine over conversation. Becca and Lucy had never gotten dressed, instead changing into bathrobes after their shower. Lucy wore mine. And nothing underneath. But she had been careful to not let me see anything.

“I can’t believe it’s taken me three years to get back here,” Lucy said, looking over the low flames and out to the ocean, “I’ve thought about you guys every day.”

“We’ve missed you too, Lucy,” Becca chimed in, “But we never made too much effort to visit you, either.”

Lucy laughed. “In Boston? Why would you? No, I’d rather keep my lives separate, really. VP Lucy doesn’t know much about Kiwi Lucy. Besides, what would we do there that could compare? Go to the aquarium?”

We all grinned at one another. Becca suddenly shot me a look, and her smile spread wider. She was up to something.

“Lucy…” she began, actually looking at me while she said it, “Have you thought much about…what we talked about?”

Lucy stopped mid-sip and looked from Becca to me and back with a big smile and a nip of her lower lip. She suddenly set her glass down on the deck and jumped up from her seat to run indoors.

“What did you talk about?” I asked. Becca didn’t have time to answer before her sister returned suddenly, scampering along on her toes and carrying an envelope, which she handed to me before sitting down again. I’d never seen Becca so excited, or Lucy for that matter.

“Go ahead, open it,” Becca said, gesturing. It wasn’t sealed. Inside was an Air New Zealand ticket sleeve. Inside that was a ticket to Fiji. My jaw dropped. Again.

“You didn’t,” I said to Becca with a wide grin. The girls just grinned back.

“Becky suggested it, and I…thought that maybe three nights and three days together might make up for three years apart,” she said.

“I’m speechless,” I muttered, eliciting laughs from the two women.

“Well, since no one ever talks about what happens on their honeymoon anyway…it wouldn’t hurt to add another hot girl to the mix,” Becca giggled. I had yet to pick my jaw up off the deck.

“Packed? We leave tomorrow morning, after all,” I said to Lucy. She nodded with a sly smile.

“Everything I’ll need. But I didn’t bother bringing any underwear. You know…to save weight,” she answered, standing with Becca and I. As I followed Lucy’s swinging hips into the house, Becca boldly gave my hardening manhood a firm squeeze.

“Make sure you pack your camera,” she said with a wink.



I had been once before, years ago, and was glad to see that little had changed after the recent coup. It seemed like a 4-year cycle, really, with a new general ensconcing himself in Suva City about twice every decade. As our 767 touched down on the Nadi runway with a bump and a roar, the girls gripped my hands tightly. I glanced at the both of them, seated on my left and right, big smiles of excitement spread across each beautiful face.

They had taken my warnings about clothing seriously, and were dressed modestly in accordance with the rather conservative local custom. Fijian women didn’t wear shorts, and they certainly didn’t flaunt their cleavage as well, which both girls were apt to do. Becca had confessed that Lucy staying clothed around me wasn’t a mistake but rather a teasing regimen, so I didn’t really complain that they were forced to cover up a little. Less swelling in the shorts. However, as we exited the plane into the classic tropical island heat and humidity, their t-shirts left little to the imagination anyway. The tight, knit fabric clung to their taut bellies and full breasts, Lucy especially. She hadn’t been kidding about not bringing any underwear.

Our boat didn’t leave for the outer islands for another 5 hours after we landed, so after I vigorously negotiated a fare with the mini-bus cabbie, I got to follow two sets of swinging hips all around the Nadi shopping district. The sisters dragged me into every little shop on Queen’s Road, despite that fact that most of them sold the exact same knock-off American designer brands. But they did find a few things to buy (go figure), filling a shopping bag between them with native handicrafts and brightly-colored sarong skirts, which the amiable young islander saleswoman showed them how to put on. They even insisted I get one, at least one a little less flowery. Fijian men wear skirts. They ARE awfully comfortable in the heat.

The ride to the outer islands and our secluded resort left at 2:00 PM and took three hours, not a minute of which was complained about, despite the small sections of pitching and rolling swells that plagued the longer crossings between islands. It was a beautiful, breezy, sun-soaked day on the ocean, and the jet-powered catamaran’s pilot took the boat in close to all the rocky, uninhabited isles along the way. I spread the map out on my lap and ran my finger across it. Becca clung to the railing nearby, while Lucy clung to me as we sat on a bench on the upper deck.

“So we’re here,” I said to Lucy, alternately moving my finger across the blue of the map and pointing to the horizon, “That’s Guna, that’s Vuake…and up there should be Nacula. And right around in this area…is our resort.”

“Tell me about this place,” she asked, looking up at me. Our noses were no more than a few inches apart, her emerald green eyes sparkling as she looked at me so closely from under her wide, floppy hat. I had to pause a moment, which only made her grin more happily. Lucy was such a flirt and tease, and took every opportunity to make me lose my train of thought with her amazing unspoken charm.

“*ahem* Well, it’s a new place. There are dozens of resorts out here, some catering almost exclusively to the rich and famous, others priced for backpackers. We’re someplace in between. Most of the inexpensive resorts are communal style places; you live in dorms, and eat together at prescribed times. Our’s is more…self-sufficient. We get one of ten fully-stocked little cabins, away from everyone else, sort of at all points of the clock around a forested isle. We’ll be at “nine o’clock”, out on a little peninsula. I requested the most secluded one they had when I made the reservations last year.”

“What’s the beach like?” Lucy asked.

“We get our own, in a little cove. They sent me pictures,” I answered.

“We cook?”

“No, we have kind of a room service. We order out, and they’ll bring it to us when we want.”

“What’s the view like?”

“You know, we’ll be there in another hour. Maybe you’d like to save a FEW pleasant surprises?” Becca chimed in with a laugh. Lucy smiled and made a pouty face. We began to get into the area of the resorts, and stopped frequently for armadas of small craft that appeared from nowhere to ferry people in to the shoreline. We were the furthest from the mainland, and the last to leave. I looked around the boat as we left the next-to-last stop, and saw many couples holding one another close, smiling and whispering. I grinned to myself. Our little island was going to have the most sex per capita in the world about three hours from then.

The catamaran stopped some distance out from our island. No boats were there yet, and as the captain radioed the resort, everyone crowded to the railing to view our paradise from afar. I looked up and down and grinned inwardly. Every man had a beautiful woman on his arm, but I was the only one with two.

“It looks like Eden,” Becca said, Lucy nodding in ascension. The wide ring of the coral reef kept our larger boat at bay as the little open-topped run-abouts appeared from the shore, making for the gap in the ring where we waited. The island was wide and flat, looking as if it might rise only twenty or thirty feet above the waves at its middle. Coconut palms waved in the breeze, overhanging the sea along the white sand beach, surrounded by bright azure waters.

Our boats soon arrived, and after they were stacked with luggage we squeezed aboard the nearly-broached little vessels and puttered to shore. The look of wonder on the faces of Lucy and Becca got more and more pronounced as we neared the beach, and a scene that they had only ever seen in airplane travel magazines came to life. A small welcoming committee of smiling, chocolate-skinned Fijian men and women assembled on the sand, dressed in brightly-colored sarongs and buttoned shirts.

“They’ll give you girls flowers,” I said, speaking to Lucy and Becca over a mound of bags between us, the lapping water only inches below the gunwhale behind me.

“We get lei’d?” Becca joked, glancing at the beaming Lucy. I chuckled.

“Not yet,” I answered, “This is just a single blossom. If you’re taken, you put it behind your right ear. Available, on the left.”

“What am I?” Lucy asked, displaying ring-less fingers.

“Definitely taken,” Becca answered for me, hooking her sister’s arm in her own as they stepped together onto the little pier. Sinewy, shirtless Fijian teens swarmed the little boats, waist-deep in the water, smiling shyly and mumbling “bula” to us as they portaged our luggage to the shore, and then off into the trees. We would see it again at our cabin. The welcoming committee spoke more English, adorning the girls with wonderful-smelling flowers and greeting each warmly. A tall, barefooted bear of a man greeted me with a handshake and broad, white smile.