I laughed. “And the flowers are commiseration for the loser?”

“Nope.” Stalking toward an empty piece of fuselage that we used to soak flax, wash laundry, and gather leaves, he dumped his wilting flowers and sat down. “I’m going to paint her something.”

“Paint?” Curiosity exploded. “How?”

“With these.” He pointed at the flowers. “I’m gonna crush them and paint her crib pretty colours. Poor baby must hate boring brown.”

My heart swelled for such an amazing teenager. “You want to paint Coco a mural.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re going to make your own paints and brushes and everything.”

“Yep.”

I couldn’t help it. I dashed toward him and kissed his face in a flurry of affection. “I love you, Co.”

He cleared his throat. “Whatever.”

Fighting my smile, I left him to it.

Whatever nostalgia I’d suffered faded with every memento we made here. I no longer hankered for a tumultuous urban town. I no longer took for granted what we had.

Life had swept us away and given us so much more.

With bubbling joy and effervescent contentedness in my soul, I went for a swim with my two daughters and left my son to somehow create a masterpiece.

.............................

It didn’t work out.

The flower petals, once crushed, turned an unhappy ochre and bruised sienna. Despite Conner trying everything to add rainwater and smear the mess into some sort of design, he didn’t get the vivid colours he was hoping for.

It did make a slight difference with decorational shadows on the crib, but his disappointment broke my heart.

Galloway teased him mercilessly, but once he’d finished ribbing him, they vanished to the other side of the island for so long I began to worry.

They returned late that night with Conner proudly holding a flax woven doll complete with stringy hair. It wasn’t cuddly, it wasn’t exactly pretty (unless he was going for a voodoo kind of look), but it was absolutely priceless.

And when he gave it to Coco, her toothless smile was the biggest she’d ever given.

.............................

AUGUST

We’d found a patch of guava last week.

They were tart and juicy and far too short supply.

They’d also been the final treat we would have for a while.

Because life had been too kind to us.

Or at least, that was what faceless fate deemed.

We’d lived on our patch of dirt for two years. We’d suffered mental boredom, debilitating depression, overwhelming happiness, pregnancy, childbirth, and puberty.

Through it all, we’d kept pushing onward, determined to stay alive and not just survive.

However, instead of being rewarded for our tenacity and never-failing belief to try, to hope, to grow, we were punished far too harshly.

Whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Our daily motto was a damn mockery after what happened.

Since Coco’s birth, we’d lived in suspended joy.

We swam.

We ate.

We laughed.

We daydreamed.

And every life achievement—Conner’s present for Coco, Pippa’s three-tiered sandcastle, and Galloway’s many creations—was recorded faithfully on our video diary.

We stored memory after memory.

Hungry to remember our present while trying to forget the past.

Coconut was our future now, and she’d been born in the wilds of Fiji. We’d accepted that if we hadn’t been found after two years, the chances of ever being noticed were slim.

It gave us freedom in a way to let go. To mourn finally. To grieve a life we would never see again.

Coconut excelled.

I had no idea if the pace of her development was normal, but she exploded into personality and opinions, vocal and stubborn.

At six months old, she’d already learned how to roll over and face plant in the sand. She constantly grabbed my food if I ate with her in my lap and could sit up unsupported on her little baby rug.

Her coos and babbles reached operatic levels and she held entire conversations with Pippa and Conner when they took her to the other side of the island so Galloway and I could finally have some one on one.

After so many months of healing (probably more than if I’d been in a hospital), I finally wanted sex.

To G, it’d been an eternity. I knew because he told me the first night we resumed our sexual relationship. He didn’t last long and barely pleasured me with a few thrusts before pulling out and spilling on the sand.

I teased him, saying his libido didn’t match his old age. That he was as potent and horny as a fifteen-year-old. But secretly, I was awed that even now, after my body had changed and silvery stretch marks decorated skinny hips and my breasts were no longer as perky, he still wanted me.

It made my world complete.

Utterly.

Totally.

Complete.

So it made the disaster that much harder to bounce back from.

We woke to smoke.

The cloying claustrophobia of burning alive.

“Get out! Everybody run!” Galloway was the first to spring into action. Hauling me from our bed, he stuffed Coco into my arms and shoved me from our home.

Stumbling in shock, I gasped as I turned to face our bungalow.

Fire.

The roof is on fire.

Conner appeared, dragging a panicked Pippa to join me on the sand. “What’s going on?” Pippa coughed as heavy black smoke surrounded us.

I couldn’t answer.