I'm prepared to offer compensation of six thousand dollars per month, for four months, in addition to business-class transportation from the mainland and full room and board. There are no hotels on Aruk, but my own home is quite commodious and I'm sure you would find it pleasant. If you are married, I could accommodate your wife's transportation, though I could not offer her any paid work. If you have children, they could enroll in the local Catholic school, which is small but good, or I could arrange for private tutoring at a reasonable cost.

If this interests you, please write me or call collect at (607) 555-3334. There is no formal schedule, but I would like to get to work on this as soon as possible.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Woodrow Wilson Moreland, M.D.

Slow pace of life; nothing in the letter indicated professional challenges, and any other time, I might have written back a polite refusal. I hadn't done long-term therapy for years, but forensic consultations kept me busy, and Robin's work as a builder of custom stringed instruments left her little free time for vacations, let alone a four-month idyll.

But we'd been talking, half jokingly, about escaping to a desert island.

A year ago a psychopath had burned down our home and tried to murder us. Eventually, we'd taken on the task of rebuilding, finding temporary lodgings at a beach rental on the far western end of Malibu.

After our general contractor flaked out on us, Robin began overseeing the project. Things went well before bogging down the way construction projects inevitably do. Our new home was still months from completion, and the double load finally proved too much for her. She hired a fellow luthier who'd developed a severe allergy to wood dust to oversee the final stages, and returned to her carving.

Then her right wrist gave out- severe tendinitis. The doctors said nothing would help unless she gave the joint a long hiatus. She grew depressed and did little but sit on the beach all day, insisting she was adjusting just fine.

To my surprise, she soon was, hurrying to the sand each morning, even when autumn brought biting winds and iron skies. Taking long, solitary walks to the tide pools, watching the pelicans hunt from a vantage point atop the rocky cove.

"I know, I know," she finally said. "I'm surprised, myself. But now I'm thinking I was silly for waiting this long."

In November, the lease on our beach house expired and the owner informed us he was giving it to his failed-screenwriter son as an incentive to write.

Thirty-day notice to vacate.

Moreland's letter came soon after. I showed it to Robin, expecting her to laugh it off.

She said, "Call me Robin Crusoe."

Something human woke her.

People arguing next door. A man and a woman, their words blunted by thick walls, but the tone unmistakable. Going at each other with that grinding relentlessness that said they'd had long practice.

Robin sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and squinted.

The voices subsided, then resumed.

"What time is it, Alex?"

"Five-forty."

She took a long breath. I sat down on the bed and held her. Her body was moist.

"Dinner in twenty minutes," she said. "The bath must be cold."

"I'll run another."

"When did you get up?"

"Five." I told her about the lizard. "So don't be alarmed if it happens again."

"Was he cute?"

"Who says it was a he?"

"Girls don't peep through other people's windows."

"Now that I think about it, he did seem to be ogling you." I narrowed my eyes and flicked my tongue. "Probably a lounge lizard."

She laughed and got out of bed. Putting on a robe, she walked around, flexing her wrist.

"How does it feel?"

"Better, actually. All the warm air."

"And doing nothing."

"Yes," she said. "The power of positive nothing."

She slipped into a sleeveless white dress that showed off her olive skin. As we headed for the stairs, someone said, "Hello there."

A couple had emerged from next door. The woman was locking up. The man repeated his greeting.

Both were tall, in their forties, with short-sleeved, epauletted khaki ensembles. His looked well worn, but hers was right out of the box.

He had a red, peeling nose under thick-rimmed glasses and a long, graying beard that reached his breastbone. The hair on top was darker, thin, combed over. His vest pockets bulged. She was big busted and broad beamed, with brown hair pulled back from a round face.

They lumbered toward us, holding hands. Half an hour ago they'd been assaulting each other with words.

"Dr. and Mrs. Delaware, I presume?" His voice was low and grainy. Cocktail breath. Up close, his skin was freckled pemmican, the red nose due to shattered vessels, not sunburn.

"Robin Castagna and Alex Delaware," I said.

"Jo Picker, Lyman Picker. Dr. Jo Picker and Lyman Picker."

The woman said, "Actually, it's Dr. Lyman Picker, too, but who cares about that nonsense." She had a sub-alto voice. If the two of them had kids, they probably sounded like tugboat horns.

She gave Robin a wide, appraising smile. Light brown eyes, an even nose, lips just a little too thin. Her tan was as new as her getup, still pink around the edges.

"I've heard you're a craftswoman," she said. "Sounds fascinating."

"We've been looking forward to meeting you," said Picker. "Round out the dinner table- make up for the host's absence."

"Is the host absent often?" I said.

"All work, no play. When the man sleeps, I don't know. Are you vegetarians like him? We're not. My line of work, you eat what you can get or you starve to death."

Knowing it was expected of me, I said, "What line is that?"

"Epiphytology. Botany. Tropical spores."

"Are you doing research with Dr. Moreland?"

He gave a wet laugh. "No, I rarely venture far from the equator. This is a cold weather jaunt for me." He threw an arm around his wife's shoulder. "Keeping the distaff side company. Dr. Jo here is an esteemed meteorologist. Fluctuations in aerial currents. Uncle Sam's quite enamored, ergo grant money."

Jo gave an uneasy smile. "I study the wind. How was your trip?"

"Long but peaceful," said Robin.

"Come over on the supply boat?" said Picker.

"Yes."

"Out of Saipan or Rota?"

" Saipan."

"Us, too. Damned tedious, give me a plane any day. Even the biggest ocean liner's a thumbnail in a swimming pool. Ridiculous, isn't it, big airfield over on Stanton and the Navy won't let anyone use it."

"Dr. Moreland wrote that the airport there was closed," I said.

"Not when the Navy needs it. Damn boats."

"Oh, it wasn't so bad, Ly," said Jo. "Remember the flying fish? It was lovely, actually."

The four of us started toward the stairs.

"Typical government stupidity," said Picker. "All that land, no one using it- probably the result of some subcommittee. Wouldn't you say, dear? You understand the ways of the government."

Jo's smile was tense. "Wish I did."

"Spend any time in Guam?" asked her husband. "Read any of those tourist pamphlets they have everywhere? Developing the Pacific, making use of the native talent pool. So what does the military do to a place like this? Blocks off the one link between the base and the rest of the island."

"What link is that?" I said.

"Southern coastal road. The leeward side is unapproachable from the north, sheer rock walls from the tip of North Beach up to those dead volcanoes, so the only other ways to get through are the southern beach road and through the banyan forest. Navy blockaded the road last year. Meaning no military contact with the village, no commerce. What little local economy there was got choked off."