The island had no name.
Or maybe it did, and Adrian had forgotten to tell me. Either way, when the seaplane touched down on the turquoise water and I saw the stretch of white sand and palm trees and nothing else, I forgot to ask.
"This is ours?" I said.
"For the week."
"Adrian. This is an island."
"I have excellent taste."
The pilot helped us onto the dock. A small golf cart waited—the only vehicle on the island, apparently—and Adrian drove us along a path lined with hibiscus and something that smelled like vanilla.
"Week," I said. "A whole week. No phones."
"You agreed to this."
"I agreed to a honeymoon. I didn't agree to wilderness survival."
Adrian laughed. "There's a villa. Air conditioning. A chef. You're not going to be building fires and catching fish."
"Disappointing."
