Eleven
The oyster tour was a rousing success in that I learned two things: how pearls were made, and that Tahitian black pearls were insanely expensive. Our guide had been a big German man who’d married into a local family. His wife ran the shop. Jonas followed me around like a six-foot-tall shadow, and we left without buying anything. Lila and Marcella had lingered. When they finally rejoined us outside the shop, Lila was tucking a small bundle into her bag. Eivind rubbed his belly emphatically.
“Food?”
Marcella rolled her eyes and poked his belly. “Of course, we could have had sandwiches back on the boat, but someone ate all the baguettes we bought yesterday.”
“They are better fresh,” Eivind protested.
“There is a café on the way back—let’s stop for lunch,” Jonas said, playing diplo
