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Richard repeated, seemingly stumped by the meaning of the word, as if he were on a quiz show. “Something French?”
    “Good! Now, Ann, a landscape that speaks to you.”
    “A desert,” she said, to be contrarian. Fat chance they were going anywhere with the restaurant about to open. They had no money to go on vacation, but she wasn’t about to admit that either.
    “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Eve was so excited she clapped her hands. “You’re building a vision of the future together. Let’s refine. Richard?”
    “Desert? You hate the desert—”
    “No, Richard, please,” Eve said. “No judgment.”
    But both of them knew judgment was all that was left.
    “Okay,” he said, narrowing his eyes in an effort to undo Ann’s choice. “Ocean.”
    “That pretty much leaves Algeria,” Ann said.
    “Okay, okay. You’re making it tougher,” Eve conceded.
    “A desert island!” Richard yelled.
    “That’s it! Perfect!” Eve shouted. “I know just the place. Picture water the palest blue. Sand blinding white. The breeze is warm and caressing. No crowds, no kids. It’s like the world has disappeared, and it’s only the two of you. With thousand-count Sferra cotton sheets and the best French wine. Here,” she said.
    “What?”
    “Open your eyes.”
    Ann saw a brochure with pictures not unlike the tropical screen savers she drooled over in her office. “It’s lovely,” she said.
    “It’s required. Don’t come back till you’ve gone.”
    Ann and Richard never went back to therapy.
    *   *   *
    It was the beginning of high season in the South Pacific. Although there were still plenty of vacancies at the bigger resorts, Ann had her own reasons for seeking out the most isolated, lonesome destination she could find, preferably sans telephone, WiFi access, or electricity.
    She had been obsessed with islands since she was a child. Had it started with Treasure Island , continued through Gilligan’s Island reruns (while her friends debated whether they wanted to be Ginger or Mary Ann, she had always wanted to be the Professor)? Had it ignited with that treacly remake of The Blue Lagoon with Brooke Shields? All the endless incarnations of Mutiny on the Bounty ? Had it solidified through multiple viewings of Swiss Family Robinson and Island of the Blue Dolphins (she preferred the book)? Her obsession wasn’t even diminished by the depressingly realistic Tom Hanks movie Cast Away , although the relationship with Wilson, the volleyball, was a disturbing glimpse into the void.
    Sure, she had the same triad of tropical island screen savers as everyone else, except for everyone else it represented a vacation, with the promise of alcohol and mindless sunbathing. For Ann, it was something without which her life would remain unfulfilled. These were not the ideal circumstances to live out this fantasy, but really, when would it be ideal? No man was an island, but maybe a woman could be.
    She charged the whole trip on their last credit card that still had room on it and then went out shopping for the most expensive flip-flops she could find—beautiful Italian ones with jewels and buckles sewed on the thin, butter-soft leather straps. That she couldn’t afford them seemed even more reason to have them now.
    When Richard came home from the restaurant and saw the sales receipt, he pounded his fist on the desk till his skin was bruised.
    He was at the vertigo-inducing, ruthless edge of defeat that he’d stepped back from so many times before. It had finally gotten too hard. Richard was tired to death, his body going rogue on him, exhausted by the relentless, penny-pinching life that had befallen them. He revolted from the cheap therapist psychobabble optimism of Eve: things would probably not get better. They were screwed. He would not utter the lie that things would work out because actually it looked like the Dark Horseman of the Apocalypse himself had ridden up. Richard clutched his chest, worried that he