Island of Desire

"But I don't want that. They'd rope me down and try to make me into a corporate stooge. I'd have to wear a suit and a tie," he said, with a melodramatic shudder. "So I work for who I want, when I want. And I can charge through the nose, too. All this," he waved at the condo, "is just a way of keeping score. Hell, if the patent on the new idea I had for solar-cell design comes through, I'll never have to work another day in my life, if I feel like it."

"My fault, having a genius for a younger brother," she smiled. "I get a lifetime of feeling inferior."

Connor made a rude noise. "My ass. Don't pretend that you're dumb, Brigid. I know better. The United States State Department doesn't choose idiots for their overseas embassies. So what about you? What's the new gig?"

She finished her sushi and leaned back, taking a long sip from her wineglass.

"Tell me, Squirt. Have you ever heard of the Paradise Islands?"

*****

"The Paradise Islands." Permanent Undersecretary for the Department of the Interior Kenneth Hipkins leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I'm somewhat surprised that a woman with your exemplary record would request such an obscure post, Miss Flaherty. Especially when it means transferring from the State Department to Interior. Our people in Bucharest had a lot of good things to say about you. Only thirty years old, and you were on the fast track for an ambassadorship yourself. You were on the short list for Paris, London, Prague, and Beijing. You do know that, right?"

"I was on the short list." Connor, sitting beside her at the American consulate in downtown Chicago, didn't miss her frustrated grimace. "But with the new administration coming in, it was a question of whether I would jump or be pushed. I'm no friend of theirs, and they know it. I wasn't smart enough to keep my mouth shut during the election, and there are plenty of my former colleagues who are already sharpening their knives. I'm not going to quit and waste years' worth of work. But I'm not going to let them choose where I go, either. If I don't move quick, I'll be posted to some banana republic in South America or Africa, where there's no chance of doing anything worthwhile."

"And you can do that in an American outpost that barely qualifies for a territorial governor? To be honest, Miss Flaherty, I'd say that you're shooting your career in the foot, if not the head."

"You'll never change her mind," Connor put in, recognizing the stubborn set of Brigid's mouth. She had worn the same mulish look when she told him she was transferring to Illinois, despite his protests that he didn't need a babysitter or a nanny for his junior year, even if he was barely nineteen. "Where are these Paradise Islands, anyway? Brigid and I started to talk about them the other night, but then we got sidetracked and never got back on the subject.

"And she still hasn't told me why she dragged me down here."

Hipkins shrugged and turned on a TV screen that hung from one wall in his office. A large-scale map of the South Pacific appeared. "The Paradise Islands are a group of eleven small volcanic islands in the Pacific Ocean, about halfway between Hawai'i and New Zealand.

"The largest island is called Alohilani. It was settled by Polynesians around the same time that New Zealand was. It's never had a large population. Right now, there's maybe twelve thousand people in the entire chain, almost all descendents of the original settlers. Up until 1945, it was a British possession."

"So how did it become an American territory?" Connor asked curiously.

"World War Two," his sister replied. "The Japanese had their eyes on the islands. If they had taken them over, they would have served as an ideal advance base against both New Zealand and Australia. Fortunately, the Battle of the Coral Sea slowed them down and they never got there. After the war ended, the British ceded the islands to America as part of the peace treaty. Since then, we really haven't known what to do with them. We thought about using the main island as a bomber base at some point, if things between America and China got out of hand, but that plan never really got off the ground."

"The economy?"

"A little farming, a little fishing," shrugged Hipkins. "They're more or less completely self-sufficient, like a lot of the Polynesian islands. There's some tourism, but not much. It's so far off the beaten path that none of the big cruise lines are going to send a ship out there. And even if they did, there's no infrastructure in place to accommodate them. Which seems to be the way they like it. Oh, they have a few luxuries. Satellite TV and such. But what's the use of a car on an island that's only twenty miles across and doesn't have paved roads anyway? You can get around quicker on a bicycle.

"So basically, the people of the Paradise Islands live in a state of benign neglect. We more or less let them govern their own affairs. And they don't cause any headaches, which is fortunate for us."

"But?" Connor asked.

"But they've asked for our help. Right now, they depend on diesel generators for power." At Connor's grimace of distaste, Hipkins nodded. "They're loud and smelly and expensive, and the salt air near the ocean means they're always breaking down. Plus, it's practically impossible to get qualified mechanics to live on-island. Since there's nothing for them to do most of the time, they get bored out of their minds. So we have to fly them in whenever there's an issue. And that's expensive. And while we wait for someone to arrive from Australia or New Zealand or Hawai'i, the island in question has no electricity. Which is a pain in the ass if you have a medical emergency."

"Which is why you're here, Connor," added Brigid. "They want a solar power network. To be completely energy independent, so they won't have to worry about generators breaking down or a diesel spill wrecking the fishing grounds.

"What would you say to being able to design the network from the ground up? The Department of the Interior managed to slip the funding into the next budget without anyone noticing. They estimate it's going to be a two-year project, at least, from design to installation to full power-up.

"You can come out with me and oversee it. I'll be honest. The money won't be a drop in the bucket compared to what you make now. But wouldn't you love to do something your way, without a board of directors micromanaging your every move?"

He raised his eyebrows. "It would be worse, Brigid. I'd have a bunch of faceless bureaucrats in Washington doing the same thing. I've worked for the feds before."

Hipkins shook his head. "No one cares about the Paradise Islands, Mr, Flaherty. They're unimportant, both economically and militarily. As long as you don't do anything blatantly illegal, like embezzle half the money or blow up a coral reef, no one will give a damn. Oh, you might have a film crew or two from Interior come by and do a human-interest story about the wonderful things the government is doing for the islands, but that's about it.

"I'll be honest, Connor. You're our first choice for this project. Your reputation would give it instant credibility. And it would provide some cover for your sister, as well. What she said is true. She's made enemies within State. And now that they've got allies on Capitol Hill and in the White House, some of them are going to be gunning for her. But if they knew that if they went after her they'd also be going after a man who has the numbers of a bunch of corporate CEOs on speed-dial..." he shrugged, an evil gleam in his eye. "They'll think twice."

He pushed a folder across the table. "This is an employment contract. It gives you authority over the entire enterprise. You can hire who you like, buy whatever materials you think are necessary, install to your own specs. The only person who can override your decisions is the territorial governor. Your sister." With rather more care, he slid a leather-bound portfolio to Brigid. "Reid somehow managed to get the vote through the Senate last night. Congratulations, Governor Flaherty."

"Thank you, sir."

Connor raised his eyebrows, but his voice was dry. "You mean I'd be taking orders from her?"

"No, you wouldn't. Because I'm smart enough to know that I don't know enough about what you do to make informed decisions where solar panels or a power grid are concerned. The only reason I would veto you is if it seemed you were doing something unsafe, from the islanders' point of view. And I know you well enough to know that you'd never do something that stupid."

Connor nodded, but kept his face closed, not wanting to give anything away. "Well, you've given me a lot to think about, at least. How soon do you need a decision?"

"Today would be good." The older man suddenly looked very tired. "The middle of next week at the latest. We're kind of lurching from crisis to crisis right now. And we don't like crises."

"Then I won't take up any more of your time." He stood, slipping the contract into his briefcase. "Governor?" he asked invitingly, his eyes dancing with suppressed mirth.

Brigid stood and shook Hipkins' hand firmly. "Thank you, sir. We won't let you down."

*****

"Governor Flaherty," Connor mused, as they exited the building. "I have to say, it's got a nice ring. So how do I address you? Your Governorship?"

"Stop it," she laughed. She could feel her skin heating, even in the raw wind off the lake. "So what do you think? Will you take the job? Think of the opportunity, Connor! If this goes well, I bet you could do this for a bunch of islands. Or even back here in America! Weren't you telling me a while back that the best way to deal with energy issues was to decentralize things, so that local communities wouldn't be at the mercy of the big energy conglomerates?"

"I don't know, Colleen." Her brother sighed. "Are you hungry?" he asked, changing the subject shamelessly. "It's after one. I bet the lunch rush at Chipotle is over. Come on. I'll buy you a burrito."

"A burrito." She felt her lips curve in a smile. "It's a deal."

They walked into the steamy warmth of the restaurant and ordered their meals, then sat side-by-side near the windows overlooking the street, watching the foot-traffic stream by.

"So, will you do it?"

Connor sighed again. "I don't know, sis. I mean, he's right. And so are you. It's a heck of an opportunity. But leaving home... "

Brigid considered her younger brother. He looked tired, his brown hair, longer than what was fashionable, nearly falling into his eyes. She was reminded, painfully, of their father, who he resembled so much. "Do you have a relationship going on? You could bring her along, you know." She considered her next words. "Though she might take some convincing."

He shook his head. "No."

"Why not? You're young, smart, rich, not completely hideous-"

"Thanks."

"So what's keeping you from finding a woman, settling down, and giving me an assload of nieces and nephews?"

"Just haven't found the right woman, I guess," he muttered ucomfortably, which had been his standard answer for years. "I don't know. I can meet girls, talk to them, even date them and...and take them to bed. But the minute things seem like they're about to get serious, it all falls apart on me. It's like I'm cursed.

"Besides, I could ask the same question about you, Your Governosity. You're older than I am, after all. And you can't tell me you haven't had offers. I remember how all the fraternity animals panted after you down in Champaign. Why haven't you brought some career diplomat back home to Chicago, bought a nice little house out in the suburbs, and started squirting out babies?"

Brigid bit her lip. She didn't want to tell Connor about the way her last serious relationship had fallen apart, but since Connor was being honest with her...she grunted sourly. "I thought I was getting there with Rick. Not coming back to the states, maybe, but at least to the point where we could request that our next assignments be together. But then I caught him in bed with the Chinese cultural attache." Her lip curled bitterly. "Male, by the way."

Connor blinked. "Whoa. That had to be...awkward."

She snorted in bitter amusement. It had been long enough that the memory was almost funny.

Almost.

"Especially when the cultural attache is standing stark naked in front of you, wearing nothing but socks and a pink condom, screaming at you in Mandarin. Rick tried to make it all to be some sort of drunken mistake, but he was stone sober. Then he tried to make it my fault. He said..." she paused, blushing angrily. Fuck it. Connor's an adult. "He said I was boring him in bed. That I never wanted to do anything kinky. And somehow he found out about my old high school nickname."

"Frigid Brigid?" Connor said softly, but his eyes glittered angrily. "Give me the word, sis, and I can ruin this guy's life. I know some techies who can destroy his credit rating and have him up on a kiddie porn charge before sundown. If he likes it up the butt, he can deal with a bunch of guys with names like Big Cletus and Trashcan Henry in prison."

"You're so sweet," she said, but she shook her head. "He isn't worth the time. Ah, to hell with it," she grunted, wadding up her napkin and throwing it onto her empty tray. "Maybe I'll find some good-looking man in the islands and never come back. I'll spend all day on the beach, watch my kids play in the ocean, and spend all night doing the things most suburban women only dream about."

"Good luck with that." He popped the last bite of his burrito into his mouth and swallowed. "Ready to go home?"

*****

It happened just as he opened the restaurant door. A city bus roared past, its tires driving into a puddle where melted snow hadn't yet drained away into the storm sewers. A spray of cold, filthy water and slush arched up, coating him from head to foot. As he tried to avoid the deluge, his feet slipped on a patch of uncleared ice, and he sprawled face-first into a snowbank.

"Connor! Are you okay?" Brigid, who had escaped unscathed, crouched at his side, her face worried.

He heaved himself up to his knees. His clothes were sodden and stinking, already chilling his skin. With a savage curse he wiped his face clear of melting snow and water, throwing one furious look down the street, where the bus was turning the corner.

He kept his silence all the way into the parking garage, where he popped the trunk of his car and pulled out a pair of threadbare but clean towels. Having seen her younger brother in this mood before, she kept quiet, not wanting to aggravate someone who was already clearly irate.

"I'm glad Dad taught us how to prepare," he said, his voice tight. He tossed his keys to Brigid. "Start up the car and turn up the heat, will you? I'm going to be driving back wearing a lot less than I drove in with."

A few minutes later he stalked around to the front of the car, dressed only in his boxers and a pair of socks. "This car cost me too much to ruin the interior," he said to her questioning glance, running his hand lovingly over the silky finish. "If the Chicago PD wants to pull me over, they're welcome to it. But I don't think there's any law against driving in your underwear."

"Hold on," she said, glancing at his hair. Chunks of slush were still melting, sending rivulets of dirty water down his neck. She fished some paper napkins out of the glove compartment and wiped him off. His white skin, a gift from their Irish mother, was pebbled in gooseflesh.

"At least it looks like you're keeping in decent shape," she said, some minutes later, as they drove north on Lake Shore Drive towards the Gold Coast.

"Yeah." He looked down at his chest and his flat belly, accentuated by a decent set of abs. "I've seen pictures of some of the men from Mom's side of the family. Like Uncle Pat. I didn't want that to happen to me. We have a gym in the basement of the complex, and a trainer on staff. I go down there three nights a week. She works me out pretty good."

"Really? Works you out or...works you out?" she asked suggestively, waggling her eyebrows.

"Nothing like that," he said, stopping for a red light. To her relief, a small smile broke through. "Though she wouldn't mind, I think."

The light turned green, but Connor stayed put, waiting for a woman, pushing a child in a stroller, to finish crossing in front of him. Less than a second later, furious honking sounded from behind them. With a roar, a jet-black SUV accelerated past them. A shouting, red-faced man showed them an upraised middle finger as he swept by.

"This damned town," Connor grated out. "It would serve it right if it all burned down again.

"You know what?" he said, turning to Brigid, as he drove through the intersection. "Fuck it. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of cold weather and snow and stink and traffic and stupid, ignorant people driving their god-damned SUVs to the mall to pick up a case of Viagra. Sick of corporate bullshit and anti-science, mouth-breathing morons. Sick of reality TV and nonstop Christmas music on the radio from Thanksgiving to New Years.

"Fuck this town. Let's go to paradise."

*****

The next six days passed in a frantic whirl of activity. Brigid's clothes and other belongings arrived from overseas, and she spent a full day deciding what to bring with her and what to leave in Chicago. Luckily, since Connor was coming with her, they could use the condo as storage space and not have to rent a unit. To her flabbergasted astonishment, she found that he wasn't renting the place, or even paying a mortgage, but actually owned it, free and clear.

"Why rent when you can buy?" he had asked bluntly. "I could afford it. And if money ever gets tight I can sell it. That would keep me off the streets for a while."

Connor was busy as well, clearing up loose ends from his consulting business, arranging for storage for the car and for a service to come in once a week and keep the condo clean, renewing his passport, and doing his own packing. During the evenings, he pored over satellite maps of the islands, already making plans for where he might site the solar arrays, and where the power-transmitting cables might be laid.

After a last hectic night of preparation, they found themselves back at O'Hare, just before sunrise, each with a large suitcase and a carry-on bag. The bulk of their belongings had already been picked up by the Interior Department and shipped to their new residence in the islands.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," Connor said, sipping his morning coffee.

Brigid blinked wearily. After the last week, she felt ready to pass out on her feet. "You feel like changing your mind, there's the door," she said, unwilling to coddle him. "You know what you're getting into."

"Do we? We don't even know these people. We're going to be thousands of miles away from home. What if they don't speak English? What if they decide that we're white devils, and we have to be sacrificed to the mighty volcano god to appease his wrath? What if..." his voice lowered, "the dark-skinned but lovely queen of the islands comes to my bed one night, asking to be taught about this mysterious custom we call 'lovemaking?'"

She snorted, then laughed. "You're a goof. Come on," she said, "I think we're about to board."

Chicago to San Francisco to Honolulu to Tahiti, following the sun around the globe. At Fa'a'a International Airport in Tahiti, they boarded a seaplane and took off for the west, the cobalt-blue waters of the Pacific glinting in the sunlight, the sea looking like a ruffled quilt stretching out to the edge of the earth.