Here I am, Gladdy Gold, happily up to my

     neck in warm bubbles, soaking in this wooden barrel hot-tub-for-two, drinking piña coladas in front of our fale, which is the Polynesian word for our picturesque private thatched hut. Remarkably, the hut has cement floors, yet is airconditioned. Our bathroom is in the open air and our shower is a waterfall, surrounded by an exotic jungle full of vines with leaves the size of elephant ears. Wow! What bliss. What happiness.

  Just a few days ago, the girls—even though we are in our seventies and eighties, my sister Evvie and our friends, Sophie, Bella, and Ida, will always be "the girls"—and I had been on a bingo cruise where, much to my amazement, we not only caught a killer, but won at bingo, too. That was all well and good, but I missed my new boyfriend, Jack. Lo and behold, he turned up at the port where we docked. So Jack and I left the girls to fend for themselves on the good ship Heavenly, and now we are on this heavenly island of our own. It took sixteen grueling hours to get here, snatching moments of sleep as we leaned against each other in bumpy planes. Well worth it, now that we're here. Alone at last.

  I sip the last of my piña colada, then lean my head back against the edge of the hot tub and sigh contentedly. The sky is beginning to darken. Dramatic slashes of red illuminate the patchy clouds. Red sky at night, I think, sailor's delight.

  I had no idea how much I would like being away from everyone. What's not to like? I look around me.

  On the picnic table next to the hot tub, Jack has placed the portable CD player and CD he bought at the Samoa airport when we landed very early this morning. Corny music, but what with the lack of choices in an airport in the middle of nowhere, the well-worn theme from Titanic will have to do. When we landed this morning, there was a crowd of natives greeting the plane. I guess the twice-aweek flights are a big event here.

  I have the luggage I took with me on the cruise. Jack has nothing but the suit he was wearing when he showed up at the port. And proud of it. So, he's impulsive; I like that about him. You should see him now, wearing the wraparound skirt called a lavalava, the male version of a sarong, which he bought in the airport gift shop along with a shaving kit and a toothbrush. Winking and leering at me, he told me he wouldn't need anything else. I couldn't resist buying the matching lady's muumuu.

  All day today has been prelude to right now. Dressed in our new native attire (and me with an exotic frangipani flower in my hair) Jack and I had an early lunch of island fruits—papayas, pineapple, and bananas—served to us on the porch of our quaint little thatched hut. Then a long, barefoot walk on a beach with the whitest sand I've ever seen, gathering shells and drinking those addictive piña coladas from actual coconuts. Whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears. Mmm, wonderful. Topped off with fresh ahi tuna for dinner, caught by a local fisherman and fixed for us in the intimate candlelit dining room of our charming island hotel.

  Jack's waited a long time for us to finally get away from the girls and consummate our love for each other, and he is doing his best to make it memorable.

  So the scene is set. A perfect day continuing on into a magical night. Music, drinks, the smell of jasmine all around us—romance everywhere. I can hear Jack whistling Céline Dion as he comes out of the hut with another round of drinks.

  But am I ready? I think so. Finally. I hope I've finally put my late husband to rest. I still have little tremors, little qualms about how this will change my life. This is no one-night stand. This is a prelude to moving in together, marriage, and total commitment. I admit it: Even at my age I fear change. I am comfortable with my cozy, circumscribed life. My simple daily routine, answering to no one but myself. Who ever said falling in love was as easy as falling off a log? For that matter, what's so easy about getting on a log, let alone falling off one, and what's a log got to do with love, anyway?

  At the sight of Jack coming toward me, wearing that silly, adorable lavalava, I feel my heart go pitter-patter. I instantly shut my mind off. He is so handsome and so sexy. And he wants me.

  He bends to me. "Madame, a refill?"

  "But of course."

  He pours and then gives me a gentle kiss. "Shall I join you?"

  I splash as I move to make room for him. I can't take my eyes off him, nor can he stop gazing adoringly at me.

  Just as he drops his lavalava and sets one foot into the tub, we hear the muffled, tinny sound of a bugle—three short, shocking blasts. Jack, startled, falls into the tub on top of me. I go under, my mouth filling with bubbles. We scramble up and out of the tub as best we can, reaching for towels to cover ourselves.

  "May I approach?" The voice of a native bell boy calls from behind a palm tree. He waits for an answer: The hotel's idea of a subtle way to warn lovers in case they are—well, as we were—in a state of indelicacy.

  Jack and I exchange despairing looks. What timing! I shrug. Jack calls out, "Permission granted."

  I giggle at his formal pronouncement and squeeze his hand. Our messenger comes forward, eyes suitably lowered at the sight of two wet, embarrassed, towel-clad guests.

  The bellboy hands Jack a fax. Naturally, he's the man, so he gets it. The boy doesn't wait for a tip. There are no pockets in towels.

  Jack reads it, with me looking over his shoulder.

  "What!" we both shout at the same time.

  The message is short and to the point: Come home. Sophie is dying.

We scramble into our clothes; Jack into his one and only suit while I quickly and unhappily choose a traveling outfit. At the reception desk we learn that the fax came from the ship Heavenly. Jack's cell phone is useless, so we have to use the hotel's phone. Jack shrugs at the irony. He found us the most out-of-the-way place to go so we wouldn't be disturbed and now, in an emergency, we can hardly reach anyone on the outside.

  After endless tries, with many excuses from the obsequious manager about old equipment, time differences, and that being the charm of getting away from the wearisome world, we do manage to reach Captain Standish on the Heavenly. He informs us that Sophie was airlifted from the ship and was sent back to Fort Lauderdale with her three companions.

  "What happened?" I ask him.

  "Something about her heart," he informs me.

  "Do you know where they took her?"

  "I assume she was brought to your local hospital. So sorry."

  Now the wires are crackling, or whatever it is that makes any more conversation difficult.

  We disconnect from Captain Standish, then try calling the two hospitals nearest to where we live. No Sophie Meyerbeer listed at either of them. No answer in Sophie's apartment. Or Evvie's. Or Ida's. Where the hell can they be?

  I say the words, but they're choking me. "We have to go home."

  Jack nods. "But there isn't a plane until next Monday."

  The manager, who has never left our side, says cheerfully, "You're in luck. The last flight out today leaves in two hours. If you wish to leave, I can book you on it. Of course you'll have to pay for your one night."

  "Of course," says Jack bitterly. I know it's the night we won't have that rankles.

  If Evvie were here watching us gloomily huddle together on the airstrip in the steamy night air, waiting to board the little puddle jumper, she'd remind me of the movie Casablanca.

  She'd utter that famous line, We'll always have Paris. But we can't even say we'll always have Pago Pago.