Jack Stayton closed the file cabinet and stopped. Three years today? Yes, exactly three years ago, his wife announced she was leaving him. On Facebook.
He learned two days later that she'd drained their savings. Three months after that the house, along with the fairy tale went into foreclosure.
Jack looked out the ninth floor window of Leher Tower to where the steel and concrete buildings below caught the autumn sun casting long shadows eastward across the busy Phoenix cityscape.
“Come out to Arizona,” an Army buddy said. “Get some sun. Start over.”
The idea sounded better than trying to keep his chin up where everyone knew him. He left Columbus, Ohio and planted himself in the Sonoran Dessert and bloomed with a new company. Work became his sole focus and relationships were kept at a safe distance.
“No more fairy tales,” he whispered to the glass.
“Fairy tales?” asked the familiar voice behind him. “You talking to yourself again?”
Jack turned to see Lester Atwater seated in front of his desk.
“Oh, nothing.” Jack slipped into his chair. “I sent the files over earlier. Did you get them?”
“I got them, as always.”
Lester's familiar bifocals rested upon his barrel chest as he looked over Jack's desk piled with folders. “You got any plans this evening?” Lester asked.
Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You should, you know. Have you been to the Island, yet?”
“Which island?”
Lester put on his glasses and sat up to use the phone. “If you have to ask, you haven't been.”
Jack listened as the CEO of Preston Industries made reservations for him to a place he'd only heard others mention in passing.
“There,” Lester said hanging up the phone. “You now have plans. Go enjoy yourself on me.”
*****
An hour later, Jack was chauffeured to the Chandler Municipal Airport where he boarded a twin engine Cessna.
“Pretty elaborate dinner plans,” he thought as the small charter plane left a city full of excellent restaurants.
After forty minutes, the plane descended through layers of gray that opened up over the black-green waters of Holly Lake that surrounded an island.
A man in a dark suit and top hat met Jack at the bottom of the plane's steps. “Good evening, Mr. Stayton. Welcome to Christmas Island.”
A light dusting of snow covered the cobble stone road that led to a mansion from another time. Jack felt as though he'd stepped into a Thomas Kinkade painting. Every window had a candle. Every person that greeted him at the building's entrance knew his name.
He was seated at a comfortable booth where he couldn't stop admiring the light and pleasant atmosphere. The other guests all seemed jovial. The massive rock fireplace roared with a bright fire. The rustic chandeliers overhead were--
“Have you found something perfectly delicious, Mr. Stayton?”
Jack turned to her. If there were more brilliant sapphire blue eyes, he hadn't seen them. A warmer, more caring smile, it was for someone else. He couldn't speak.
“It's your first time, isn't it?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I'm Jennifer and I have the pleasure of serving you this evening. If you'd like a suggestion, I will say the prime rib is excellent, but really, what isn't here?”
He nodded his way through the rest of her suggestions, then watched her long black dress and flowing brown hair disappear around the corner.
Jennifer brought him a feast that would satisfy royalty and checked back on him frequently. When he was finished, she gave him a tour of the building and shared the history of Christmas Island.
They stopped in front of a large picture window where a steward met him with a brandy.
“I should be going now, Mr. Stayton,” Jennifer said. “But do come and see us again, won't you?”
“I will.”
Jack watched her graceful departure then looked out to where the falling snow collected on the branches just outside the window.
*****
The music, delicious food, and merry voices danced in and out of his sleepy dreams, but at every turn he saw her. The lovely girl who touched him with her smile. The woman who embraced a broken man with her gaze.
By noon the next day he realized he must have left his phone back on the island. He scoured the internet for contact information but to no avail. According to every search engine, there was no Christmas Island.
Jack pondered the possibilities. “Someone is working very hard to keep Christmas Island a secret,” he thought. “How could there be nothing about a place like that?”
On Monday, Lester informed Jack that his phone had been found and would be available at the airport at 4:00 o'clock.
“Lester, may I ask about how much that little trip was?”
Lester smiled. “Money is the easy part. The Island is booked solid for years. But figure about five hundred.”
How wonderful and cruel at the same time. Even if he could go again, he couldn't. Not at five hundred dollars per visit! “Maybe...” he thought playing with numbers in his head, “....once a year. Just like Christmas.”
Jack was at the airport counter at ten minutes past four.
“You have a package for Jack Stayton?”
“Yes sir. Right over there.”
The representative directed him toward a woman seated near a window facing the runway. He walked around the row of chairs to see her.
She glanced down to a white box next to her, then back up to him.
“Jennifer!” he said trying to appear calm.
She picked up the box and handed it to him. “Your phone, Mr. Stayton.”
“Please, just Jack. And please tell me you can stay for a while?”
“For a while,” she said.
They left the airport together with no destination in mind.
“Okay,” Jack thought. “Maybe one more fairy tale.”