Free Last Resort by Richard Dubois

realize Gwen is not moving.
    “You coming?” I ask.
    “Go ahead,” she advises without looking at me, her tone flat and emotionless.
    I leave her and sit with Pamela and Bill. A waiter comes for my drink order. The disorder from the power outage mirrors the confusion in my heart. It seems that nothing in this world works as it should—from the machines we build to the relationships we have to each other.
    “A double shot of rum,” I say to the waiter.
    Pamela guffaws and slaps my knee. “That’s the spirit. When life hands you an impossible situation, getting plastered is an excellent option.”
    She only refers to the lack of electricity, but her advice is especially apt for me considering the shambles of my personal life. Bill and Pamela discuss the power outage; I am not paying attention. Gwen stands at the bar, making small talk with other guests, not looking my way. I am sorely tempted to head back to my room pleading some excuse—a headache, upset stomach, anything just to be alone again. Coming to this resort was a mistake. My marriage is over. It is obvious now. These past few months I deluded myself into thinking it could have any other outcome.
    Emotions churn within me like a cyclone. Anger, sadness, doubt. I am even angry with myself. Gwen offers herself to me, willing to endure whatever she can to bring us back together, and I am the one unwilling or unable to get over what happened. No! I shake my head as though to cast out this unwanted thought. I was not the one who cheated. I should not feel guilty just because I am unable to forgive her infidelity. Besides, Gwen is not the woman I believed her to be, therefore our marriage was a fraud. Gwen might be comfortable continuing to live a lie; I am not.
    And yet, if that is true, why don’t I just get up and leave? Why do I keep glancing at Gwen hoping to catch her eye—hoping she will leave the people gathered at the bar and come sit with me?
    Amidst my turmoil, one thing is clear: It is going to be a long couple of days until I am home again. The thought of feigning happiness to the other couples for several days and then returning to my loveless bungalow with Gwen is unbearable to me.
    The waiter returns with our drinks. Pamela clinks her martini glass to mine and jests, “No electricity. No running water. Tiki torches to ward off the darkness. However, I have an ice-cold martini that embodies the perfect balance of gin to vermouth. At least I’m roughing it in style.”
    Across the room, I spot Jonas Dunlap conferring with Owen, the man who picked us up from the airport. At this distance, it is impossible to hear what they are saying to each other, but from Jonas’s grim expression and sharp hand gestures coupled with Owen’s bewildered expression, it is safe to assume the news is not good.
    At a nearby table, a woman remarks that her cell phone is dead.
    “But I just charged it,” she complains.
    “Hey, mine is dead, too,” responds another.
    A murmur ripples through the crowd as other guests check their phones. I stand up. Something is seriously wrong.
    “Bill, check your watch,” I say.
    “Why, this can’t be right,” he says. “It’s at least an hour off. It seems to have stopped. Is your watch working?”
    “Mine is working, but it’s a wind-up,” I reply.
    The guests mill about in confused, anxious groups, like children who lost their parents in the mall. I cross to the edge of the restaurant where the wooden deck ends and the beach begins. I lean against the rope that acts as a guardrail, squint and peer across the bay.
    Bill is at my side. “What is it?”
    “Look,” I point into the darkness.
    “What am I looking for?”
    “That’s just it. There should be a red flashing light on that island across the bay. That light has its own generator; it does not rely on a power supply from the mainland. The light isn’t flashing. It is gone.”
    “So it is,” Bill exclaims. “What does this mean?”
    I am about to venture a