Aloha, page 68
My phone buzzed and vibrated on the counter. I didn’t even look at it. I knew I probably had a million missed calls since I headed out surfing, and I knew they were all either from work or from Doug. Work, because I was sure the temp couldn’t handle another day under my boss’s direction, and Doug because he just had to know where I was. Not because he cared—he stopped caring two years after our wedding—but because the fact that I took off to Kauai by myself was the biggest fuck-you to his renegade ego that I could have done.
I wondered what he would have thought if he knew I’d almost drowned without his permission, what he could have said if I’d come home with a death certificate. Would he genuinely be upset, distraught at losing his wife because he loved me oh so much—or would he just write me off to be with Justine?
I gulped back the rest of the wine and thought about what the gravestone of Lani Morrison would say on it. Here lies a wife? Here lies an artist? Here lies one lost woman who never quite found her way?
I hoped it would be blank and that people could draw their own stories about my life. They’d all be better than the truth, that Lani Morrison died at the age of thirty-three, childless by choice, locked in an unhappy seven-year marriage with a man who’d been in love with someone else for most of it. She lost her parents to a car crash when she was seventeen, found mediocre fame in her twenties for her watercolor paintings, then when her muse, her “spirit” for the art, left her, she had to find work as a part-time assistant in an office selling dishwashers.
May she rest in peace.
Fuck peace.
I slammed down the glass and it shattered on the marble countertop, sending shards everywhere. As I looked down at the mess, I felt acutely overwhelmed for a second, before I decided to let it all go. I plucked the bottle of wine off the counter and headed out into the backyard, where I sat down on the back stoop and proceeded to drink until all the cab sav was gone and I was even more numb than before.
Though not numb enough to prevent my thoughts from going back to the mystery man, my savior. What was it about him that kept stealing my attention? Every time I tried to picture him, I either saw his face under the water, partially obscured by the bubbles rushing past my eyes, or the sun-kissed look of his neck, his wet hair clinging to it as he pulled me to the shore.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the back door, the images replaying over and over in my mind until a noise brought me to attention. It sounded like someone was outside the front of my house.
Carefully easing myself up, feeling more than a bit drunk, I made my way through the cool house to the front door. I opened it and had to blink a few times at what I was seeing.
It was my surfboard, leaning against a potted Phoenix palm. I walked over to it and ran my hands down the smooth sides, then looked around. The street was empty except for a lazy cat waddling through the neighbor’s grass. Who dropped it off, and more importantly, how the hell did they know where I was staying?
For the first time that day I felt uneasy, my skin prickling with gooseflesh. As empty as I had been, the fact that someone must have followed me to my house to return it to me was a bit unsettling, yet considerate. I took in a steadying breath and picked up the board, about to take it inside, when a piece of paper fluttered to the pavement.
I placed the board back against the palm and scooped up the paper in my hands. In neat cursive handwriting, the note read: “The next time I save you, you’ll want me to.”
A strange thrill ran through me as I remembered the man with the face of danger.
I wondered if he really knew how hard it was to save me.
Chapter 2
I spent the next morning pacing up and down the hallway, trying to figure out what I was going to do with my day. Every now and then I’d wince as my bare feet found yet another slice of glass that I’d missed when I cleaned up the mess from the day before. From time to time I’d stride over to the windows and nervously peer out past the palm fronds, looking for a sign of that man who wanted to save me again.
It was kind of ridiculous, actually, but I was enjoying the suspense, the way my nerves rattled every time a car drove down my street. It gave me a strange sense of focus that had been missing the last few weeks . . . or months. Or years.
Finally around noon, after I managed to get down a bowl of cereal, I decided I’d had enough. I packed a beach bag, grabbed my board, and got in the Jeep. Though Hanalei was my favorite part of the island, I didn’t want to head back there. I knew that the November surf was notoriously wicked on the North Shore, part of the reason why I had wanted to go there in the first place.
But this time, it wasn’t really about being saved.
It wasn’t about dying either.
I steered the Jeep onto the highway and decided to head southeast to Larsen’s Beach. It wasn’t the easiest beach to get to—I’d have to travel down a road that would coat the car in the island’s infamous red dirt before heading down a dangerously steep path to the beach itself. But if this man really wanted to find me, if he wanted to chase me, to save me, all the way there . . . he would.
I parked the Jeep at the end of the red road, finding space along a fence of buffalo grass. I wasn’t the only person that day with the idea of surfing at Larsen’s; about seven other cars were crammed into the same area. Apparently everyone wanted to take advantage of the sunshine and light winds. Maybe some surfers would have been mad that other people would mean they’d be sharing the breaks, but it made me feel safe, as if I were going on a blind date with someone.
Except that I’d seen him before.
I took my time unloading my board and putting on my sneakers for the hike down, constantly looking over my shoulder in hopes of seeing a plume of red dust rising up through the air. Nothing yet. Maybe the man had just been nice in that note. Maybe he had no intention of saving me again.
I pulled my long black hair into a ponytail and headed past the open gate and down the steep, uneven path that went from the very top of the cliff to the golden beach below. I wasn’t far along, still near the top, when I decided to take a moment and observe the waves. Steadying myself with my board still under my arm, I climbed onto a few volcanic boulders that were wedged into the cliffside, rising above the tall grass that obscured my view.
Below, the ocean glistened with patches of turquoise where the bottom was sand, and royal blue where it was rocky. The waves crashed on the reef just offshore, and the tiny figures of surfers were already catching the steady swells. You’d think that just looking at the water, imagining myself back out there, would have brought some fear into my chest, but my fear was different now.
The hair rose on the back of my neck.
“Don’t jump,” a low, accented voice growled.
I gasped and quickly spun around to see a man—my man—standing on the path and watching me. His eyes widened just as mine did. I had turned so fast with the board that I was toppling to the left, my foot trying to find stability and finding none.
I was going over.
Falling.
I cried out, whipping my head back around to see where I was going to end up, what my doom would be. I wasn’t fearing death, but the amount of pain before death.
Or endless pain without death.
Then, with reflexes like a cat, he was at me, grabbing on to my arm as the ground beneath me turned to air. The surfboard crashed down the cliff but I was hanging on to him, staring up at his face as he pulled me to safety. Again.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” I said, breathless. Of course I’d be defensive.
“A simple thank-you would have sufficed,” the man said. His accent was Mexican and now that he was standing right beside me, still gripping my arm, I finally had a clear look at him.
He was about six feet tall, with a nicely toned body he wasn’t hiding very well under his board shorts and white wifebeater. His skin was this smooth, golden tone that you just wanted to run your fingers over and over again, and played off the strands of bronze in his wavy hair. Those hazel eyes of his were watching closely, and though his dark brows were furrowed with concern, maybe even anger, there was a startling brightness to them.
The scars that lacerated his left cheekbone were ugly as sin, yet there was something almost beautiful about them. They added depth and secrets to a man who was probably in his late twenties. He had a story to tell.
I wondered if I’d be around to hear it.
When I became aware that I was not only staring at him but that he still had a grasp on my arm, I pulled myself away. “You scared me,” I explained. “I was watching the waves.”
He cocked a brow. “Planning to surf so soon after yesterday?”
I crossed my arms. “It’s none of your business what I do. I don’t know you.”
He smiled prettily. “I’m the man who saved you from a watery grave. I also delivered your board to you. And I believe I might have just saved your life again.”
“As I said, you scared me.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure, not after yesterday. Hey,” he peered over my shoulder, “want me to get your board again?”
I didn’t want to look down in case I experienced a bout of vertigo. “It’s fine. Maybe it’s a sign I should give it up.”
He gave me a curious look and then opened his mouth to say something. But he shut it with a smile and then turned around, heading to the path. “If you gave up surfing, how would I keep meeting you like this?”
He trotted down toward the beach. I watched him for a moment before I shook my head and went after him.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him, carefully following him. Damn, he was quick. “I still don’t know you.”
“My name’s Esteban,” he shot over his shoulder. “Now you know me.”
“You don’t know my name,” I called out after him, my knees starting to hurt from the quick descent. Oh God, I hoped he didn’t know my name. That would be terrifying.
“I don’t,” he said without pausing. “But I figure you’ll tell me eventually.”
“Oh, really?” I called after him. Cocky little bastard. Well, tall bastard. And a savior instead of a bastard. Still . . . cocky.
When the path almost started to level out, he vaulted off into the wild greenery that clung to the cliffs, his athletic form disappearing. For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but the sharp wind that rushed up to me, the cry of mynah birds and the waves crashing on the reef.
Time seemed to slow as I took stock of the situation. I had no idea who this guy was other than he was a pretty hot Latino and his name was Esteban. Yes, he was retrieving my surfboard for me—at least I think he was—and yes, he had saved my life. But he’d also followed me to my rental house and to the beach today. That took some sleuthing and was stretching the boundaries of being a Good Samaritan.
“Got it!”
I whirled around, surprised to see him appearing a few feet down the path, my board under his arm, while he wiped away the loose foliage that was clinging to his hair. He strode over to me proudly and lifted the board out in my direction.
When I reached for it, though, he pulled it back to his chest. “Not until you tell me your name.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “It’s Lani.”
“Lani? Interesting . . . short for something?”
Was this really the time and place for small talk? “It’s short for Lelani.”
“Lelani, hey? Are you Hawaiian? I thought you’d have better surfing skills than that.”
“Actually,” I said as I wrestled my board out of his grasp, “I have Hawaiian ancestry. My grandparents were from here. But I just like to come here to . . .”
“Escape life?”
I pursed my lips as I eyed him. Despite the sparkle in his eyes, there was still something odd about him. Though I didn’t feel I was in danger, there was still a sense of unpredictability and circumstance that seemed to swirl around us.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “To escape life.”
He nodded, then asked. “Are you part Japanese?”
“My grandmother was, why?”
He smiled. “No reason other than you’re strikingly beautiful.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, moving to walk past him, trying not to blush.
“That’s it?” He reached out and grabbed the back of my board, pushing it to the side so I had to face him. “You smile and then you leave?”
I had no idea what to say. It wasn’t that I wanted to leave, but I had a hard time processing anything new. I had been so happy to just plod along on this island, keeping quiet and looking for the easy way out.
Esteban cocked his head toward the beach. “Why not try surfing, like you’d planned? The waves look nice.” He took a step toward me, and I imagined his eyes were darkening. “Or is that the problem? It’s not dangerous enough for you.”
My pulse raced as I bit my lip. I noticed beads of sweat on the crest of his forehead, and wondered if they would taste salty on my tongue.
I really needed to go.
“I was watching you, you know,” he said. “I was out on the waves, too, though I know you didn’t notice. You were just sitting there, watching every wave pass by. For the longest time, I thought maybe you were a total beginner. But even from far away, I could see it in your eyes.”
Shocked, I swallowed hard. Though the sun was bright as sin, I felt a chill creeping up my limbs. “What could you see?” I whispered.
“The shadows,” he said simply, as if he were making sense. “I have them, too. You have to in my line of work. But you wanted yours to pull you under.”
“Look,” I said, trying to appear cool and calm, as if he hadn’t seen who I was out there. “It was really nice that you saved me and got my board, but I think we have to part ways here. I’m just here on vacation. I like to surf. I like to paint. I’m here to relax and have a good time, like everyone else.” I stuck out my hand so I wouldn’t look scared. “Good-bye, Esteban.”
When I expected him to be put out, he just smiled at me, so pure against the scars. “Esteban Mendoza. I’m staying at the Princeville Saint Regis. If you ever feel like discussing those shadows of yours.”
I was about to tell him I wouldn’t be doing that, but he just turned around and headed down the path to the beach. From there I watched him trot toward the water’s edge and dive into the clear blue water, swimming powerfully out to the reef. He made it past the breakers, disappearing into the foam before appearing out on the horizon, a tiny dot against the navy swells.
I could have sworn he waved good-bye to me. It must have been my imagination.
After the beach, I stopped by Foodland to pick up another bottle of Scotch and headed straight back to the house. I poured myself a drink, neat, and took it into the shower with me. I stood in there, washing and washing and washing until I felt raw and real and my skin had turned pruney. I could have stayed in there forever, just living in the warmth.
Oddly enough, it felt like I’d taken a shower for the first time in my life. God, how much of my day was always on autopilot.
When I finally dragged myself out, slipped on my robe, and wound my coarse hair into a braid, I decided to call Doug.
He picked up on the fourth ring. Just like always, he made himself seem too busy for me, yet would get mad if I didn’t pick up right away.
“Hello?” His voice was distracted, and I heard the distinctive crinkle of a potato chip bag in the background.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said, trying to sound cheery and sober.
A pause. “Nice of you to call me back, finally. I was trying to reach you yesterday. Where were you?”
“Surfing.”
“Not painting?”
“Not painting,” I said with a sigh. “So, how are things?”
Now it was his turn to exhale. He launched into tirade against some of the new clients at his work, the tightness of our purse strings, the lack of opportunities. With each sentence I could feel the stress and frustration pour out from him. He often used me as a venting board, though I assumed it was only on the days that Justine wasn’t around.
I let him talk, not putting in a word edgewise, not even when he reminded me that the time I was spending in paradise was costing us money we didn’t have, and if I wanted to truly make it worthwhile, I’d need to start painting. I’d need to create. I’d need to make something, and something of myself.
Instead I eventually hung up the phone with a stiff “I love you,” and poured myself another glass. I let the drink burn on my tongue as I stared at the easels and blank canvases that were hidden in the shadows of the room.
Those damn shadows. They really were here with me, filtering out through my soul, permeating every inch of my life. Just how long had they been living my life for me?
I finished my drink, then placed it down on the counter with a desolate clink.
I googled the number for the Saint Regis and was put through to one Esteban Mendoza.
Chapter 3
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a motorcycle outside the house. I barely had time to register that I had slept through my alarm when there was a knock at the door.
Fantastic.
I quickly got out of bed and slipped on my pajama pants, all the while thinking it couldn’t be Esteban. We had made plans to do something in the morning, but I’d assumed he would have called me first.
On the way to the door, I paused by the mirror and winced at my reflection. My eyes were sleepy and puffy with smudges of mascara underneath, my hair was a mess, and my nipples were poking out of my camisole. Another knock prevented me from trying to fix myself up.
I opened up the door and lo and behold, Esteban was on the other side, a motorcycle parked behind the Jeep.
He looked surprised at my disheveled appearance and couldn’t hide the cheekiness in his grin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we said noon.”
I wiped underneath my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest the minute his eyes rested on my breasts.
