Haole Wood (23 page)

“I’m a big fan of yours,” I said. I just couldn’t remember her name, though I had seen her on TV plenty of times.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say,” the woman said as she tossed her red hair, posing like a celebrity on a red carpet. With one hand on her hip, her right foot angled out from her left instep, she looked at the sunshminas spread on the table and started snapping her fingers. “So, what have you got going on here?”

I gave her my spiel. “Try one on.”

“I’m lovin’ the pink,” she said, launching it over her shoulders. She modeled in front of the mirror I had at the end of the table, sucking in her checks and then lifting her lip in a snarl. She petted the material. “This fabric is fab. My gays will go gaga. Not that they would understand why anyone would want to stay out of the sun, since they’re all about the man-tan. Haven’t you heard, tanorexia is the new cause célèbre? So, what is this material?”

“It’s a silk-gauze blend from Thailand. My grandmother—”

“Honk shoo.” She interrupted me with a snore.

“Sorry.” I said. “It will protect your skin from the sun, especially here in Hawaii and in LA.” I tried to sell it even though I still couldn’t remember her name. She had her own reality show and had been in some scandal or something in Hollywood.

The woman flapped the ends of the wrap and twisted in the mirror. “Pretty. I look gorgeous.” She honed her gaze on me. “Us whiteys need to stick together. Tell ya what I’m gonna do.”

Oh no. Here we go again. Still, word of mouth was powerful advertising. I reached for tissue paper to wrap it up.

“I’ll just wear it, thanks!” In a pouf of red hair, she turned to leave. I did manage to shove a handful of Haole Wood business cards at her. “Ta ta, aloha,” I heard her say as she marched through the lobby like an empress, waving the queen’s wave to all the tourists who thought they knew her from somewhere.

I closed up shop and carried my stuff to the jeep when my phone rang.

“Not only didn’t I sell any, I somehow gave two away!” I complained to Jac. “Including one to your girlfriend, Lana.”

“Ah, come on. Let me take you out to dinner.”

Damn the pitter-patter of my heart.

Jac picked me up right on time. His eyelashes looked extra curly and his muscles rippled right through his T-shirt, leading a girl to believe he had been surfing earlier, frolicking with the dolphins in an other-worldly metaphysical seafaring adventure us lesser mortals could only dream of. I giggled, curled the ends of my hair around my finger and annoyed the snot out of myself.

“I’m going to take you to the resort tonight in Wailea,” he told me. “Lana’s singing there and I thought you might like some live music. She really is very good.”

“Great.” I said. Lyrics by the lovely Lana. Dinner to be jealous by. I’ll have the envy entrée followed by a side of self-esteem, burnt to a crisp.

“The restaurant is amazing,” he explained. “
Humuhumunukunukuapua’a
.”

“Bless you,” I said, laughing. “I know, it’s the name of the state fish. I never did learn how to say it, but I’m very impressed with people who can. Wocka Wocka,” I added, for some reason impersonating Fozzie Bear.

Amazingly, Jac looked over and smiled at me.

“Say, humu humu.”

“Humu humu,” I answered back.

“Nuku nuku.”

“Nuku nuku.”

“A pu a’a.”

“A pu a’a.” I smiled at him.

“See? Simple.”

More giggling from me. Knock it off, I warned myself.

“It’s a pretty nice place,” he said as we drove south, through Kihei, a fun, beachy town right on the water with some of the world’s best windsurfing. I counted hundreds of windsurfers catching the afternoon waves, flipping and frolicking like dolphins with kites.

We pulled up to the majestic resort. “Pretty nice?” I said, punching his arm. My knuckles tweeted my fingertips that Jac’s biceps, solid sinews of sexy, should be massaged, not punched. My fingers actually fluttered in response before I could grab my own hand and squeeze it in my lap.

“Just wait,” he told me. We walked through the lobby and headed for the restaurant, just in time to catch the most amazing sunset. But he turned me around and nodded his head at the waitress, gesturing to the other side of the restaurant.

“Sometimes I like watching the moonrise,” he told me.

I want to bear his children. The Polynesian thatch-roofed restaurant floated on a saltwater lagoon. It’s thick hand-carved wooden design made me feel like I was entering the home of one of Kamehameha the Great’s twenty-one wives—his favorite wife, at that.

We started out with a royal ruby Cabernet and searched the serenity of the gray blue periwinkling sky for the crescent moon. “Just gorgeous,” I said.

“I know,” Jac said, sipping his wine but looking at me.

I broke off our gaze first. “I’m not very adventurous when it comes to seafood, I’m kind of a creature of havit.”

“Havit?”

“That’s what I always thought my mom was saying, seriously, until I was probably twelve. It makes sense, though, don’t you think? Sucking my thumb? I had to havit! Sneaking gum out of her purse?”

“Surfing?” He said. “Have to havit!”

“I went surfing the other day,” I bragged.

“How was it?” He looked suitably impressed.

“It was the funnest thing I have ever done in my life.” Funnest? Why did I say that? There’s no such word. I babbled on hoping he wouldn’t notice. “I went with my grandmother’s ear wax surf boys.”

“Which ones?”

“Zev, Bronco and Kenny took me to their favorite spot, pretty close to her house.”

“I know where that is. How did you do?”

“After scaling down Mr. Rushmore, drowning didn’t seem that bad by comparison. But, I did it! I got up! I surfed and it was awesome.”

“Details. Is it a new havit of yours?”

“In spite of the most tortuous amount of struggle and being sacrificed to Neptune time and time again,” I took a sip of my wine. “I will try it again.”

He laughed and tilted his glass of wine at me.

“I stood on top of the world, on top of a wave, watching life go by. This giant curl of water hurled me forward so fast and with so much power it has to be magic. I felt invincible.” I held my shoulders back. “For a split second.”

Jac laughed again. “That’s the addiction.” He reached across the table and touched my hand with the tip of his finger. “But sometimes, the best part of surfing is the gap between the waves.”

Sign me up for this guy’s cult. I’m in. My fingers, who were itching to start a thumb war with Jac’s, refrained.

“You’ll have to come with me sometime. I have a really good spot and you don’t have to climb down any treacherous cliffs.”

Mmm. Plans with Jac, wearing a bathing suit. “Ggg.” I took another drink and started coughing.

Jac leaned in. “You okay?”

Never better. I set my wineglass down and played with the stem. “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

He sipped his own wine before answering. “I don’t disbelieve. I was surfing a couple of winters ago, at Honolua Bay. Have you heard of it?”

I shook my head.

“It’s not far. The waves were up to about 15 feet, it was rolling.” His eyes were so shiny I couldn’t stop staring. “I was out at Coconut Point, riding a barrel like you wouldn’t believe. I felt like I could have gone forever. It was really crowded with locals, who, let’s just say some are very territorial. I held my own, but this tall, muscle-bound Hawaiian guy, about my height, swooped out of nowhere. I never saw him coming and I just reacted, with a quick jerk.” He lifted his elbows. “We were going to crash.” His hands made an x. “There was no way out, we were on a collision course. We both tried to correct and veer out of each other’s way. I remember bracing for the impact, knowing this big boy was going to hit me.”

“What happened?”

“I remember hoping he didn’t knock my head and conk me unconscious, because once I was hurled under the waves down onto the coral below, I was doomed.”

He sipped his wine and shook his head. “We didn’t crash. We finished our ride, like magic, ending up not too far from each other. He swam over to me and we hugged. This guy was solid muscle, probably surfed since before he could walk, and he started crying like a baby. According to the laws of physics, there is no way we shouldn’t have crashed. It was as if we became invisible, or transparent and just swished right through each other. Crazy, huh?” he laughed. “I don’t have a hard time believing in guardian angels.”

“That’s a great story,” I said.

“I haven’t thought about it in awhile. How’s your guardian angel been treating you?

I nearly sprayed a mouthful of red wine all over the white tablecloth. “What do you mean?”

“Just making small talk. What’s going on? It’s part of my charming date repartee, I guess it’s not working?”

“No. It’s working. Trust me,” I said. “I’m kind of on the outs with my guardian angel right about now,” I said.

The waiter appeared with our meals. I ordered the mahi mahi encrusted with macadamia nuts and crabmeat. Jac had the sea bass with black beans, ginger rice and bamboo shoots. We shared a papaya salad with chopped tomato, garlic, mint, cilantro and chili sauce. It was all so beautiful, right down to the orchids decorating our dishes. I was starving, and feeling very adventurous.

“Thanks,” I smiled at the waiter. “Could I have some ketchup, please?” His mouth dropped open and he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about.

“I just like a little ketchup on my fish, please?”

“Ketchup,” the waiter said, fluttering his hands as if I had asked him to go harpoon a whale or something. He backed away, nearly knocking into the water boy, before turning and beating feet back into the kitchen.

“He’s going to tell on you,” Jac said.

“Am I embarrassing you?”

“Not at all. So you like ketchup. I might even take a taste.”

“I’m a condiment girl,” I told him.

“Good to know,” he said, pushing the salt, pepper, mango salsa and whipped garlic butter close to my plate.

“Excuse me,” a booming voice interrupted. It was the chef, a handsome Hawaiian man, spurting sweat beads off his forehead. Our waiter was behind him, dancing like he had to pee.

“You want to put ketchup on my crab-encrusted mahi mahi?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” The other diners were staring at us. “This mahi mahi is delicious, the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Then why are you polluting it,” he raised his voice, “with ketchup? Do you know where you are? You are not at some Der Weinerschnitzel.”

“Chef, I mean no disrespect. It’s fabulous. That’s fine, I don’t need ketchup.” I took a bite to prove my point. “Sorry. Don’t worry.” I tried to wave him away.

“It’s good, she says,” he lifted his hands, “but it could use something else?” He grabbed the towel at his waist and wrung it out, as if he wished it were my neck. That gesture reminded me of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but a few lonely brain cells of mine were rolling around like marbles on the floor, sounding an alarm.

“Chef,” Jac interrupted. “Please give us the ketchup. We all have individual tastes. You are embarrassing us.” The chef stomped back to the kitchen, as Jac stood up and reached to take the bottle of ketchup out of the waiter’s hands. He presented it to me as if it were a vintage bottle of Beaujolais.

“Merci,” I said. I wanted to crawl into the huge aquarium back in the Humuhumu cocktail lounge. That would probably be less offensive that my treasonous act. Jac shook the bottle, unscrewed the cap and gently tilted it at a forty-five degree angle, hovering it over my plate.

“Say when.”

“Thanks, Jac. I didn’t mean to cause a scene. I don’t need the ketchup. I’m not an addict.”

“Oh, honey. You’re eating it, and I’m trying it.” Oblivious to the other diners, he waggled his fork over my plate and took a small bite.

“Save some for the rest of us,” I said.

“Fine.” He took a larger piece and drowned it in ketchup. His eyebrows went up and his chin when up and down, chewing. “
Ono
,” he pronounced. “Delicious.”

Oh, no,
you
are delicious, I wanted to say.

“The tomato sugar puree married with the sweet flakiness of the mahi mahi blends with the crab in an unexpected taste explosion,” he said.

“Very funny.” I pouted as he laughed and offered me a bite of his sea bass, from his own fork. Le sigh.

He raised his glass of wine and we toasted each other. “To ketchup.”

We were having some pretty serious eye contact so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear any
Jaws
suspense music warning me. I jumped, startled, as Lana walked up, moving in on us like a mermaid, or, as I liked to think, Ursula from The Little Mermaid. “Hi, Jac,” she said embracing him as he stood up. “What was all that about with the chef?”

“It was so nice of him to come out and introduce himself,” Jac told her.

Lana shrugged her shoulders, rustling her sunshmina that she actually wore.

“You look gorgeous, as usual Lana, and I love your wrap.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and nodded over at me.

“This fabric is amazing,” she said.

“I know,” I said, patting mine, which was folded on the back of my chair. “Has anyone asked where you got it?”

“Oh? You haven’t gotten any calls?” Lana asked me. “I’ve given your number out so many times I have it memorized.”

Jac nodded. “That’s really sweet of you, Lana. That’s great, isn’t it, Jaswinder?”

Why was I the only one who thought the lovely Lana was a big fat fake? To be fair, the only thing fat on her was her hair. And if anyone looked like the villainess Ursula in that tableaux, I’m afraid it was me. My sweaty palms created suction on the bowl of my wineglass, as if I did have tentacles. I smiled widely and vowed to bury my worries in the sand. I was in Maui, with a great guy, and for once I pretended that everything would turn out
pono
, just the way it’s supposed to.

I watched Lana slink up to the stage and practically felt all the air being sucked out of the room as the audience paused to stop chewing, holding their breath waiting for her serenade.