Here Today, Gone to Maui (29 page)

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Authors: Carol Snow

BOOK: Here Today, Gone to Maui
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I shook my head, afraid I’d cry if I said anything.
“Here.” He set the wine down on the table next to me.
I left the glass sitting there. “I just got fired,” I said, my lip quivering, my hair falling in my face.
“Oh, no,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.” He put his hand on my back. I stood up and threw my arms around him. He held me tight and stroked my back while I cried into his black shirt. He smelled like laundry detergent mixed with Coppertone.
“I got your shirt wet,” I said, finally pulling away. I wiped my eyes.
“It’ll dry.” He picked up my wineglass. “C’mon.” He motioned with his head. “Let’s go watch the sunset.”
He had set the table on the deck for two people, lit a candle, and put out the tossed salad and a platter of cut quesadillas. The sun wouldn’t fall behind the horizon for another half hour or so, but the breeze had died down and the water had calmed.
“I’m not really a stalker,” I said, staring at the water even though it hurt my eyes.
“I know,” he said simply, serving me salad.
I looked at him with skepticism.
He put some greens on his own plate and put the serving spoons back in the teak bowl. “Your boyfriend was two-timing you and pretending to be somebody else, and you had no idea. You obviously weren’t stalking him.” He shot me a wry grin. “Though maybe you should have been.”
“I thought about following him,” I admitted. “One night when he said he had to work late, I almost drove down to his office—well, your office—just to see if I could spot him. But I thought about that other . . . experience. How ashamed I’d been. And I decided that surrendering my self-respect is worse than being lied to.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
I thought about it. “Yes. I do.”
I took a small bite of the salad. He’d tossed it with just the right amount of dressing.
“When are you flying out tomorrow?” he asked, reaching for a quesadilla.
“Late. It’s the red-eye.”
“You need a ride to the aiport?”
I was about to say I had a rental car, when I realized that Mary and Albert had already returned it. It was the kind of detail that didn’t usually slip by me, but this wasn’t a usual week.
“I’d love one. If you really don’t mind,” I said.
“It would be my pleasure.” We locked eyes for a moment before turning back to our meal.
Michael seemed different from when I’d first met him: warmer, less distracted. Not only was he not making phone calls every five minutes, he didn’t even seem to have his phone with him. He looked at me differently now, too. It felt like he was seeing the real me—not just the plain Jane who was plastered across the television or the company mom who never forgot a birthday.
He took a long drink of his wine, put the glass back on the table, and blurted, “There’s something I’ve been thinking about since that very first night we spent time together. You know—at the luau.”
My face grew warm. “Yes?”
“I don’t know if it’s the right time to bring this up—I mean, after all that’s happened. It’s just—we’re here. And I don’t want the moment to slip by. Though I completely understand if you’re not . . . ready.”
“I’m probably not.” My heart was pounding. “But . . . it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it.” Katie had gotten her happy ending. Maybe I would, too.
He played with the stem of his wineglass, trying to find the right words. “You’ve been through an awful lot. I know you’ve been hurt.”
I nodded eagerly.
“And if you need some time to yourself—weeks, months, whatever—that’s okay. I’ll wait for you.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. “You won’t have to wait very long,” I promised.
It was like this moment was meant to be—like it was fate, or something. Jimmy, Tiara—this crazy path had led me to Michael James. The real Michael James.
The sun cast a golden glow on his skin. Jimmy had been good-looking, of course, but in a flashy, fleeting kind of way. Michael was so classically handsome, with his sharp cheekbones, straight nose, dark hair, and warm brown eyes. More than that, he was beautiful inside, honest and strong. It had taken me a long time to find him, but the wait had been worth it.
“I probably couldn’t pay you as much as you’ve been getting,” he said. “But we could find a way to make it work.”
“Wait—you’d pay me?” I was still focused on his cheekbones.
“Well, yeah, of course. Plus we could talk about bonus opportunities, maybe even equity. I really think you’d be great.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. “You want to hire me?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “What you said about Ana? How I shouldn’t have my designer answering phones? You were dead-on. I mean, she could add a lot more value by getting involved with production, marketing—stuff directly related to the product.”
“You want me to be your secretary.” My voice quavered.
“Administrator,” he corrected, smiling gently. “Answering the phones is only a very small part of the job. You’d also be responsible for payroll, customer service, accounts payable,
and
accounts receivable.” He raised his eyebrows to accentuate that last one. I’d open the checks. Woo-hoo.
His phone rang. He had it with him, after all. Of course he did.
“It’s Tiara,” he chirped, checking the display.
“Hey,” Michael said to Tiara. “We’re just eating dinner.” He shot me a fond look. “Oh—already?” He looked at his diver’s watch. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.
“Tiara’s on her way back from the studio,” he told me, standing up. “Asked if we could tape her interview.”
Tiara’s television debut was on a local program, hosted by a skinny, earnest woman named Suzy Lee and a smiley, square-headed guy named Chuck Makuakane. Apparently, it was Suzy’s job to ask the questions and Chuck’s job to stare at Tiara’s breasts.
Tiara was wearing her black halter top with the black skirt. Someone in the news station’s hair department had tamed her country-singer hair so it tumbled sleekly around her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle and flattering. She looked like an L.A. weather girl or entertainment reporter.
When we tuned in (as Michael tried to figure out the VCR and I tried not to cry), Suzy was just finishing with a recap of the story-to-date, which, as far as I could tell, mercifully excluded my stalker incident.
 
SUZY
(brows knitted in concern):
Tiara Cardenas. You’ve been through a lot this week.
TIARA
(looking at camera):
I have. And to everyone who’s been so supportive of me, I can’t thank you enough.
SUZY
(touching Tiara on the knee):
Some of the things people have posted about you have not been kind. They have focused on certain aspects of your . . .
TIARA
(eyes widening):
Yes?
CHUCK
(looking at Tiara’s face):
Sexuality
(eyes back to Tiara’s breasts).
TIARA
(casting eyes down modestly):
Until this week, I thought I was in a loving, monogamous relationship. And our physical expression was just part of it. I’m not ashamed of that.
SUZY
:
You really loved him, huh?
TIARA
(solemnly):
I did.
(Brightening)
Let’s be clear—I don’t mind being called hot!
(Cue laughter from cohosts and stagehands.)
But what really bothers me?
(What would she say next—“the media’s attacks on pretty friend Jane’s appearance”?)
. . . Is the implied racial slur in my portrayal.
SUZY: I can see why that would be upsetting.
TIARA
(straightening):
I mean, like, saying Luscious Latino? That is so, like, a stereotype. As if, like, just because I’ve got a Spanish last name, I’m some kind of
[word beeped out by censors].
SUZY
:
Last week we did a segment on racial profiling that touched on many of the same concerns.
(To camera)
Interested viewers can watch the clip on our Web site.
TIARA
(continuing):
But what’s really crazy? I’m only one-quarter Cuban! And I’m proud of that, I get that from my dad. But—hello? I am also Filipino, Norwegian, and German. I am all of those things, but I’m also none of those things. That’s the new face of America, people, and you better get used to it. You Hawaiians understand, because people here have always mixed. But at home, everyone wants to, like, pigeon-toe you into some category.
 
“That was masterful,” Michael said, once the segment had finished.
“It’s pigeon
hole
,” I muttered.
Back outside, I planted my sorry ass back into the teak chair and said, “Jimmy’s death is working out pretty well for Tiara. This afternoon, she seemed genuinely upset. Now she’s fully recovered and ready to launch a career as a, what? Professional victim? Or a spokesperson for multiculturalism?” I took a long drink of my wine.
Michael considered. “Well, Jimmy used her, now she’s using him. You can’t really blame her.”
“There is no way she wrote those words herself,” I said.
“I don’t know. I think Tiara’s a lot smarter than she seems.” He held out the platter. “Quesadilla?”
I put one on my plate but didn’t eat it. “Well, she seems like an idiot. So being smarter isn’t necessarily saying much.” I really shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Especially on a day when my boyfriend has been found dead, my worst secret exposed, and my entire career derailed.
“I think Tiara understands her greatest assets,” he continued. “And she uses them to get what she wants.” He refilled our wine-glasses. What I really needed was a big glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills. “She’s not so different from you or me, really,” he added.
I gawked at him. “I do
not
bounce around with my boobs hanging out, coming on to every man I meet!”
His eyes widened. “That’s not what I meant. You’re good at other things—arranging, organizing. Cooking, of course. And so that’s where you focus.”
“Because I don’t
have
big boobs, you mean?” I threw my fork on my plate. It bounced off, hit the table, and grazed my thigh before falling on the ground, where I let it lie. “Why do guys always like bimbos?”
He stared at me, shocked, for a moment before replying, “Not all guys like bimbos.” And then, after consideration, he added, “Though pretty much all guys like sex. So I guess bimbos can seem like the quickest means to an end.”
“Men are so shallow,” I hissed. (Again, in my defense: dead boyfriend/lost job/public humiliation. It had been
a really bad day
.)
His mouth dropped and he glared at me before saying, “Just men?”
I tilted up my chin. “When it comes to . . . romance? Yes.” (I am such a freaking prude, I couldn’t even bring myself to say “sex.”)
“Then how do you explain your himbos?” he asked, his brown eyes suddenly looking less puppylike than before.
“My
what
?”
“Your himbos. Pretty-boy Jimmy and your ex-boyfriend, that guy they showed on TV. The one with the dimples.”
“What about them?”
“Did you like them for their stimulating conversation? For their depth?”
“I thought Jimmy was a business owner,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I thought he was you.”
“But he obviously wasn’t.”
“My last boyfriend before Jimmy was a doctor,” I said (even though I never really thought an ophthalmologist counted). “And I didn’t just like him for his looks. In fact, he wasn’t even that cute.”
“So you just liked him because he was a doctor,” Michael said evenly.
“Yes,” I answered without thinking. And then, “I mean no. I liked him because he was . . . intelligent.”
“Sure you did.” He went back to his salad. After a few bites, still hunched over his plate, he said, “So I take it you don’t want the job.”
“No.”
“You seemed interested at first,” he told his salad.
“I thought you were attracted to me,” I blurted before the censors in my brain had the opportunity to stop me.
He fixed me with a look of such pure astonishment that I popped out of my seat before I could embarrass myself further. “Thanks for dinner,” I said curtly.
“I didn’t make it,” he said. “You did.”
“Well, thanks for serving it, then.”
I put my plate and glass in the sink. The dirty frying pan was still on the stove, but I didn’t care. Michael could do the damn dishes. I had a packing list to attend to.
Chapter 26
Tiara’s room smelled. During the past two days, she had infused it with the aromas of jasmine, plumeria, lily of the valley, and lemon, along with the scents of several other lotions, shampoos, hair products, and colognes that I couldn’t identify. It was like walking into Macy’s perfume department.
It was Thursday morning. I hadn’t seen her the night before, having chosen to hole up in my room packing, reading, and wallowing in self-pity. At ten o’clock, I took double the recommended dose of Benadryl and fell into a woozy sleep.

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