Stranded in Paradise (13 page)

Tess met Carter's gaze and shook her head.

“Miss Nelson doesn't feel comfortable staying with strangers,” Carter said. “Is there someplace else we could stay?”

“Only the beach,” the manager concluded, then shook his head. “And I wouldn't advise sleeping on the beach.”

“No—of course not.” Carter ran his hand over his whiskered jaw. “You mentioned a woman?”

“Stella DeMuer.” He leaned in close. “Ms. DeMuer is a bit eccentric, but I can assure you she's perfectly harmless. She has a lovely beach home in Kihei with a guesthouse in back for your comfort, Mr. McConnell.”

“Kihei—”

“Only twenty-five minutes from Lahaina—lovely town,” the manager assured. “You have a car?”

“I have one,” Tess said. “But I really don't like the idea of staying in someone's private home.”

Carter spotted a woman walking his way and he frowned when he saw the large yellow cat draped around her neck.

Tess paled and edged closer. “That's the woman we talked to after the fire, the one I met by the Banyon tree.”

Stella DeMuer emerged, larger than life despite her petite size, her weather-beaten face wreathed in smiles. “Hello again. Please,” she extended a blue-veined hand. “I have a very large house that I am too willing to share.” She turned to look at the homeless throng and her features saddened. “Since meeting you this morning I am certain that you two are the ones I'm meant to help. Come.” She extended a gnarled hand with rings on every finger to Tess. “A nice hot bath and a cup of Earl Grey will do you a world of good.”

Tess backed up, eyeing the hand skeptically. She wouldn't rest a moment wondering what she'd gotten herself into. “If you'll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

She slipped away, leaving Carter to deal with the woman. He shot her a questioning look, but Tess kept walking. If he wanted to take a chance that this DeMuer character might be an ax murderer, that was his prerogative. She was going to try the airport first.

The airline clerk only laughed when she requested a seat on the next flight out. “I have 198 seats and I've booked 207.”

She bet the nine that showed up expecting to go home wouldn't see the humor.

“Monday night is the earliest I could manage—then you'll be standby. And with this storm coming, I'm not even sure about that . . . Unless you have the cash to charter your own flight. . . .”

Biting her lower lip, she switched to Plan X—the last option short of death, and punched the cell phone's automatic dial. The phone rang twice before her mother's familiar growling voice answered. “Yeah.”

“Mona?”

“Tess?” She heard the expected sigh. “Now what's wrong?”

“I'm in a bit of a fix, Mother.” She decided not to sugarcoat the situation—it wouldn't matter to Mona anyway. She could be standing on the top of a high-rise with her hair on fire and Mona would only ask how much the call was costing. “I've lost my job. I'm in Hawaii, and the hotel where I was staying had a fire. I have no money, credit card, or identification.” She swallowed, pushing back the bitter taste of gall obstructing her throat. “I need your help.”

“Lost your job? What did you do now?”

“Nothing, Mona. Downsizing. It happens all the time.” Lies, all lies, but the truth would matter less to Mona. Mother wouldn't care that she'd worked sixty-and seventy-hour weeks to please
Connor.com
, that she'd skipped lunches to stay on the phone with their health care provider while they ironed out their benefits package, that she'd searched the ends of the earth to find the best 401(k) for company employees. She'd endured crude jokes from VPs and fought off married men's advances—all without endangering the company/client relationship and all in the name of advancement. Yet Mona would see what she wanted to see.

Steel tinged her mother's tone. “A Nelson has never lost his job. Surely if you were attending to business the company would have found a way to keep you. How many times have I told you, Tess, you control what happens to you—don't be blaming your problems on downsizing. That's a tidy, predictable euphemism for being fired. Was it your stubborn pride? And what do you mean you're in Hawaii? Hawaii? How can you be in Hawaii if you've just lost your job? You bring about your own problems, exactly like Roy . . .”

Tess interrupted Mona's tirade. “Could you just
please
wire me five hundred dollars until I get back to Denver? I'll pay you back. Three days at most, Mona. I'm at your mercy.”

There it was again. The sigh. The tedious, almost-silent I-wish-I'd-never-had-you sigh. Well, she wished the same thing, but neither she nor Mona could have do-overs.

“Do you think I'm made of money? I barely have enough to scrape by, thanks to Roy Nelson, your esteemed, drunken father. Do you think my mother thought about me when she kicked me out of the house at fifteen? I had nowhere to go, Tess. I had to depend on myself, and if I've taught you nothing else it's to depend on yourself. I'd do you no favor by pandering to your weakness. You were irresponsible enough to go to Hawaii without a job to come back to, now you figure a way to get back.”

The line went dead. Tess closed her eyes, blinking back tears.

Fine. There went your Mother's Day card.

After setting the phone in its cradle, she rested her head against the back of her chair. Why had she called Mona when she knew what the response would be? Mona was as cold as penguin droppings. Especially since Dad had left her once the kids were grown. He died of liver cancer at the age of forty-seven.

Tess sucked in bitterly sharp air and huddled deeper into the lining of her thin coat as she followed Mona and Troy down the railroad tracks. Troy was only two years old.

Tess felt that funny sickness in the pit of her stomach again, the one she felt every weekend. I hate weekends. I wish there was no such thing as Friday and Saturday. That was when Roy would stay late at the bars and come home with that awful smell on his breath. Then Mona would start yelling. If she'd only learn to shut her mouth when Dad told her to, things would be better. He wouldn't get so mad. He wouldn't hit her with a trowel of plaster.

Flecks of white dotted the back of Mona's print dress. Tess stared at the design as she walked. Today was Saturday. Saturday meant that he was drunk by noon; Saturday meant there would be no peace in the house until Sunday afternoon when he slept it off. Saturday meant they wouldn't go home until late. It was cold, so cold. Tess hated that. She hated the walking and sitting on the railroad tracks wishing she was anybody else on earth but herself. She thought about all the kids in school who were sitting in warm homes with kind, smiling moms and dads.

They sat down on the cold tracks. She wondered if a train would come by. Maybe it will hit us and kill us, she thought. Then Mona and Troy and Dad will be sorry.

She wanted to go home, even if Mona and Dad did argue.
She hated this feeling.

“I'm going to leave him when you kids get bigger,” Mona promised, glancing over at her.

She had heard that so many times that the promise didn't touch her anymore—it didn't make her happy or sad. It was just another promise from Mona, a promise not to be trusted.

“I
hate
this idea,” Tess confessed as she drove the rental car down Highway 31. In the passenger seat, Carter frowned as he tried to decipher Stella DeMuer's directions.

“Ms. DeMuer is trustworthy or the manager wouldn't have set this up—and if I, for one moment, think otherwise we'll get out of there.” The map rattled as he shook it out. “You have to admit that God's provided for us; we don't have to sleep on the beach tonight.”

“Yeah, well, He could have done better—He could have gotten me on that flight home tonight.”

“That would've been unfair to me. We're just getting to know each other.” Carter grinned. “Relax. Before we know it—”

“What are we looking for?” Her voice interrupted. “The directions say that once we pass Harlow's restaurant we keep going a few blocks. Apparently the DeMuer house faces the ocean, and the back of the house faces the highway.”

She motored through the tropical streets of Kihei, past shops and restaurants, condominiums with vivid beds of Draceana, Heliconia, and Anthrurium, coffee huts with signs touting lattes and piña colada smoothies. To Carter's left, senior tourists wearing khaki shorts, knee-high socks, and sandals took leisurely strolls, passed by an occasional jogger. Sun worshipers lay on the beach, determined to get as much benefit from the rays as possible, although the gentle breakers had been replaced by rolling whitecaps.

“Why do you think Stella wanted
us
as her houseguests?”

Carter refolded the map. “Maybe she's lonely and wants company.”

“That's it over there.” She pointed toward a house. “Number 204, right?” To the right, the beige stucco structure was surrounded by overgrown tropical vegetation. Baldwin pines jutted up beside the red-tile roof that reflected hot sun. The dwelling had been at one time a magnificent showcase of opulence and grandeur. But time and neglect had taken its toll. Today the house looked slightly rundown and sad.

Flipping on the turn signal, she turned into the driveway. Stella DeMuer was sitting on the back step, waiting to greet them. Her face lit with expectation as Carter got their smoky-smelling, damp bags out of the trunk and transported them to the back door.

“Welcome,” Stella enthused, clasping her hands together theatrically. “I've been expecting you. Come.” She got up, lifted her cat around her neck, and walked down the stairs, where she led Carter and Tess to a small guesthouse. She was wearing a funny-looking red hat and short veil, with a feather poking up.

“You should be comfortable here, Mr. McConnell. I had Fredrick lay out clean towels and soap for you.” Tess lifted her brow and Carter knew she was thinking the same thing: Fredrick? The old woman had servants—or was she living in the past?

“Please. Call me Carter.”

“Of course, Carter. Such a handsome name.”

The guesthouse was old but meticulously clean. A tropical-scented breeze filtered through partially opened vertical glass panes. Bookshelves lined two walls, and four matching watercolors, not prints, of surf and sand hung above the faded blue sofa. Oriental-style throw rugs were scattered over the tile floors
.
“Thank you. This is nice.” Carter dropped his bags on the floor and looked around. “Very nice.” He reached for a banana in the bowl of fruit “Fredrick” had left on the coffee table. “Tess and I appreciate your opening your home to us.”

“Very kind of you,” Tess murmured.

“Nonsense, you're doing an old woman a favor. I get very lonely here, and the days are very long. Now you, my dear Tess, will come with me.” Stella turned and motioned to Carter. “You can come too. I know you must be hungry.”

She led the way back across the cobblestone drive and into a side porch. Glass stretched across the front of the house where sofas, settees, and overstuffed chairs, old but in their heyday pricey, were lined up in conversation nooks. Beyond the glass wall, the Pacific glistened as waves rolled in. Tess's bedroom sat off the kitchen at the back of the house. She laid down her bag, and Stella and Carter drifted off to make small talk and chicken salad sandwiches for lunch. She was grateful for some time alone and glad to get off her ankle.

She lay back on the sunshine-smelling pillowcase and closed her eyes. Maybe this wasn't such a horrible idea after all. She considered Carter's earlier remark about God being good to them. Indeed, they wouldn't have to sleep on the beach tonight, and Mrs. DeMuer seemed like a kind old lady, although she did find the cat thing more than odd.

She felt herself starting to drift as she listened to Carter's clear baritone drifting from the kitchen. Maybe, if she were a praying woman, she ought to thank God for pairing her up with this gentle man. He had helped her in so many ways with his kind yet no-nonsense approach to life.

She could have done a lot worse.

Later she sat in the kitchen and ate sandwiches and cheese curls with Carter and Stella. The cat occupied himself by taking a bath in the sunny alcove window. Perhaps things finally were turning around for her. She could only hope.

The earth softened around the edges; the sun slid lower, spreading an amber blanket across the water. Tess meandered down the beach alone. The wind was blowing hard now, tangling her long hair. Her gaze moved across the ocean. Heavy waves lapped the shore, and distant snapping sails sounded like mini-shotgun blasts.

What was she doing here on this beach? What was she doing in Hawaii when everything important to her was in Denver? This was insane. She should go home and get her life back on track. Mona was right; no one was going to wave a magic wand and make her troubles disappear. Certainly not Mona and certainly not Len Connor. She'd been foolish to ask for Mona's help. The woman had always been as cuddly as a porcupine.