Stranded in Paradise (9 page)

“Where I come from, you don't bury a pig then dig him back up and eat him,” she told him. He grinned.

After they had filled their plates, she noticed that he briefly bowed his head before he ate. Praying, she supposed. He didn't seem like one of those religious fanatics who said “Bless this and bless that.” She made a note to ask him about it later.

The food, pork included, was surprisingly delicious: Lomi Lomi Salmon, Pulehue Steak, Guava Chicken, Haupia, otherwise known as coconut pudding, banana bread, Taro Rolls, Poi, and Kalua Pua's.

“That's free-range pork,” Carter supplied after consulting the menu.

They looked at each other and repeated in unison: “The pig.”

“How can a pig be free-range anyhow?” Carter leaned over and whispered. “Was it raised in its natural environment? And where would
that
be?” Tess laughed and looked at him. He sure seemed different than the grumpy guy whose luggage she'd delivered the day before. But then she'd been pretty exhausted too, so she guessed she could understand the change. He was an easy person to be around.

By the time the entertainment began she felt relaxed and happy. They applauded the performance of the beautiful ancient hula Kahiko and 'Auana. For the first time since she'd arrived in Hawaii she felt as though everything was going to be all right. She couldn't say why, exactly. Nothing had changed. She was still without a job. Maybe it was making a new friend.

The wind tossed the dancer's hair, and Tess pulled her hat down tighter.

Cramming a piece of roll into his mouth, Carter applauded. Then leaning over he asked, “Is it supposed to rain?” He tilted his head toward the sky that had taken on a starless appearance. The wind kicked up again.

She shrugged. She'd heard Beeg mention that rain showers were frequent on this side of the island so she wouldn't be surprised—though the cool feel in the air hinted at something stronger than a tropical mist. She studied Carter's relaxed manner. Like her, he was wearing a flower lei some Polynesian lovely had draped over his head. He was smiling, having a great time in spite of their rocky beginning.

“Nice, huh?” he said, laugh crinkles forming around friendly blue eyes.

She nodded. The luau was therapeutic, a sorely needed diversion from a hectic past few days.

She looked up. The wind was whipping across the lawn so strongly that the dancers were having trouble keeping their balance; costumes were wrapping around their bodies, and the girls' long back hair flailed around their faces, making it hard for them to see. A gale whistled through the musicians' microphones, sending an ear-piercing shriek of feedback.

Servers darted about to set desserts—Haupia pudding, Haupia cake, pineapple upside-down cake, guava cake, and coffee—in front of the guests before the full gale hit. Tess leaned to cut a slice of pineapple upside-down cake when the wind whipped a glob of brown sugar into the hair of the woman two chairs down. The woman gave her a dirty look and then left in a huff.

Thunder grumbled. Guests dressed in flimsy island wear clasped their forearms in an attempt to keep warm, teeth chattering as the skies opened up. Waiters and waitresses rushed to rescue the food, pulling out carts they quickly loaded with platters and took inside. Waiters handed out flimsy yellow plastic rain ponchos and guests tried to wrestle the gear over their heads in the whipping wind.

“Are we having fun yet?” Cater shouted into the wind.

“A blast!” Tess replied, “Help me put this on.” Carter reached over but the wind persisted, making it impossible to find the narrow slits in the sides.

Chairs overturned. The entertainers courageously plowed ahead on the semi-circular stage below as Poi-logged spectators made for higher ground. Rain sluiced down but the musicians bravely played on.

“. . . the missionaries brought many changes to our island,” the announcer intoned.
Shreeeek, shrilllll,
the reverb sounded.

“. . . King Kalakaua . . . Drat!” The announcer flung the mike to the ground as lightning forked the arena.

“Let's get out of here!” Carter took her hand and the two ran-hobbled toward the lobby's thatched roof. “Are you okay?” Carter released her hand and looked at her drenched face.

“I'm fine,” Tess said. “Wet. But fine.” She looked down at her feet; the foot without injury had a broken sandal strap.

“Rats!” She said. “Now I need to go sandal shopping, since this is the only pair I brought.”

“You need an excuse to shop?” It was a question.

“That's a stereotype, I'll have you know. Not all women love spending money.”

“I didn't mean it as an affront,” Carter held up both hands and smiled. “Truce?”

She blushed. “Truce.”

“Let me hail a cab,” Carter offered.

“Are you all right?” he asked again as he helped her into the backseat when a taxi finally pulled up. Water streamed off her chin in rivulets.
How can he be so calm?
She thought.

“Fine. I just want to get into dry clothes.”

6

She wasn't about to let bad luck get her down, Tess decided the next morning when she woke up.

Dazzling sunlight filtered through the window as she lifted a slat to look out. Paradise shimmered like a priceless jewel in the rain-drenched harbor
. Papahanaumoku
— Earth Mother—as the emcee had called it last night, looked to be in a better mood this morning. And so was she. Smiling, she dropped the louver back into place.

Her thoughts drifted to Denver. She was tired of wondering what was happening at
Connor.com
. Len Connor could take a flying leap; Chuck Somebody could wrestle with hiring, resource allocation, compensation, benefits, and compliance with OSHA laws. After an eighteen-hour day manning the phones and handling
Connor.com
's problems, the “good ol' boys” could kick back, have a beer, and try to figure out the mess.

Tess wasn't going to lift a finger to help. The thought was liberating.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. A tan—she needed one of those billboard browns that would be the envy of every woman in Denver. She wanted to look her loveliest when she spooned crow onto Len Connor's plate.

After eating pineapple and cinnamon toast in the grill, Tess then headed to Makena Big Beach with a new umbrella and a bottle of Maui Baby, Maui Island's Secret Browning Formula. She'd bought a beach chair, too.

She braked in the public asphalt parking lot and hauled the newly purchased items out of the trunk. By the time she got to the beach, the shoreline was already swarming with scantily clad men and women as they staggered beneath the weight of overloaded backpacks, boogie boards, and snorkel paraphernalia.

After turning the beach umbrella just so, she reached for the tanning lotion and peeled out of her turquoise-and-hot-pink-Hawaiian-print sarong. What she'd do with the superfluous piece of clothing in Denver she didn't know. Pretzeling herself into the chair, she began applying the lotion then leaned back and relaxed behind oversized sunglasses, prepared to spend a leisurely morning. Lazy wavelets of aquamarine water lapped against the shoreline. Feathered fans of palm leaves wove a dark tracery against a sky so blue it made her heart ache. A gentle breeze brought the tang of sea salt mixed with the intoxicating aroma of flowers. An exotic blended fragrance not found in a bottle.

She wondered what
Connor.com
peons were doing. Slaving away over copy machines, no doubt, staring numb-minded at blinking cursors and answering ringing phones.

She sighed. She missed it. Missed the hassle, the adrenaline rush—really missed it. But she wondered, was that the meaning of life? To slave away at a job she got no recognition for? Or worse, for just a paycheck. Wasn't there supposed to be a deeper meaning in all of this?

Sun beat down. The sound of laughing children's voices drifted toward her. The kids were building a sandcastle on the beach. Children. Precious little miracles. Would she ever have any of her own? She'd been so busy building a career that she had never really paused to consider the question. Thirty-two wasn't ancient, but she could hear her biological clock ticking—or was that the idiot's rap music, farther down the beach, blaring in her ear?

Lazily warm, she dozed, opening her eyes occasionally when she heard the excited cries of a beachcomber who'd spotted a whale frolicking near one of the islands jutting out of the water.
Big whoop,
she thought irritably.

Suddenly the wind shifted. Sand kicked up—instantly coating the Maui Baby tanning lotion in a grainy sheet.

She sat up, shielding her eyes as sunbathers started to race past her. Big Beach had suddenly turned into the Sahara Desert with a sandstorm approaching. The wind machine-gunned gritty pellets at unsuspecting sun-worshipers.

Spitting sand, she sprang up and grabbed the umbrella. Wind caught the frame and stripped the fabric inside out. Another hefty gust sent her nearly airborne as she stumbled around, trying to wedge her toes into a pair of rubber flip-flops. “Stupid thongs!” she muttered. Sun-blistered snorkelers boiled out of the churning water to make a dash for the shoreline.

Grabbing her belongings, she set off for the car. Her hat blew off and she went to retrieve it. The injured ankle gave way then, and she stumbled, then pulled herself upright before she hobbled on.

Ramming what was left of the shredded umbrella into the nearest trash receptacle, she lunged for the car. Once inside, she dug sand out of her eyes and ears and places where sand didn't belong.

Grasping hold of the steering wheel, she batted her forehead against the backs of her hands.
Why-why-why?
Why
couldn't
she have a nice relaxing vacation?

After a moment, her nerves calmed. A shower. She needed a shower to get rid of this sand. She turned the key in the ignition . . . and heard nothing.

Nothing.

She whacked the steering wheel. “Don't do this!”

She turned the key again.

Nothing.

“No.
No.”
Gritting her teeth, she tried again. Grinding.

Grinding.

Again.

Nothing. Grind.

Clamping her eyes shut, she heaved an exacerbated
oooomph.
Faced with the inevitable, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone.

Grimacing against the feel of gritty sand in uncomfortable places, she listened for the dial tone and found she had none. Of course.
Tess, you're losing it, girl
.
Okay.
She looked around, deciding she had to take charge of the situation. Sand still pitted the car's windows. Who knew how long this would keep up? She'd just have to borrow a cell phone from a fellow sun-worshiper. So, pulling her hat down on her head and retying the sarong around her waist, she opened the car door and began to make her way in the wind and sand to the phone. The back of her sand-logged swimsuit hung a good two inches too low as she walked backward through the gale, trying to avoid getting more grit in her eyes. “Hey!” a voice said as she felt a thump against her back. “Watch where you're going, Lady!” a tall, tanned Adonis said in a gruff voice.

Her face flamed. “Sorry. Can I use your cell phone?” And for once, the man had one. Her luck was picking up.

“I don't
know
what's wrong with the car,” she told the rental agent. “It won't start. I turn the key and nothing happens.”

“We'll send someone right away—Big Beach, right?”

“Right.” Big
sandy
beach. The clerk didn't mention that help was still two hours away.

And so as the sun set on Lahaina Harbor on Tess Nelson's third night in paradise, she was in her room, soaking a sprained ankle and trying to get the taste of sand out of her mouth. Too weary to eat, she skipped dinner and fell asleep before eleven, only to be awakened by the wind around three A.M. Peering out the window blinds, she watched palms bending to the onslaught, loose fronds whipping across the parking lot.

“Gilligan's Island,” she conceded. “I'm trapped on Gilligan's Island.”

What would Mona think of her now?

“She's so pretty.” Tess stared at the beautiful creature lying in a pink velvet box. Its blue eyes opened and closed, and when she pressed its tummy, the baby cried real tears. She never cried. Mona spanked her when she cried.

“Please, Mommy. Can't I have this doll?”

“Oh, all right, you ungrateful twit. You can have the stupid doll. I hope you're happy.”

Mona glared at her daughter as she paid for the purchase. They left the store and got into the car to go home.
But before Mona turned on the ignition, she looked at the doll and said snidely, “It looks like it's lying in a coffin.”

Tess felt her heart drop. Why did her mother have to spoil everything?

She lowered the window blind. What had made her think about Mona and that silly doll? Unpleasant events of the past few days? It wasn't as if she didn't have dolls—but that one was special—a child's delight.

Other girls at school—girls with pretty clothes and Beaver Cleaver mothers—sailed through life on a magic carpet. Their mothers had pretty polished nails; Mona's hands were rough from factory work and they perpetually smelled of cigarette smoke. Other girls' moms came to PTA and were room mothers who visited school on holidays and birthdays bearing pretty plates of cupcakes and cookies.

Mona never came to anything. She didn't have time to bake cupcakes and cookies or be a room mother. Once she promised she would, but she hadn't. Only recently had it occurred to her that Mona had had to work—the family needed two incomes to survive. Maybe if Mona had talked to Tess about it, she might have understood, maybe even accepted the fact that not everyone lived the ideal family lifestyle.

Still, her mother and father were forever making promises to go to the movies or get ice cream, but when the time came they were too tired. She had vowed to herself that when she grew up, she would take care of herself. She'd eat all the ice cream and go to all the movies she wanted. She might even make enough money to buy a movie theatre and be the envy of every girl in class. She'd have a home with good furniture, not some old pieces of junk from the thrift store, and she'd buy it all with her own money that she'd work hard for, and no one would ever take it away from her because she was tough—even though sometimes it hurt to be tough.