I tell myself that as Zahir and I get back to business, and over the next few weeks, I do my level best to make myself believe it’s true.
MIKA
I’m back in Rashid Zaman’s study. I’m staring up at him, and he’s staring right back down at me.
“Will you work for me?” he asks.
“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I answer.
“Why not?” His question whispers across my ear. A tugging seduction.
“Because you’re married. Because I’m a good person who would never do that.”
“Even if it feels like magic? Like we were always meant to be?”
I shake my head, mutely. Wanting to deny his questions, but unable to speak.
Then, before I can answer, he leans down, and…
BOWM-bow-BOWM! Bowm-bow-bowh-bowm-bow-BOWM!
I wake to the sound of my phone ringing, loud and insistent on the nightstand. I’m no longer in Rashid Zaman’s office, I’m in my bedroom in the Calson’s guest room, three months after Holt’s and Sylvie’s wedding. It was just a dream. Just a really, really wrong and immoral dream.
What is wrong with me? I inwardly groused, reaching for the vibrating phone. It’s been months, but here’s my subconscious, still trying to make me that nanny you read about at least once a year in the tabloids—
My heart freezes over when I see the Hawaii area code. I don’t recognize the number, but I know who it is.
When I first started getting these calls shortly after returning from Jahwar, I always answered. At first, I’d assumed it would be my sister reaching out while she was at work, or maybe my mom calling from the hospital where my father was undergoing his clinical trial.
But I’ve learned my lesson now. It’s never my sister, never my mom calling with an update about my dad. I tried blocking the number at first, and then even changing my own digits to a Connecticut number and only giving it out to my family and the Calsons. But the caller found me less than a week after the number change, and no matter how many times I block the unknown Hawaii numbers, they just call back from a new one. So I know if I pick up now, I’ll hear the same voice—or I should say the same distorted recording.
I don’t pick up, just double click the side button, sending the caller straight to voicemail. And sure enough, a few minutes later I receive a text message with the missed call readout…
“First Timothy, chapter three, verse eleven: ‘Even so must their wives be grave, not slanderers, sober, faithful in all things.’ This is a message for the whore wife who betrayed her husband.”
See? I point out to my rebellious subconscious. I have no business dreaming about any man, married or not.
Any and all relationships will end in disaster. I learned that lesson well before I left Hawaii.
With a heavy sigh, I erase the message. Usually, I block the caller, too, but why bother? I know from experience they’ll only switch to another Hawaii number and call again with a new bible verse. Again and again, maybe until the day I die.
Real talk, by the time I return home from dropping Albie and the Calson brothers off at their various schools, I’m beginning to regret dropping out of grad school last year. It made sense at the time. I wasn’t nearly as passionate about my studies as Sylvie. And I couldn’t reconcile going into debt for a possible better future when my family needed money to fight my father’s rare form of muscular dystrophy as soon as possible.
So yes, I know I made the right decision. But, coming home to the empty guest house, I realize I could use some homework right now. Something to fill up the rest of my day and take my mind off my disastrous life.
Okay, Hayes, that’s enough. Stop wallowing and find something useful to do with yourself.
After being raised by a literal drill sergeant, my feeling sorry for myself skills are basically non-existent.
A memory of Dad giving us a bunch of chores to do around the house the first (and last) time Jazz and I dared to complain about being bored on a weekend comes back. For two days he’d made us clean floors with sponges, polish our cheap run-of-the-mill silverware, trim the backyard grass with scissors, and even repaint our rooms.
That weekend had been enough to make sure we never complained about being bored again, but today I grab onto the notion of house-working my way into a better mindset.
A summer cleaning, that’s what this guest house needs. And, I mean, yes, I did a spring cleaning right after we got back from Jahwar, and technically, it’s not quite Summer yet—but hey, if it keeps me busy.
I get to work, and hours of deep cleaning is almost enough to erase the image of those women desperately grabbing at the Zippy’s bags from my mind.
Forgive yourself, I beg. But frantically scrubbing the bathroom toilet isn’t enough to make me forget that while I’d been cooing over the slippers Jazz bought me earlier that Christmas Eve, those women had been starving.
Suddenly, I’m in the pitch black again. Hiding inside the only crate I could find without a lock. Dialing 9-1-1 and begging God for the third time that Christmas Eve. This time not to let my husband find me before the police do.
My phone chirps, pulling me out of the pitch-black memory and reminding me of my weekly coordination session with Sylvie. I let out a huff of relief. Finally, something real to do.
But my relief cuts off when I look in the mirror. All the things I try to hide are on full display. I look crazed, scared, and haunted, the exact opposite of what Sylvie hired me to be.
Okay, can’t give Sylvie any reason to regret hiring me without a background check. I jump in the shower to erase all traces of my manic cleaning sweat, then pull my hair into a ponytail and put just enough makeup on to cover the dark circles under my eyes
I’m running a few minutes late for the meeting now, but at least I look like I’m supposed to. Happy. Normal. Not totally haunted. At least I hope I do.
The number one problem with being employed by a natural therapist is that Sylvie’s great at sensing when things aren’t quite right with someone. I’d lost count of the times she’d asked me, “Are you okay?” since we returned from Jahwar. So fingers crossed that I’d be able to pull off a whole meeting of acting like I was easy breezy, nothing to worry about here.
But as it turned out, it didn’t matter that I was running late. Sylvie’s standing at the kitchen window talking on her phone, when I enter her office.
That’s what the Calson boys call the kitchen in the main house, “Mom’s office,” because Sylvie can almost always be found there outside of class hours. Holt cleared out a room for her to use as an actual office, but she prefers to study in here for her grad level Psychology classes. And when she’s not studying, she loves to cook. Speaking of which…
I sniff the air, appreciating the smoky aroma of whatever simmering on top of the stove. Technically the Calsons have a housekeeper who is supposed to cook. But all I’ve seen Lucynka do since Sylvie got back together with her former employer, is clean. To be fair, the older Polish woman has tried to take back over her kitchen duties a few times, especially after she figured out Sylvie was pregnant. But Sylvie insists that cooking relaxes her in ways sitting down and propping up her feet never could.
Holt is constantly teasing her about trying to give him a gut, but I don’t mind at all. I’ll take Sylvie’s rich and flavorful Jamaican dishes over the sensible and healthy Lucynka meals makes any day.
“Okay, Prin, Mika’s here, so I should go. But call me back if you hear anything else…”
As Sylvie says her goodbyes to Prin, who unexpectedly moved back to the States with Sheikh Zahir, halfway through her temporary marriage, I go over to the stove to take a closer look at what she’s got going in the pot. Mmm...brown stew chicken. One of my favorites.
I’m about to tell her as much when I see the look on her face. She’s off the phone now, but has a hand over her chest like she’s trying not to cry.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, alarms going off as my eyes track down to her
now slightly rounded belly. “Is the baby okay?”
Sylvie shakes her head. “Oh, the baby is quite okay. But unfortunately, Prin called with terrible news.”
“Oh, Prin…” Not to be negative, but I’ve been expecting Sylvie to get that call ever since her best friend and Zahir moved their strange temporary marriage from Jahwar to New Jersey. But I set my face to sympathetic, prepared to pretend I’m surprised to hear about the sooner-than-later demise of their doomed relationship.
“There’s been a horrible accident in Jahwar. A building collapsed with a few of Zahir’s family members inside of it.”
Zahir’s family members...no…my ears fill up with the sound of the ocean, my heart somehow knowing which family members she’s talking about even before Sylvie tells me, “Zahir’s cousin Rashid was pulled out of the wreckage alive, but their grandfather and Rashid’s wife and daughter are all dead.”
Even the ocean isn’t enough to block out the horrific announcement. “Aisha…” I whisper. Oh God, the darling little girl who made me yearn for one of my own…she’s gone. Dead…
Tears flood my eyes, and the next thing I know, I’m in Sylvie’s arms. “I know… I know… this is such terrible, shocking news after the boys and you spent so much time with her at the wedding…”
Shocking is an understatement. Terrible doesn’t even begin to describe it. The rest of Sylvie’s comforting words slip away into the ocean as I remember dancing with Aisha...her head on my shoulder as I read Harry Potter…how soft her forehead had felt against my lips when I bent down to kiss her before leaving the room.
“No! No!” I sob into Sylvie’s shoulder. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair!”
But life isn’t fair, is it? I’d found that out the hard way that Christmas Eve in Hawaii. And now Aisha’s light had been snuffed out before it barely had a chance to shine.
8
One Year Later
MIKA
“I don’t know about this…”
Albie looks up at me with unsure eyes, even though he’s been begging me to come back to Hawaii ever since we moved to Connecticut two years ago.
Truthfully, I don’t blame him for looking scared. I’m a little scared too as we stand under the lanai at the front of a long entryway leading to a huge multi-story Diamond Head beach estate.
The house isn’t quite as big as Holt’s compound, but it’s way more intimidating. All sharp edges and glass. I’m sure the architect had the spectacular ocean views in mind when he designed nearly every inch of the exterior with huge retractable window walls. But since all the windows are currently down and moreover, tinted, the huge estate comes off more like a scary mansion-shaped spaceship than open-air living.
“You’re saying that dead girl’s dad owns all of this?” Albie asks beside me. “And he’s living here, even though his whole family is dead?”
“Her name was Aisha,” I gently remind him as I lead the way down the entryway towards the house’s huge front Balinese door. “And it wasn’t his whole family. You know, Holt’s friend Mr. Zahir? That’s his cousin, and he’s the one who offered me this job.”
I can tell Albie’s working hard to process all of this through his kid translator, and I’m trying to keep my voice reassuring. But the truth is, it really doesn’t feel right to be back here in Hawaii. Not right at all after more than a year of receiving Bible verse “you’re a whore” texts from 808 numbers. If both the Calson boys hadn’t decided to go away for the whole summer this year and Zahir hadn’t offered me a crapload of money upfront which I really need because of Dad’s medicine situation, I’d probably be on the first plane back to Connecticut.
“Did bad guys kill his family too?” Albie asks behind me.
My heart squeezes, trying to do the impossible math of figuring out how to answer that question without traumatizing him more. I’ve kept the details of his father’s death as murky as possible, and now probably isn’t the time to clarify that his dad was also one of the bad guys.
In the end, I answer, “No, it was an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Albie asks behind me.
“A building collapsed.”
“How did that hap—”
“I’m still not clear on all the story details,” I admit as we come to a stop in front of the huge Balinese style door.
“So I’d have to ask him,” Albie says with a concluding nod.
“Please don’t,” I beg, cringing at the thought of Albie pressuring Rashid Zaman for every single detail of the tragic accident that took away his wife and daughter.
“But how can I hear all the story, if I don’t ask him?” Albie asks, looking genuinely confused.
Instead of answering that question, I clap my hands together. “Hey, how excited are we about being back in Hawaii? And living close enough to the beach to surf whenever you want?”
“Yeah, I can’t wait!” Falling for my subject change, Albie lets loose a sunny grin to reveal the dimples that pretty much disappeared during our last cold Connecticut winter.
He eyes the house again, this time with a reassessing scan. “Maybe it doesn’t look as scary on the inside.”
“I bet it doesn’t,” I answer, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible about the ominous beach house for Albie’s sake.
Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell.
Only a few seconds go by before a tall man dressed in a white robe answers the door. I immediately recognize him as the same nameless servant who walked me home that night after I met with Rashid.
“Hello again!” he says, his face lighting up with surprise. “When Sheikh Zahir told me of the substitute housekeeper that would be arriving with her son, I had no idea it would be you. But it is good to see a familiar face. That might be easier on His Excellency.”
“I hope so,” I answer, relieved to be greeted so warmly by the nameless servant.
He’s strikingly handsome in a silverish fox sort of way, I notice now that I’m getting a good look at him in the daylight. Lean and wiry, he stands with an uprightness that gives away military background no matter where you’re from in the world. He also has light-brown eyes and cheekbones so sharp, I’m sure he’d get a “you’re absolutely beautiful” from Tyra Banks if he decided to quit his job and audition for America’s Next Older Gentleman Top Model.
“And, it’s so good to see you again, too,” I tell him. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.”
“As do I,” he answers with a somber bow of his head. “It has been a sad and terrible year for His Excellency.”
I can tell it’s been a hard year for him, too. I want to reach out to hug him, offer some comfort, but then I remember the many warnings we’d been given about how it was culturally inappropriate for an unmarried woman to touch a man for any reason back in Jahwar.
“This is Albie,” I say instead, using the introduction to finally get the name of Rashid’s attendant.
It’s Faizan, as it turns out, and he leads us into an architectural wonder of a house. None of the lights are turned on, but there’s just enough natural daylight for Albie and me to check out the downstairs’ impressive details. Teak and marble grace all the floors and the few parts of the walls that aren’t made out of glass. There’s a flagstone lanai off the oceanside glass wall with a saltwater infinity pool and steps that lead directly down to the beach. Also, a gym that Faizan says we’re free to use whenever we want.
And that’s not all.
“Are you serious?” Albie screeches when Faizan leads us upstairs into the gorgeous master suite where I’ll be living until Mr. Zaman’s housekeeper comes back from visiting her daughter, who just had a baby back in the UAK.
I’m speechless myself. Like Albie, I’ve never lived on the top floor of anything. Much less a master suite with its own lanai and both ocean and mountain views.
“Are you sure?” I ask Faizan after he shows us into the room Albie will be staying in. The floors here are simple teak instead of marble and it�
�s much smaller. But it has a queen-sized bed—another first for Albie and the same awesome ocean and mountain views. Basically, everything I’d heard about growing up further inland in Pearl City, but never got to experience unless we paid money to stay at a nice resort—which my penny-pinching parents never wanted to do.
“Why do we get to live upstairs in these bomb rooms while he’s downstairs?” Albie asks when Faizan shows him the huge closet.
“I assure you, His Excellency’s rooms are quite nice, as well.” A hint of amusement glimmers in Faizan’s eyes but the smile never quite makes his face. “But due to his injuries, he has taken up residence in one of the bedrooms on the bottom floor.”
Albie’s eyes light up. “Can I see his bedroom? And Ender says he’s probably got a lab where he’s working on exoskeletons. If he does, I want to see the robot stuff, too.”
It’s an innocent question, but all amusement fades from Faizan’s eyes. “There is no robot stuff, as you called it. You are allowed to go in the common areas and the kitchen whenever His Excellency is not occupying a room. But other than that, all downstairs rooms are off-limits.”
There comes a beat of awkward silence. Then Albie grins and says, “That’s okay. The beach and ocean are all I need. Mom, can we go get my old surfboard from grandma and grandpa’s house tomorrow? Please! Please!”
“We’ll see,” I say with a forced laugh. Wondering not for the first time since we stepped foot in Hawaii if coming back here wasn’t a big, awful mistake.
“I’m sorry if I sounded harsh,” Faizan says as we walk back down the stairs after leaving Albie to unpack in his room. “But it is very important that your son abides by the rules of the house.”
“I understand,” I answer, even as uneasy feelings continue to ripple over me. But Zahir is paying me a lot of money to do this job. Money that my family really needs right now.
Yes, Albie will be way less comfortable tiptoeing around this house in Hawaii than he was in playing with Wes and Ender in Connecticut, but it’ll only be for the summer. I’ll keep my head down and do my job and Albie will use the beach as his playground. Everything will be fine and both of us will make it through this summer without a hitch.
RASHID: HER RUTHLESS BOSS: 50 Loving States, Hawaii Page 6