Relapse in Paradise

by Roxanne Smith

  Emily sat there emotionless. Her blank gaze gave nothing away and compelled Boston to explain further.

  Not because he gave a damn what Emily Stuffy-Pants thought. He merely appreciated the opportunity to talk about the shelter. It never hurt to spread the word. “You know, one day maybe Hani and I will have a huge spread. One day is a fickle bitch, though. For now, we do what we can. My end is executive. I make the money, pay the bills, pick up food and supplies from donation boxes around town, and get our name out in the community. We’re always in need of new benefactors. Hani is the chef.”

  Emily still hadn’t flinched. No movement beyond an occasional blink.

  Boston had no clue if she was disgusted, intrigued, or a mix of both.

  She finally met his eyes. “So, you’re like the CEO.”

  He shrugged. What the hell. If she needed to put it into familiar terms to grasp it, sure. “We tend to think of it in restaurant terms. I’m back of house, Hani is front of house. I operate the ledgers, he’s daily operations. He’s here twenty-four-seven. One of the three beds I mentioned is his.”

  Ah. There it was. A reaction. Emily’s face fell in undisguised bewilderment. “He lives here? But I thought…”

  What? That Boston worked from a fancy corner office, Hani wore a pristine white chef’s coat, and they both went home to nice two-bedroom middleclass homes every night? He opened the van door and jumped out. “Yes, Hani lives here. Before you ask, I don’t. My place is a few blocks away.”

  To his utter amazement and instant uncertainty, the van’s passenger door opened and slammed closed as Emily made her decision.

  Boston was torn between admiration and gall that she might only be feeding a morbid curiosity.

  Inside The Canopy, Akela made the place welcoming, despite the disrepair and deterioration. The dining hall always seemed inviting with its tin-can vases holding fresh hibiscuses she brought from her garden. Might also be the warm aroma of rice floating from the back of the house where Hani prepared lunch.

  Emily wordlessly followed him past the foyer, pausing only once to scan the dining hall and its array of mismatched furniture.

  “I’ll introduce you to Hani and Thompson, his helper. They both—”

  “I don’t care what that kepolo says about me, it ain’t true.” Hani’s booming voice thundered down the tunnel of a long hallway connecting the kitchen to rest of the house.

  Boston explained in a lowered tone. “He called me a devil, but it’s perfectly normal. We’re friends, I promise. Don’t be scared.”

  “Scared? Why would I be—”

  Hani’s massive form ducked under the low-hanging archway between the narrow hallway and the dining area. With his greasy apron, a large wooden spoon in one chubby fist, and a gut to rival anything pot-bellied within a hundred miles, he certainly dressed the part of soup kitchen cook. “Unless he says I’m handsome. Or charming. Or I make a mean Spam sandwich. Anything else, definitely a lie.”

  Boston would be risking his life to say it out loud, but sometimes Hani reminded him more of a Japanese sumo wrestler than island royalty. He surreptitiously surveyed Emily for her response, strangely pleased she didn’t seem overly concerned about the giant, ink-covered Hawaiian barreling toward them, despite what she must think of Hani’s tattoos.

  They were more extensive and colorful than Boston’s. They covered every available square inch of skin, stopping abruptly at his wrists, ankles, and neck—sacred body parts, according to Hani.

  If Emily ever got one, Boston imagined it’d be a barcode across the nape of her neck. Or “Corporate Barbie” stamped across her lower back in Times New Roman typeface. Fantastic ideas he’d be sure to mention should she ask for his advice on the matter.

  For now, her only reaction was the quizzical lift of one brow. “Spam? I heard that right?”

  Boston ignored her and made introductions.

  Emily offered her hand, and Hani accepted it.

  Then he rocked back on his heels in an exaggerated assessment of their new acquaintance. He scrutinized her from head to toe. The merry twinkle in his eye was probably the only thing keeping Emily from taking offense.

  Instead, she seemed amused by his open study. “Like what you see?”

  A warm smile spread over his generous lips. “I’m jus’ trying to figure out why you ain’t got no flower in your hair. Boston, get this girl a flower! Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Flower?” Her confused gaze swung to Boston.

  “Women sometimes wear flowers in their hair to display their marital status. Left ear, like the left ring finger, denotes you’re taken. A flower behind your right ear means you’re single and available.”

  “I’m divorced. Would I use a dead flower?”

  Hani laughed and clapped his hands in approval. “Oh, I like her. Can we keep her, Bos?”

  Boston suppressed his annoyance when Emily smiled back at his partner. Two days, and she’d only scowled at him. Two minutes in Hani’s company, and she was Miss Congeniality. “You’d probably just put it on the right to show you’re single. Or not wear one if you’re off the market.”

  Hani slapped him on the back. “Flowers—they’re kind of a sensitive subject for my friend here. See, my little sister has quite the crush on Boston. She never comes to The Canopy without her flower, just in case.”

  Emily cooed. “That’s adorable. If she can stand those red shorts of yours, I’d say she’s a keeper.”

  Hani threw up his hands in surprise and looked at Emily with round eyes. “Oh, my goodness, you, too? Thank God! See, Boston? I told you, man. They’re awful. Don’t even give them away. Just toss them in a shredder.”

  “They’re pretty terrible shorts, I have to admit.” Emily punctuated the statement with a sincerely apologetic frown.

  The last thing Boston needed was his partner and his client bonding over their mutual dislike of his fashion choices. Didn’t they have more pressing concerns? “I didn’t come here for a lesson in what not to wear. Can we—”

  Emily spoke over him like he hadn’t said a word and put a hand on Hani’s meaty forearm. “I’m sorry, I have to ask. Did you say Spam a minute ago? As in the canned meat?”

  Hani gave him a wide-eyed look of reproach. “What the hell kind of crackpot guide are you, haole?” He turned around, his long black braid swinging out behind him, and headed back the way he’d come toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Miss Emily. How do you explain it, brother? Spam is a culinary wonder. It’s magical. You can eat it any time of day. With eggs for breakfast or with rice for dinner. Or with rice for breakfast.”

  Boston motioned for Emily to follow Hani as his voice began to fade with his passage down the hallway. He murmured as she walked past. “They sell it at McDonald’s here. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No way.”

  “Yes way!” Hani’s shout rang from the kitchen.

  Boston entered the cramped galley kitchen behind Emily. Thompson had his arms elbow deep in sudsy water, washing plates from this morning’s breakfast crowd. “Thompson, this is Emily. Emily, Thompson. He’s another resident. He’s Hani’s protégé and also mute, so please don’t take offense if he doesn’t say hi.”

  She surprised him once again by offering Thompson a wide, genuine smile. “At least you’ve got an excuse. People think I’m rude when I stay quiet.”

  Thompson went back to working with a grin where there hadn’t been one before.

  Hani already had a skillet down on the hot surface of the new griddle-top oven. “You’re lucky, both of you. It’s a nice day out. The panhandlers won’t come for a shady place to get a hot meal till full noon, so I’ve got time to whip you up something real special. You ain’t never gonna look at Spam the same again.” He used his chin to point in Boston’s direction. “I heard this kepolo tell you something-something McDonald’s, but forget that. Take apple pie. McDonald’s will sell you an apple pie, right? But it ain’t l
ike Mama made. My Spam is like your mama made it.” He grinned, his big face shining like an olive moon.

  Emily’s features morphed into unmasked doubt. Her mama probably didn’t make Spam. “This is the fantastic local fare you promised me?”

  Boston’s stomach growled. He didn’t dare pretend he didn’t love Hani’s cooking, Emily and her uppity refined taste buds be damned. He’d eat her plate, too, if she didn’t like it. “Believe it or not, my itinerary for the day did not include lunch at a soup kitchen.”

  Her creamy brown eyes crinkled in amusement, and she laughed.

  It stunned him into perfect stillness, unable to respond in any way but to stare with his mouth agape like an idiot.

  Her laughter tapered away. “Is there something on my face?”

  He shook his head.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Did I speak Mongolian?”

  “No. You haven’t laughed before. Not since we met. That’s the first time I’ve heard it. It’s very nice. Perhaps we can salvage this vacation of yours, after all.”

  The laughter had gone, but an iota of amusement still glowed from behind those chocolaty irises. “Doubtful. I don’t even have a place to sleep tonight.”

  If he thought her sense of humor could withstand it, he’d suggest Kale’s empty bed upstairs. But it seemed a damn shame to piss her off now she’d finally loosened up. “This might sound like my hubris talking”—he winked—“but you’ll forgive me after you eat.”

  Please, dear God, let her like Spam.

  * * * *

  Emily hadn’t known the extent of her talent for acting until now. She’d kept up her visage of unimpressed, stone-cold statue, despite feeling about an inch tall ever since they’d pulled up in front of The Canopy and she’d been taught the lesson of her life.

  Saint Boston. Go figure.

  The jerky guide, who’d effectively ruined her vacation a mere two days in, had a heart of gold. He put up with snobs like her for the sake of feeding a handful of people a day in a building Emily wouldn’t hesitate to call condemned in a city where the work he did amounted to a single grain of sand on the beach.

  While she, the sniveling privileged vacationer, had been nothing but a God-awful snot since they met. She’d been so far off the mark it embarrassed her. Never again would she tout herself as a good judge of character.

  She definitely had to apologize now but, heaven help her, pride had its place among her finest qualities, and she wasn’t ready to beg his forgiveness yet. He still needed to find her a place to sleep tonight.

  First, she took the opportunity while picking the last sticky grains of rice from her tin plate to offer hers. “Okay, I forgive you. I’ve never had Spam before, and I have to say it’s pretty good.”

  Boston glanced up from his nearly empty plate with a downturned mouth. His lips glistened with grease. He licked them. “Never?”

  It took her a beat to move her gaze back to safe ground. “Do I look like someone who eats conspicuously labeled meat product from a can?”

  No hesitation in his response as he bobbed his head in a point taken manner and went back to polishing off the last of his rice.

  Emily flopped against the plastic lawn chair, pushed away her empty plate, and dropped her hands in her lap. With her head hung low like a sorry dog’s, she ground out the words. “I owe you an apology.” She raised her gaze.

  Boston’s eyebrows gathered in a puzzled stare, and he froze with the plate halfway to his mouth. He’d been about to lick it clean.

  Gently, she took the plate from his hands and offered him a napkin. The fact that he appeared genuinely flummoxed, instead of arrogantly expectant, only made it worse. She stacked the plate on top of hers and forced herself to sit up straight.

  If she was going to do this, she could at least try for some dignity. She’d faked it up to this point, hadn’t she? “I said I owe you an apology. I made some very base assumptions when I met you. It’s not an excuse, of course, but I didn’t expect anyone to be waiting. Quinn could’ve said something. And you…well, you…” She closed her eyes and spit out the words. “I thought you were a bum when I saw you at the airport. Even with the nice shoes and close shave.” She forced herself to peek at Boston through one eye.

  An amused smile lit his narrow, dimpled face. He wore his hair loose today. It fell to his shoulders, straight and sun-streaked. “This won’t be the most shocking thing you’ve ever come to terms with, but I have been homeless. I guess the fashion stuck.”

  “Really, how can it be my fault when you dress like a bum? You remind me of a guy I met on the subway once. He had a neon green Mohawk and wanted to know what I was staring at.”

  Finesse wasn’t exactly a part of her skillset. She could converse, break ice, and find common ground, but not without being her forthright self. At work, people respected it. In social situations, it often proved a hurdle. “I’m sorry. That’s all. I made some rash judgments based on your appearance, but also, let’s be honest here, Boston. You’re not exactly the most professional person I’ve met. I understand that’s apparently what makes you unique to your market, and doing what I do for a living, I ought to have recognized and accepted it instead of holding you against an imaginary ideal of what I thought I should expect.”

  “Man, these big words again.”

  “You’re being intentionally difficult.” She sat back and crossed her arms. She noted the defensiveness of the posture but was unwilling to pretend she wasn’t feeling somewhat defensive. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

  He leaned forward. In doing so, he came close enough for her to take in the deep lines around his eyes and the faded freckles on his cheeks. He was older than she’d first thought. “If only to make you feel better, I’ll admit I made some judgments of my own. I decided right away you were an awful snob. Though, to be fair, you were dressed like one.” He made a point of glancing at her clothes. “You still kind of are.”

  “Yeah, well, I am an awful snob. You weren’t far off the mark.”

  “Nah.” He shook his head and rose to take their plates. “A real snob wouldn’t have stepped over the threshold into a place like this. You’d still be waiting in the van.”

  Hani came barreling into the dining hall with a large tray. “Give me them plates, Bos. It’s lunchtime, and you know what that means. This place is about to exceed its occupancy limit. I need you two well-fed folks to clear out. Make room for the hungry people.”

  Boston handed over the dishes and rubbed his belly. “Thanks, Hani. We’ll get out of the way.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I didn’t invite you back to base camp for a lunch break, remember? We need to talk before Ryder gets back. C’mon.” He waved them toward the kitchen. “Unlike you, I can work and move my jaw at the same time. Take notes, eh?”

  Boston snorted. “More like you have Thompson to churn out plates for you.”

  “Having an assistant don’t hurt.” Hani glanced back long enough to sneak a wink at Emily.

  She’d fallen into instant like with the giant Hawaiian. Even his nonsensical jumble of tribal tattoos hadn’t been enough to put her off. If only he’d teach Boston to be so charming.

  She followed the men back to the kitchen, where Boston struggled to open a thin, warped wooden door on the far end of the galley she hadn’t noticed earlier. Somehow, it didn’t surprise her it turned out to be a broom closet, but the desk wedged inside the small room certainly caught her off guard. They’d managed to wrestle in a small filing cabinet with a few office staples resting on top. The office, she’d wager, where Boston executed his end of the business.

  She spared a thought for her spacious seventeenth-floor window office back home with its panoramic view of downtown Los Angeles. Another pang of guilt hit her square in the chest. A cushy reclining desk chair and top-of-the-line laptop were a few of the things she took for granted.

  Boston managed an entire soup kitchen from a broom closet and, judging by the
evidence, entirely by hand. A large paper ledger book sat on the desk, but there was no computer in sight.

  Saint Boston.

  He insisted she sit at the desk in yet another plastic lawn chair. When she got home to L.A., she was going to ship him a real chair. She’d send a desk if anything larger than what he had would fit.

  She twiddled her thumbs while they carried on a conversation she had no place in.

  Boston leaned against the doorjamb with his back angled toward her, folded his arms, and addressed Hani. “What makes you think Kale’s in trouble? And what does it have to do with us, and how, exactly, is Ryder involved?”

  Hani’s hands seemed to operate on autopilot as he moved through the kitchen, even while his gaze remained mostly fixed on Boston. He measured out dry rice from a large bucket into a massive metal stockpot, dented and dinged from use. “From the top, Bos. Thanks to you, we got Ryder bailed out. Dude didn’t even wait to leave the station this morning before he called asking if Kale showed up while he was in lockup. I say, come to think of it, Kale ain’t been here in days. Ryder gets real agitated like Kale shoulda been here.”

  Hani paused to transfer the pot of rice to the sink. He flipped the tap and raised his voice over the sound of water gushing from the faucet. “Ryder told me Kale is his cousin or something. Turns out we were right. Ryder does work downtown.”

  Boston’s face wasn’t in Emily’s view, but she heard the smile in his reply. “Smooth hands don’t lie.”

  “You said it, brother.” Hani issued a small, disappointed shake of his head. “Ryder tells it like this. He’s having sushi for lunch at the beach park and swears he saw his cousin, the one his whole family must be talking about, Kale, hitting up a tourist for change. Ryder starts asking around, handing out the rest of his California rolls for information. This goes on for a week before anyone opened up. He finally learns Kale was supposed to be in Kalihi last night.”

  Boston nodded once. “Ryder went and ended up getting arrested.”