by Carol Snow
“You never want people to know you’re not home. Someone who works for the newspaper could break in, or they could tip someone off.”
“You don’t honestly believe that,” I said.
“You can’t be too trusting.”
* * *
We arrived at LAX three hours before our flight. “You win,” I said after we’d checked in.
“What?” Jimmy asked, all innocence.
“We didn’t have to be this early.”
He stroked my brown hair. “Yes, we did. If we’d been merely on time, you would have worried.”
“I just want things to be perfect,” I said.
“I just want you to be happy.”
We passed the time buying trashy magazines at a newsstand and drinking icy piña coladas at a surfer-themed lounge (surfboard-shaped tables, surfboards over the bar: you get the picture). We hadn’t even boarded the plane, yet I already felt like I was on vacation. As I sucked out the bottom of my drink, Jimmy caught the bartender’s eye and held up two fingers.
“As long as we’ve got a minute, we should go over the schedule,” I said, reaching into my carry-on bag for my planner (at least I hadn’t typed the list; that would have been really anal). Jimmy traveled to Maui on business at least once a month, but the trips were so packed with meetings that he never got to do any of the tourist things.
“I made up a schedule, too,” Jimmy said.
“Really?” I was touched. Jimmy knew how much I liked to plan ahead.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his tanned, toned arms behind his head. “Tonight? I’m thinking we arrive late and have sex.”
“Okay . . .”
“Then tomorrow morning, we have sex and then go to the beach. Or maybe we should go to the beach and then have sex. It could go either way.” He paused as if considering. “Day after that, I’m thinking, beach, sex, and then the day after that, maybe we go to the pool for a change of pace. And then have sex.”
I tried to look amused. And in a way, I was. Four weeks earlier, when Jimmy announced that his business was good, his frequent-flier balance was high, and he was taking me to Maui, I thought we were taking a step forward in our relationship. Instead, he’d almost immediately started pulling away from me. Some days he forgot to call. And more than once when he’d spent the night, he’d said, “I’m really tired. Okay if we just go to sleep?” I was starting to worry that he no longer found me attractive.
He leaned across the surfboard-shaped table and took my hand. “It doesn’t matter what we do. I’m just pumped to be spending a whole week with you.” He held my eyes until I smiled. “So, what’s the plan?”
Still holding his hand, I looked at the list. “Tomorrow, Friday, I figure we’ll explore the Hyatt and hang out by the pool, maybe walk down to Whaler’s Village for dinner.” I checked his eyes. He nodded.
“Saturday, I’ve penciled in sunrise at Haleakala—you know, the volcano—and a driving tour of the up-country. Sunday, diving and snorkeling in the morning, a walking tour of downtown Lahaina in the afternoon. Monday, the road to Hana—that’ll take all day. Tuesday, parasailing off of Kaanapali Beach, and then a luau for dinner.” I paused to check his reaction. “Too cheesy?”
“Nah, it sounds fun.”
Back to the list. “Wednesday, we can drive to the town of Wailea. I know you’ve been there for work, but there’s a lava field, a red sand beach—lots to explore. Thursday we’re taking the red-eye out, so I’m thinking we take it easy, maybe hang by the pool.”
“Wow,” he said. “We’re gonna need a vacation from our vacation.”
I looked up from the list. “Is it too much? Because we can change things as we go along—you know, play it by ear. I just thought it would be helpful to have something to refer to.”
He brushed my cheek with his fingers. “You’re crazy, you know that? And I mean that in a good way.”
“I’d better check in with work,” I said, digging my cell phone out of my tropical-print tote bag. “Work” meant Wills Rubber Company, manufacturer of premium playground mats. I was the human resources manager.
Lena, the receptionist, put me on hold for about three minutes before finally answering. “Jane! Omigod, I’m so glad you called!”
“What’s wrong?” I ran through my various to-do lists in my head without coming up with anything left undone.
“Tomorrow’s Friday!” she said.
“I know,” I said, thinking: Friday, Friday—what was I supposed to do on Friday? The monthly newsletter had been distributed, I’d given new-employee information to the payroll clerk, and I’d returned all of my messages and e-mails. A customer-service representative with a fondness for micro-miniskirts had received my standard “appropriate office attire” speech, while a receiving clerk had been put on notice about his chronic tardiness.
“Who’s going to bring in muffins?” Lena demanded.
A piña colada appeared in front of me. I don’t normally drink this much—or anything—during the day. Jimmy held his glass up in a toast. I winked.
“You always make muffins on Friday,” Lena said. “You probably don’t know how much that means to people, but honest to God, I’ve had at least five people say to me, ‘If Jane’s not here, who’s going to bring the muffins?’ ”
Jimmy took a long drink of his piña colada. Then he looked at my breasts and licked his lips.
“You can always buy muffins,” I told Lena.
“It’s not the same,” she said. “Everyone counts on you. It’s like you’re the company mom.”
“I’m the company mom?” I said.
Jimmy threw back his head and laughed. A small white scar ran along his jawline. I loved that scar: everybody needs an imperfection.
“Try Costco,” I told Lena. “You can get a dozen muffins for something like eight bucks.”
After that, I turned off my cell phone. “Where were we?” I asked, picking up my drink.
“On our way to Maui,” Jimmy said.
There was no question that Jimmy had changed my attitude toward work. Before we started dating, I arrived at the office early and left late—usually with my arms full of paperwork. My work was my life for the simple reason that I had no other life.
Ironically, the shift in attention had been good for my career. A month into the relationship, my boss called me into his office. Bob Wills had started Wills Rubber Company thirty-five years earlier. Mr. Wills was sixty-four years old, married with five grown children. He spoke softly and carried a big stick up his ass.
“Jane.” He paused. “It has come to my attention.”
He cleared his throat. He hummed. He always hummed when he had trouble finding the right words.
He took a deep breath and soldiered on. “What I mean is, here at Wills Rubber Company, we value your contributions.” He turned red.
I had no idea what he was getting at.
Finally, he shoved a piece of paper at me.
MEMO
To: Jane Shea
From: Bob Wills
Re: Your future at Wills Rubber Company
Dear Jane:
It is my hope that you understand how much we value your contributions at Wills Rubber Company. Your work in Human Resources has been superlative. Beyond that, your participation in the management team has helped form our vision for the future.
However, I cannot help but notice a change in you over the last month. Your attire appears to be more studied, while you have been spending more time away from the office.
I can only conclude that you have been interviewing for another job. If you are dissatisfied with your position or prospects at Wills Rubber, please let me know. We are prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to retain you.
I read the memo twice. And then I squinted at Bob Wills, who appeared to be on the verge of hyperventilation.
“You think I’m looking for another job?” I asked.
He nodded nervously and began to hum.
“But, wh
y? Just because I’ve left early a few times?” There really wasn’t anything to say about my “studied attire.” I had worn dresses a couple of times, it’s true, but today I was dressed as usual, in a pair of pressed Ann Taylor slacks and a crisp blue blouse.
“You seem—different,” he said. “I can’t explain it.”
I said, “I’m just trying to find a better balance between my job and the rest of my life.”
I glanced back at the memo. “What steps, exactly, would you take to retain me?”
“Salary reviews are in April,” he told me. “You can expect good things.”
Lena, the receptionist, didn’t think I was looking for another job. When I’d been dating Jimmy for just over a week, she looked me up and down and said, “You’re getting laid, aren’t you?”
When I didn’t answer—just turned bright red—she said, “It’s about damn time.”
Two hours later, Jimmy and I settled into our (first class!) seats as mournful Hawaiian music played over the speakers. Since Jimmy traveled so much for business, he’d cashed in his frequent-flier miles to cover the plane ride and his American Express miles for the hotel.
A plump, gray-haired couple took the seats behind us. She had elaborately curled hair and parrot earrings. He, like about a third of the men on the flight, wore a Hawaiian shirt.
After fastening my seat belt, I checked my watch, pleased to see that the flight was on time, and did a quick check for cell-phone messages. I was relieved to see there were none, though a little perturbed to realize I was not indispensable.
“Are you going to call your office?” I asked Jimmy. Jimmy owned a designer wetsuit business, “Jimmies.” They specialized in the dive market, though a lot of surfers were starting to wear their suits as well.
“Nah,” he said. “They’re fine without me.”
“You won’t be able to use your phone for the next five hours.”
I sounded like a mom, I realized with dismay. Jimmy was always talking about growing his business, how he wanted to be a major player in the wetsuit market. But while he did travel a lot, he seemed to forget about work the moment he was away from it. Also, the company budget was so tight that he’d been forced to wait tables on the side. If I hadn’t been so eager for this vacation, I would have suggested that he save his frequent-flier miles for business use.
I admired Jimmy’s live-in-the-moment attitude, but I couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Rather, I couldn’t stop thinking about the rest of my life. Jimmy had said several times—oh, so casually—that he couldn’t even consider settling down until his business became more established. He was thirty-four years old, and I was thirty-two; surely he wouldn’t make me wait forever.
Jimmy pulled the airline magazine from the pocket in front of him. “I’ve built an amazing team. They can handle anything that happens. Scott can deal with any customer issues, and Ana’s on top of the logistics.”
At Ana’s name, I felt a pang of jealousy. Ana was the office manager who, according to Jimmy, was incredibly smart and a top-notch diver, a committed environmentalist and adventurer. She was also twenty-five years old and single. I once asked, as casually as I could manage, why Jimmy had never introduced me to her or Scott, the sales manager. Or any of the other employees whose names he dropped into conversation. Jimmy shrugged and said, “When I get together with them outside of the office, it’s to dive. And you don’t dive.”
One day, when Jimmy canceled our plans at the last minute, saying he had an unexpected business trip, I called his office. He’d never given me the number, but it was listed on his Web site (which was perpetually under construction). To be honest, I half expected the number to be no longer in service or nonexistent, the entire business an elaborate hoax.
But a woman answered: “Hey, this is Ana.” Her voice was low and smooth—not sexy, exactly, but cool. This was a woman who could slip fifty feet under the ocean’s surface while looking hot in a wetsuit.
“Is this, um—a business?” I asked, thinking I’d gotten the wrong number.
“Yeah, it’s Jimmies, Inc.,” she said. “We do wetsuits.” In the background, I could hear the kind of rap music that would have sent Mr. Wills running to his computer to compose a memo.
“I’m looking for Mr. James,” I said formally, as if I didn’t know him. His first name was actually Michael, but since his father was Michael, too, he’d gone by Jimmy since he was a little kid.
“Not here,” she said. “You want his cell?”
“That’s okay. I’ll try him some other time.”
I hung up feeling immensely relieved, ashamed of myself for doubting him. I trusted him wholeheartedly . . . until the next time he canceled at the last minute.
I’d Googled him, of course, right at the beginning.
The world was full of men named Michael James. In Wichita, a science teacher named Michael James posted his homework assignments online (his class was studying cell division); in British Columbia, ninth-grade Michael James had an odd fixation on Japanese comic books; and across the pond in England, a Michael James posted a daily blog about gardening, much of which revolved around snail eradication. And those were just some of the live ones. There were loads of dead Michael Jameses, too.
When I checked Michael James and scuba, though, I got a hit on his company, Jimmies, Incorporated (It should be “Jimmy’s,” I thought immediately). Two clicks got me to their Web site, which had a catchy logo, the J shaped like a wave, and an intro blurb:
Jimmies, Inc.
Artistic Wetsuits
Dive and Surf with Style
Laguna Beach, California
Michael James, Founder and Owner
The page had a menu bar (History, People, Job Opportunities, Order) and a phone number, but a line at the bottom of the page announced, “We are currently updating our site to better serve our customers. For more information, please call our customer-service line.”
“You should get your Web site running,” I told Jimmy.
He shrugged. “People call us. It’s no big deal.”
“You spelled Jimmies wrong,” I blurted, another day.
He shook his head, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Your company name. There should be an apostrophe.”
He rolled his eyes at the absurdity. “Nobody likes apostrophes,” he said.
Now, on the jumbo airliner, he flipped open his in-flight magazine. “Check it out—kayaking!” He flipped the page. “Or—wait. We could ride mountain bikes down a volcano. Some of my customers on the island have told me about that—they say it’s a real rush.”
I pulled out my planner and flipped to the itinerary. “We could do that . . . Sunday. After watching the sunrise. There’s a company that drives you up with the bikes, then you ride down the volcano. I saw it in my guidebook.” I made a note in my planner. “I can’t wait to see the Hyatt.”
“You’re going to love it.” He gazed out at the tarmac. “It’s my favorite place to stay.”
Every guidebook I’d read (and believe me, I’d read a lot) said the Hyatt was one of the nicest resorts on Maui. I’d spent hours perusing their Web site, blinking in wonder at their list of amenities: enormous rock pool, white sand beach, full-service spa, tennis courts, shopping arcade. There were penguins, parrots, flamingos, and swans. Best of all, Jimmy had cashed in extra Amex points to reserve an ocean-view room. Perhaps I should amend my itinerary. Would we even want to leave the grounds?
I put away the planner and got myself into vacation mode by pulling out a trashy magazine. The cover showed a beautiful, smiling celebrity couple with the headline OUR SECRETS TO A HAPPY MARRIAGE.
I held the cover up to Jimmy. “Look at this. You can pretty much guarantee that a year from now they’ll be back on the cover, only this time it will say, ‘What Went Wrong.’ ” I don’t read these kinds of magazines much, just at the hairdresser and on airplanes, but I secretly love them because they make me feel superior.
The plane pulled a
way from the gate and taxied down the runway. When it finally accelerated with stomach-dropping speed, I looked out the window and saw the gray tarmac fall away below me. We soared over the Pacific Ocean, a thick layer of brown air hugging the horizon.
The plane hit an air pocket and dipped suddenly. I sucked in my breath. Throughout the cabin, passengers yelped in alarm. Soon, though, we eased into smoother air.
The older woman behind us sighed. “If we’re gonna die in a plane crash, I sure hope it’s on the way home from Hawaii.”
I smiled in agreement. Whether or not Jimmy and I wound up together, this was a week I didn’t want to miss.
Chapter 3
I’m a big believer in the power of worrying, but even though I forgot to worry about losing my bag, it slid down onto the carousel without a hitch, the yellow ribbon still tied to the handle. Jimmy’s blue duffel followed shortly after, as did his beat-up black diving bag.
“I think I’m getting a hangover,” I moaned, pulling my wheeled bag to the curb. The first-class flight attendants had plied us with wine during the flight. “And it’s only . . .” I checked my watch. “Ten o’clock?”
The evening sky was pink around the edges: it couldn’t possibly be that late. “Oh—I forgot about the time change.” I giggled. In my whole life, I had never once forgotten to change my watch when crossing time zones—but then, I had never drunk wine for three thousand miles, either.
“How’s this?” Jimmy said. “You wait here with the bags, and I’ll go get the rental car. That way we don’t have to haul everything on the shuttle.”
“Great idea.” I sat down on a concrete block and inhaled the scent of tropical flowers.
He leaned over and kissed me. “Back before you know it.”
But he wasn’t. After half an hour, the concrete block felt really hard under my butt. Near me, a man sucked on a cigarette next to a “No Smoking” sign. I pulled a sweater out of my tote bag. The winter in California had been unusually warm; here it felt chilly.