by Carol Snow
A white sedan pulled up to the curb. I popped off my block, squinting at the man inside. He opened the door: not Jimmy. An SUV glided to a stop. Two more white sedans. People and luggage piled inside. These were the smart travelers, the ones who’d thought to send someone on to the car-rental agencies the instant the plane landed.
When Jimmy had been gone forty minutes, I dug out my cell phone. The call went straight through to voice mail; he mustn’t have turned his phone on yet.
A silver minivan stopped, and a mother and her four children (three of whom were crying) jammed inside. It suddenly seemed too quiet around me, with the sounds of cars and planes but no people.
A crazy idea flashed through my head: what if Jimmy had forgotten about me? He wouldn’t, of course. And yet: what if?
The rental car was red and sporty. I sighed with relief and exhaustion when the driver’s-side door opened and Jimmy got out. “I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” I joked. But when I realized how needy that sounded, I said, “I thought I’d have to find another sugar daddy to put me up for the week.”
As he grabbed the bags and started hoisting them in the trunk, he smiled, but something in his face made me nervous. He didn’t hold my eyes long enough.
I got in the car and buckled my seat belt. The seats were so low to the ground it felt like I was sitting in a hole. Jimmy put his hand on my leg. “Long line at the car rental,” he said.
“No worries,” I said, just glad to be on our way.
He took his hand off of my leg and shifted into gear. “I have to tell you something,” he said, his eyes straight ahead, his jaw tense.
Oh. My. God. He is going to dump me. He has taken me three thousand miles just to set me loose.
“What?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“When I was picking up the car, I called the hotel—you know, to confirm.” He shot me a sideways glance and returned his eyes to the road.
“And?”
He sighed. “They lost our reservation. Or something. The reservations person at the Hyatt said the American Express points never transferred.”
“Did you call American Express?”
He nodded. “They were really apologetic, said they’d award me some bonus points to make up for it, but there’s nothing they can do.”
“Did the Hyatt have any more rooms available?” I knew the answer already.
He shook his head. “Completely sold out. February’s the busiest month. I called all the other hotels on Kaanapali—the Sheraton, the Westin, the Marriott . . .” He moaned and gave me a pained look. “Oh, baby, I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay!” I said, feeling weirdly relieved. So we might be sleeping on the beach: at least he hadn’t dumped me. “So, are we—um, that is . . .”
“I called in a favor,” he said. “Got us a studio condo. Really nice place—it’s a garden-view unit, but the complex is right on the beach. The view won’t be as good as at the Hyatt, but it’ll be more private, and we’ll have a lot more space. But there’s no room service or anything, and no pool boys to bring you drinks.”
A condo sounded nice: comfortable and relaxing. “You can be my pool boy,” I said.
“I’d love to be your pool boy.” He reached over and squeezed my knee. “Thanks for being so understanding. I really love that about you.”
The complex was not on the beach. It was on the water, true, but there was no sand, just a seawall that fell right down to some perilous-looking waves. And our condo was not garden view; it was parking-lot view.
“Hey, this is nice!” Jimmy chirped, dumping his duffel bag in the middle of the living-room floor. In the middle of the bedroom floor. In the middle of the floor.
“Mm,” I said.
“Check it out—there’s a kitchen!” he said. “Which is totally awesome since you like cooking so much.”
It did not have a kitchen. It had a couple of hazardous-looking burners, a grotty toaster oven, a dinky sink, a minifridge, and a few brown cabinets that were supposed to look like wood but were obviously brown plastic with some sad attempts at wood-grain designs. The room stank of lemon disinfectant.
“I don’t usually cook on vacation,” I said—a true statement, since I rarely go on vacation.
“You’re mad at me,” Jimmy said huskily.
“No!” I said, thinking: Yes!
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, stepping closer.
“How?” I am nothing if not forgiving.
He ran his hands down my arms. He had this way of looking at me, with his chin tucked down and his blue eyes holding my gaze. It was like he was shooting love lasers straight at me. And, understand: I am not the kind of person who normally uses words like love lasers.
“How do you want me to make it up to you?” he asked.
I buried my face in his shoulder. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“What kind of suggestions?”
“Um, suggestive suggestions?”
I know. Pathetic. But I have fully embraced and accepted my inhibitions.
“Are you hungry?” he murmured.
“Starving,” I said, surprised to realize it was true.
He gave my arms a quick squeeze and strode over to the minifridge. It was empty. Obviously.
“Hmm,” he said. “You got any snacks left over from the plane?”
“Let’s go out,” I said. “There are a whole bunch of places along Kaanapali Beach. I circled a couple in the guidebook.” I reached into my tote bag and pulled out the book. “There’s public parking at, let’s see . . . Whaler’s Village. And then maybe we can walk down to—”
“I don’t want to go to Kaanapali,” he interrupted.
“What? Why?”
He ran a long-fingered hand through his thick blond hair. “I spent so much time on the phone tonight. You know, calling all those hotels. It was just so fucking frustrating. All I could think about was how you’ve been looking forward to this week—I mean, you’ve got that big schedule and all . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re here. And it’s—nice. So, let’s just have fun. We’ll head over to Kaanapali and—”
“Kaanapali will just remind me of how I fucked up.”
I stared. He was supposed to be the laid-back one.
“We could just, you know, get takeout,” he said. “Aren’t you tired? We have all week to explore.”
“Fine,” I said, clenching my jaw and shooting something other than love lasers his way. “Let’s just eat peanuts. And maybe watch TV. That’ll be fun.”
He put his arms around me. “Baby, I’m sorry. You’re right. This is supposed to be your vacation. Let’s go out to dinner—someplace nice. I just want you to be happy.”
That was all he had to say. “You’re right,” I said. “We’ve got the whole week ahead of us. Let’s just go pick up some food, maybe eat it outside.”
Funny thing about Taco Bell: it tastes better in Maui, especially if you’re looking at the ocean. Within the hour, we were out on the lounge chairs, eating grilled stuffed chicken burritos and sipping Diet Cokes.
When I finished my food, I set the take-out bag on the grass and leaned back against my lounge chair. “Mm,” I said. “We’re finally here.”
“Do you think a week will be long enough?” he asked, sounding wistful.
“No way. I could stay here forever.”
The air was misty damp but not really cold, and my jeans and sweatshirt kept me warm. Guitar notes trickled out from a condo behind us as gentle waves glowed silver underneath a full moon rimmed with clouds. Stars appeared in patches, but I forgot to make a wish.
The misty dampness turned to a light rain.
“You want to go in?” Jimmy asked.
I shook my head. “It’s too perfect here. And I haven’t finished my soda.” I closed my eyes and felt the warm dampness on my face.
“Look!” Jimmy grabbed my arm. “A moon-bow!”
“Huh?” I opened my eyes and there it was: a ghostl
y rainbow arching over the ocean. “But it’s night!” I blinked, half expecting it to disappear, but it only grew brighter.
“It happens sometimes when the moon is bright and it starts to rain. I think it’s supposed to be good luck. Or bad luck. Some kind of luck.”
“Where’s the pot of gold?” I asked. “Under the waves?”
“At the bottom of the sea,” he suggested. “Buried treasure.”
“Guess the leprechauns will go scuba diving tonight.” I turned to Jimmy. He looked so handsome in the moonlight, his streaky hair curling at wild angles, his blue eyes wide with wonder. I put my hand on his face and leaned over to kiss him. After a few minutes, we pulled apart. I looked back at the sky, but the moon-bow had gone.
Suddenly, strangely, I wondered whether the leprechauns had drowned.
Chapter 4
Here’s what happens when you travel west: the first morning, you wake up with the sunrise. Sometimes you wake up before the sunrise. You peek out the window and think, Yippee! I’ve got this whole great day ahead of me!
And then it hits you: nobody else is up. Nothing is open. You might as well just go back to sleep.
I woke up a few minutes before five. The room was completely dark, so I turned on the bathroom light and left the door open a crack. Jimmy was out cold, breathing slowly. He was lying on his back, one arm over his head, his mouth open slightly. He’d pushed the white sheets down to his waist, revealing the edge of his blue boxer shorts. His chest was bare. I liked to look at Jimmy when he slept because I could really stare at him. If I looked at him like that when he was awake, he might think my feelings for him ran too deep—deeper than his feelings for me, at any rate. And I didn’t want him to think that.
Once I finished ogling him, I crept over to the window and peeked around the curtains. The sky was still murky. I crawled back into bed and slid right next to Jimmy, hoping he’d sense me and wake up. He didn’t. I closed my eyes—just for a minute, I told myself.
When I woke up again, he was gone. I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and pushed open the heavy curtains. The parking lot was looking lovely today. Happily, the previous inhabitants had left half a package of ground Kona coffee, along with filters and some sugar. I started a pot of coffee. Later I’d buy milk.
While the coffee gurgled I set about unpacking, having fought the urge to do so the night before. “Stop acting so anal-retentive around Jimmy” had topped my New Year’s resolutions. But now, alone, I pulled out my packing list and checked off each item as I placed it in a drawer. I’d check everything off again when I left. That way, I could make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.
Once I’d tucked away my final items (1 pair gym shorts; 3 pairs gym socks; 1 silk nightgown), I poured myself a cup of coffee and settled on the rattan sofa.
The room had looked shabby last night; in daylight it was borderline decrepit. The industrial carpeting was six shades of brown, at least four shades of which were unintentional. The rattan furniture had lost its sheen; several pieces looked ready to collapse, and the edges were splintery. As for the sofa and chairs, the cushions were of two mismatched patterns: one a green tropical print, the other an orange tropical print. The green cushions were in slightly better shape. Slightly.
I stuck the room key, my cell phone, and a packet of airplane crackers in my pocket and took my bittersweet coffee outside. A stocky man with enormous shoulders was pulling a big white laundry cart through the parking lot and whistling. When he saw me, he smiled and said, “Aloha.”
“Hi,” I said. I scanned the lot; Jimmy’s red rental car was gone. Maybe he was getting milk for my coffee? And a muffin, perhaps?
In the daylight, I could really see the condo complex. That was not a good thing. The cinder-block building was long and rectangular, three stories high, painted the peachy-beige color that small children use when drawing pictures of people. Out front, a brown sign with swirly white letters said, MAUI HI VILLAS. There were some palm trees by the edge of the road, some out-of-control salmon bougainvilleas.
The condos looked far better from the other side—the ocean side. The building was pretty much the same, but the Pacific was magnificent. The lightest breeze tickled my skin. The waves were small, their sound soothing, like a tuneless stringed instrument.
Our lounge chairs from last night were free. Actually, all of the lounges were free since it was still pretty early, about eight o’clock. I settled myself down, the rubber kissing my bare legs, and sipped my lukewarm coffee. The air smelled of salt and flowers. I gazed out at the island of Molokai, which rose from the blue water like an apparition. At my side, a tiny brown bird hopped around on the grass, looking up in expectation of a crumb. I opened the packet of crackers from the plane and tossed a piece. Ten or more birds appeared almost immediately, chirping and hopping and knocking into one another. They were sort of cute, sort of creepy: Hitchcock in Hawaii.
In the distance, I saw one splash, and then another. “A whale!” I blurted. The birds were unimpressed. I wished Jimmy had been there to see it.
Once I’d polished off the crackers and coffee, I pulled out my cell phone. I hit Jimmy’s number but hung up before it connected. I scrolled down my address list until I found Mom, and hit the button.
After four rings, her answering machine picked up. “Hi, Mom, it’s me. Jane. I’ve been meaning to call you. I guess I should have told you earlier, but I’m in Maui right now. With Jimmy. We’re here for the week, flying back next Thursday. I’ll call you when I get home.”
When I hung up, I exhaled. I felt relieved that I hadn’t had to talk to my mother. And then, immediately, I felt guilty about feeling relieved.
Let’s just get the unhappy-childhood crap out of the way so we can get back to the story. Some recent studies have concluded that many children of divorce have a difficult time forming lasting relationships as adults. To those researchers, I say: “Duh. How much time and money did you spend on this research?”
My parents started dating during their junior year of college and got married a month after graduation. My father became an accountant. My mother became pregnant. Everything went according to plan—until the day my father walked out.
According to my mother, my father once promised to stick around “until the children left home.” Presumably, before that, he promised to stick around, you know, forever, but my mother doesn’t seem to care about that. He half kept his half-assed promise, leaving the week after my sister left for nursing school. I was fourteen.
My mother never expressed anger at the fact of his leaving; it was the timing that pissed her off. “Four more years,” she’d hiss, as if he were a slacker politician who had chosen not to run for reelection. “Couldn’t he have given us four more years?”
They sold our pretty white Colonial house (four bedrooms, roomy backyard, on a leafy cul-de-sac) and split the proceeds. My father, in a fit of what he termed generosity but what I saw as making a clean break, let my mother keep all of the furniture. It made his moving easier. Two months after walking out, he found a “great job opportunity” in Florida. The great job opportunity was named Elise. They’re still together.
My mother, in what she termed sentimentality but what I deemed a refusal to face reality, insisted on shoving every bed, dresser, table, plate, picture, vase, and candlestick into a cramped two-bedroom town house. Let’s just say that no one has ever said that my mother’s town house looks like a hotel. Since she had no real work experience, she wound up taking a job at Home Depot. She’s been with the store almost as long as my father has been with Elise. I’ll say this for my mother: she knows a lot more about drywall grades and plumbing hardware than the average middle-aged woman.
My mother didn’t unload any of the furniture the following year when my sister, Beth, dropped out of nursing school to marry her high school boyfriend, a concrete contractor named Sal Piccolo. They’re still married and living in New Jersey. I have learned not to make Mafia jokes.
Beth and Sal have five
girls (Samantha, Savannah, Stacey, Sierra, and—though it pains me to write it—Sindy), but they’re not done. As Sal says, “We’ll keep trying till we get a boy.” He says this in front of the girls. Beth just smiles. Beth lets Sal do pretty much whatever he wants. Most of the things Sal wants involve really big televisions and overstuffed recliners with drink holders. If Beth ever read about the divorce studies—which is to say, if she ever found time to sit down, much less read a magazine—she’d puff herself up and say that the researchers were wrong: obviously, she’d mastered the secret to a happy marriage.
And who knows? Maybe she is happy. Sal hasn’t left her, at least not yet. Among us Shea woman, that counts as success.
I hung around with my empty coffee cup and the birds for about a half hour longer than I really wanted to. I liked the idea of Jimmy coming back to an empty condo and maybe even missing me for a minute or two.
Instead, one look at the parking lot told me that Jimmy was still out, so I wasn’t surprised to find the condo exactly as I had left it. After a brief, familiar pang—one part panic to two parts sadness with a dash of resignation—I relaxed.
At home I worried that every time I saw Jimmy might be the last. It’s not anything he did or said. On the contrary, he usually left me with a kiss and a casual “I’ll call you later.” That’s assuming he was awake. With our different work schedules, I often left him sleeping. (“I’m the boss,” he said. “I can be late if I want to.”) At first, I’d searched for a note when I got home. Now I knew that Jimmy does not leave notes.
But here in Hawaii, I reminded myself, I had nothing to worry about. Jimmy would not disappear. Where could he possibly go?
It was almost lunchtime in California. I sat on the rumpled bed and called my office.
“Jane!” Lena said. “Shouldn’t you be on the beach or something?”