by Carol Snow
I looked back into the room. It was large and restful, decorated in beige and grays and potted palms. The bed was enormous, covered with a fluffy white comforter and lots of pillows. In the closet there was probably another white cotton robe like the one Jimmy had worn.
“I think I’ll stay here,” I said, surprising myself. “In this room. I’m paying for it, anyway. Getting to the airport tomorrow shouldn’t be a big deal—they must have a shuttle.”
“You’re going to stay . . . in Jimmy’s room?”
“It’s not really Jimmy’s room,” I said. “He didn’t pay for it.” I gazed at the room, imagining myself in it. “Did you see that big Jacuzzi tub? I can’t remember the last time I took a bath.” My shoulders relaxed at the very thought of the warm jets.
“In the morning I’ll order room service,” I continued. “No matter what it costs. And I’ll eat it out on the lanai.” Below us, the hotel’s multilevel pools shone like enormous sapphires. “And then, before checkout, I’ll go swimming. I mean—look at that! It’s like a water park!”
Michael squinted at me. For once in my life, I had managed to surprise someone. “Your credit-card company won’t like that,” he said. “They may not even reimburse you.”
I nodded. He was right.
“You know what?” I said. “I really don’t care.”
Afterword
Jimmy got three years in prison. Since the prison is in Honolulu, I can’t feel that bad for him.
Tiara got her own TV show. I found out about it while reading the paper one day:
“THE BACHELOR”—WITH BARS
Just when you thought all of the good reality-show ideas had been taken, here comes something new. “Ball and Chain,” tentatively scheduled to debut this summer, will pair lonely women with even lonelier men—inmates at an as-yet-undisclosed maximum security prison.
Hosting the series is Tiara Cardenas, who recently drew national attention when her boyfriend, James Studebaker, faked his disappearance while scuba diving off the coast of Maui. Ms. Cardenas insists, “Everyone deserves a second chance. There are no bars around our hearts, and sometimes love appears where you least expect to find it. I just want to help other women find their soul mates.”
Ball and Chain was canceled after one barely watched episode. Last I saw (while channel surfing late one night), Tiara has moved on to a cable news show, where she’s the entertainment correspondent. Now when she flutters her fingers, a chunky diamond sparkles on her left hand; as soon as she realized that the prison-love angle wasn’t going to get her anywhere, she ditched Jimmy for a Lakers player.
As for me, I really did spend the night at the Grand Wailea. Michael said good-bye and drove back to Trey’s house, so you can stop thinking your dirty little thoughts. The next night, I flew the red-eye home. The airline didn’t even penalize me for missing my original flight. The jury’s still out on the hotel charge.
Once back in Brea, I painted my bathroom turquoise, cleaned out my personal filing cabinet (being careful to shred all outdated statements), and got rid of everything that reminded me of Jimmy (except the television . . . and the couch . . . and the bed . . . and . . . well, I threw out a couple of greeting cards, anyway).
Then I repainted my bathroom—tan this time—because the turquoise was way too bright.
Neither my Korean dry cleaner nor the checkers at Trader Joe’s recognized me as the woman from Maui, thank God. My hairdresser treated me like a celebrity, introducing me to everyone who walked by (the shampoo girls, other clients, hairspray sales reps) as “Jane Shea. You know—Jane Shea? Plain Jane from Maui—her boyfriend disappeared?”
The next month, I went to a new, quieter hairdresser and told her to get rid of all of those annoying, hard-to-style layers.
I thought about Michael every once in a while. Okay, I thought about Michael a lot. I could have easily Googled him or checked his Web site, but once again I decided that self-respect mattered more than knowledge—especially since knowledge wouldn’t get me anywhere.
And then I ran into him. It was the following November. My hair was unwashed, my face free of makeup (unless you count remnants from the previous day), my eyes tired and baggy. My clothes were no better: old black sweatpants and a pilled fleece pullover, a faded one-piece bathing suit underneath. Naturally, Michael recognized me immediately.
We were on a dock in Long Beach, waiting to board a dive boat bound for Catalina Island. It was so early in the morning, the sun had just started to peek over the horizon. I was stumbling across the dock with my bag and tank, trying to spot someone from my dive class, when I found myself looking up at Michael: tall, tan, and fully awake.
“You’re a diver now?” he asked, grinning. He looked different somehow, more relaxed. He was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt and carrying his dive gear as if it weighed nothing.
“This is my last dive for certification,” I said, heart racing (from coffee, I told myself). Truthfully, I hadn’t enrolled in the certification course out of any love for the sport. Rather, I was annoyed at myself for giving up so easily the first time, as if getting water up my nose was the worst thing that could happen.
Since coming back from Maui, I’d pushed myself to try other things, too: a cooking group, a book club, yoga. (I was bad at the yoga; when I was supposed to be concentrating on my breathing, I made to-do lists in my head.) Through a local charity group, I’d helped organize a clothing drive for a women’s shelter; next month I’d be collecting toys for Christmas. My busy schedule left me no time for dating—which was fine with me.
“Do you like diving?” Michael asked.
I considered. “I don’t like getting up so early. And the gear can be a headache. But when I’m down there, under the water, I’m just . . . there. In the moment. I’m not so good at that on land.”
I remembered being out in the water with Michael, seeing the turtles, squealing into my snorkel. It seemed like something out of a dream.
“Nobody is,” he said.
“What’ve you been up to?” I asked (getting out of the moment). “How’s work?”
“I sold my business a few months ago,” he said. (Aha! That’s what was different: no phone!) “A Chinese sportswear company offered me more than it was worth. I couldn’t really say no.”
“So are you retired now?” What was he? Thirty-five?
He shook his head. “They didn’t pay me that much. No, I’m just taking some time off, trying to figure out my next step.”
“Did you ever make it to Australia?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “You remember that? Yeah, I did, actually. Just got back a couple of weeks ago. It was awesome.”
Had he gone alone? It was none of my business.
“Plus I’ve been spending a lot of time in Maui,” he continued. “I bought a condo in Wailea—not big, but it’s right on the beach.”
“Nice.”
“You should visit some time.”
I was all set to blurt out, “I’d love to!” when I realized that was just something people say—like, “Stop by when you’re in the neighborhood.” As if I’d ever find myself in Wailea.
“It must be nice,” I said instead. “Having all this free time.”
He ran a hand through his hair, which was longer than it had been in Maui. “I hate it. If I don’t start working soon, I’m going to lose my mind.”
I nodded with understanding. “Yeah, I didn’t really like my time off, either. It was only a couple of months, though. And I managed to do some traveling—went down to Florida.”
I hadn’t seen my father since my college graduation, over ten years earlier. It shocked me to see how much older he had gotten. In my mind, he always looked the way he did when I was fourteen. Elise, on the other hand, looked suspiciously frozen in time. I still didn’t like her—couldn’t imagine that I ever would—but I appreciated how well she took care of my father.
“I’m working as an event coordinator for a catering company,” I told Mi
chael.
“I know,” he said simply. When he saw my confusion, he explained: “I Googled you.”
My mouth dropped open. “You crazy stalker.”
He grinned. “Do you like it?”
“You stalking me? It’s okay.” I liked it. “Oh! The job? Yeah, I do, actually. It’s an offshoot of a Korean restaurant. They hired me to help expand their Anglo customer base. The money’s not great, but it combines food and organizing, so it’s a good fit. Plus, I get all the kimchi I can eat.”
Michael and I said good-bye when my dive instructor—a six-foot-tall woman named Sonia who scared the crap out of me—ushered our class of eight to the gangway. Once on board the big, square-hulled boat, I stowed my gear on a bunk bed belowdecks and came back up to the galley for some breakfast: a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, and a piece of toast. Tran, my dive buddy, motioned me over to his table. We smiled at each other and looked out the window. Tran was from Vietnam, but his limited English had never been an issue since we couldn’t talk underwater, anyway.
A couple of other people from our class joined us. Others stayed in the bunks below, preferring to sleep through the two-hour ride to Catalina. If not for Michael, I probably would have done the same: the rolling of the waves made the boat feel like a big cradle. Instead, I kept my eyes on the galley door, swallowing with disappointment every time it opened and Michael didn’t come in.
When the island loomed into view, I went out to the deck to get my wetsuit out of my new dive bag. It was a beautiful day, a sharp, clear blue. It was a nice temperature, too—about seventy degrees.
There were a lot of people out on the decks. Michael was near the front of the boat, leaning against the rail. I made my way over piles of bags until I reached him.
“Hey,” I said.
He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the horizon. “I saw you go into the galley. I was wondering when you’d come out.”
Suddenly, my pleasure at seeing him turned to irritation. I was done playing games. “You were welcome to come in at any time,” I snapped.
He shook his head, still not looking at me. “Can’t.”
“The breakfast is for everyone,” I said. “Not just the students. There was coffee, bacon, eggs—”
“No!” he said. “Stop!”
“What?” He’d seemed so normal back on the dock.
“You’re going to make me throw up.”
“Excuse me?” And then I got it. “You’re seasick!” I probably shouldn’t have sounded so happy.
He nodded miserably.
“Does this happen every time?”
He nodded again. “Though usually not this bad. Some boats are steadier. And the waves aren’t usually this big. As long as I stay outside and stare at the horizon, I’ll be okay. And I’ll be fine once I’m off the boat. Just, please. Don’t talk about food.”
I leaned my arms on the railing next to him. Farther back, I could see other ill-looking passengers. “Why do you do this, then—if it makes you sick?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you have to suffer for what you love.” He shot me a side glance. “And I do a lot of beach dives, even though they’re usually not as good.”
About twelve feet below us, the water foamed white where it met the hull. Soon, I’d be going overboard. “Where’s the platform?” I asked.
“What platform?”
“Where you get off the boat?”
He motioned to a hinged spot in the railing a little way down from us. “There.”
“We have to jump from all the way up here?” I said, panic creeping into my voice.
“You don’t jump in,” he said. “You just take a big step. Didn’t you practice that in the pool?”
“Yeah, but that was a one-foot drop.” I peered back down. Maybe it wasn’t twelve feet. Maybe it was fifteen. Or twenty. It was a really long way down.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “With the wetsuit on, there’s no slapping or anything. It doesn’t hurt at all.”
The rest of my class appeared from the various corners of the boat. We dragged our bags to the open stern, where we sat on benches and wiggled into our wetsuits. Across the deck, Michael yanked on a suit with three different shades of blue for the arms, legs, and torso. I looked away before he could catch me staring.
The students were first in the water. Waddling over to my place in line (my tank was so heavy I couldn’t stand up straight), I caught Michael’s eye. “How come your clothes are all black but your wetsuits are colored? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”
“That’s the idea,” he said, attaching his tank to his BCD and checking the valves. “When I first went into business, I figured that if I wore black when I went on sales calls, the wetsuits would pop even more. Eventually all I owned was black clothes. I guess I can buy colored stuff now, huh?”
“You don’t have to. You look good in black.” I pulled my mask up over my face so he couldn’t see me blush.
He stood up and shrugged the BCD onto his back as if it weighed nothing. “Here.” He put a hand under my tank, taking some of the weight.
“Thanks,” I said, straightening.
“It’s your turn,” he said, looking toward the water.
And it was (so much for relief). Sonia, my dive instructor, stood at the railing, motioning me forward. The gate now open, there was only one small step between me and the icy Pacific.
“Fins on! Mouthpiece in! One hand over the mask, one hand over your chest!” Sonia barked.
I moved toward the edge, equally terrified of Sonia and the enormous drop. Michael held my elbow while I yanked on my flippers, and then he helped me up to the step. My flippers stuck out over the edge. My heart pounded. Without Michael holding it, the tank weighed heavily against my shoulders. I imagined losing my balance and tumbling face-first into the waves.
“One big step, and keep your tips up,” Sonia said. “Just like we did in class.”
I nodded shakily, mask and mouthpiece hiding my terror.
Michael stood at the railing right next to me. I gave him one last slightly desperate look. His mask hung around his neck, the copper ring around his brown eyes glinting in the early morning sun. Now that we were in a protected cove, the sea was calmer, and color had returned to his face.
“You were right, you know,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was a nice mouth: wide and well defined, entirely masculine.
“Huh?” I asked through the mouthpiece, trying to read his expression and maintain my precarious balance at the same time.
“I was attracted to you. I still am.”
At that, I lost my footing. The bottom dropped out and the ocean tumbled up until sea and sky met in a flash of blue and white. But my feet stayed down, and my head stayed up—and you know what?
It didn’t hurt at all.