by Karina Halle
I know because I’ve never forgotten it.
Juliet asked for my father to pass her the bottle of red wine, wanting to top off her glass.
“No, darling,” my mother had said with that politician’s smile. “One glass is your limit these days.”
“Why?” I asked. Juliet loved wine.
Juliet and Logan exchanged a glance. My mother gave me a placating smile. “Because your sister is going to be married in the spring. As soon as it’s official, I expect they’ll be trying for a child. The last thing we want is a tainted child in this family. Juliet’s diet will be very strict. Mothers have to start months in advance to rid their bodies of all impurities.”
None of this was surprising to me. I had figured that they’d start having kids after getting married. Even so, there was something in my mother’s tone, some kind of pride that hinted that the conversation wasn’t over.
And it wasn’t.
“Oh,” I’d said and motioned for the bottle. If she wasn’t drinking it, I was going to.
As my father passed it over, my mother eyed it with disdain. “You know, Veronica,” my mother said, brushing back her blonde bangs from her face, “it would be nice if you followed in your sister’s footsteps. Found a man. Started getting things lined up. Your future. You’re not getting any younger. Your sister is already pressing her luck.”
The whole table went silent. What she said was never news to me. There’d always been talk about me trying to measure up to Juliet, to become just like her. But this was the first she’d mentioned it on such a personal level and in front of everyone, including Logan.
I busied myself with the wine while I thought of what to say. Something light to throw the whole conversation away. “Well, we can’t all be Juliet.” I even gave my sister a wink, to let her know I didn’t mean any harm by it.
And Juliet laughed. “No, you certainly can’t,” she said and she looked to my mother with a look of wry disbelief. “Mom, you know Veronica is going to end up one of those crazy cat ladies when she grows up. She has zero time for men.”
That startled me. “Cat lady? I don’t even like cats.”
“Oh relax,” Juliet said with a wicked laugh. “You’re always overreacting to everything I say. You should learn to take a joke. Maybe you won’t have a bunch of cats, but if you keep going at this rate, it’s just going to be you surrounded by plates of food. I’m all for taking your career seriously, but after a while you should probably start exploring your options.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” my mother said, jumping in. “You need to smile more. Become more diplomatic. More open. You won’t ever attract a man, the right man, if you don’t try and make yourself a little…nicer.”
“We care about you,” Juliet quickly added. “We don’t want to see you unhappy and alone.”
I was stunned in real life and I was as stunned in the dream. I still didn’t have a good comeback. I just stared up at the ceiling which turned into clouds, snow falling into my eyes.
“I don’t think Veronica has anything to worry about,” Logan said, speaking up, wiping the falling snow from his arms. I looked at him in surprise. He rarely said anything in these situations, often letting my mother and Juliet dominate. He gave me a light, quick smile, even though his eyes were burning with something more grave. It was hidden just beneath the surface, like he was angered by all of this. “In a few years she’ll have her own damn cooking show. I mean look at her. She’d be perfect for it. I know I’d tune in.”
Then he scooped mashed potatoes into his mouth, averting his eyes away from mine.
Damn. Logan had just gone to bat for me.
Silence fell over the table again. Finally, my father spoke up, “That’s not a bad idea, Logan. Ronnie, there’s a new goal for you. You could be the next Nigella Lawson or, what’s that woman’s name? The skinnier version of her? Either way, it’s better than working as an ordinary cook.”
And just like that, the conversation was dropped. I know my mother wanted to point out that if anyone should be on TV, it should be Juliet, but she didn’t. I’m also sure that was the first moment that really cemented in my mother’s mind that Logan was the enemy.
And he was marrying her precious daughter.
Then the dream melded into other dreams. Colorful flying chickens swooping down mountainsides, plates of ahi tuna, swimming in a pool full of floating luggage. Everything drifting off into blissful nonsense.
Dreams upon dreams upon dreams.
* * *
“What the hell are you doing, beach bum?”
My eyes spring open at the sound of the Australian accent, my heart quick to start hammering away in my chest.
Logan is standing over me, arms crossed. The sun is at his back, his face filled with shadows.
Shit.
I sit up and look around, my head foggy, like it’s filled with water and sand. I'm still on the beach but the sun is in a lower position than it was earlier. “What time is it?” I manage to croak. Fragments of my dream come back to me, making me even more confused.
Logan just stares at me. I can feel his eyes burning into mine, even if they’re barely visible in the shadows of his face. “What time is it? Time for you to start work, beach bum.”
No way. Is it seriously four o' clock already? I blink and rub my eyes, trying to wake up.
“You know, I expected more from you,” he says gruffly, “but something tells me you're all talk.”
I can't help but glare at him as I quickly get to my feet, wiping off the sand angrily. “It was an accident. I fell asleep.”
He moves to the left and I can see his face more clearly. His eyes are narrowed, the line deep between his furrowed brows. He’s mad, and while I enjoy pissing him off, I don't like doing it when it comes to my job. “You know what we call people who fall asleep on the beach when they're supposed to be working?” he asks. It’s then that I notice he has a damn apron scrunched up in his hand.
“Let me guess, a beach bum?”
He frowns. “You got it. Now hurry up. Don't bother changing, just get the apron on and get to work.”
He throws it at me and stalks off down the beach and back to the hotel.
I throw up my middle finger at him, hoping he can feel it at his back, before I quickly hurry around to the restaurant and inside, tying my apron over my tank top as I go.
“There you are,” Johnny says as I burst inside the kitchen.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say to him and Charlie, who is already chopping vegetables. “I fell asleep on the beach. Do you have a chef shirt I can borrow?”
“You can't cook like that?” Charlie asks.
I give him an odd look. “Not if I want potential burns all over my arms.”
“Look, go back to your room and get changed, no big deal,” Johnny says.
“And let Logan catch me? No way. I've already made him think I'm a shitty employee.”
“Phhfff, that’s how he thinks of all of us. You’ll get used to it. Here.” Charlie fishes something out of a cloth bag hanging on the wall and gives it to me. “This should be yours anyway.”
I hold it up. It's rather large and says Moonwater Inn across it in the same tiki style as the hotel's sign. It's a cheap shirt but it will do.
“It ain’t the pupu shirt,” Charlie explains as I slip it on under the apron, “but it’s something.”
“Did Logan come in here looking for me?” I ask.
Johnny nods. “Aye. Said he wanted to see how you were starting out.”
I eye the clock on the wall. Technically I’m only ten minutes late.
“Though we both know he was spying on you,” Charlie adds. “Like he wants a reason to be mad.”
I sigh. “Story of my life. It’s too late now, I signed that damn contract. He’s stuck with me. Anyway, enough about that.” I clap my hands together, walking over to Johnny. “Get me up to speed. I need my first day to go well.”
And, with the help of Johnny, Charlie, and Jin,
it somehow does go well. Obviously there’s a learning curve—the kitchen at Ohana Lounge is light years different from the one at Piccolo. Not saying one is better or worse, but the way I’m used to doing things doesn’t necessarily work here. Everything is a lot more relaxed and laid back, to the point where it grates on my nerves a bit, and despite Johnny having the title of head cook, all the roles in the kitchen are shared equally.
That’s probably my favorite thing about it all—the lack of ego. At Piccolo there was a hierarchy you could never stray from. Here, I really feel like we’re working together as a team, an “us versus them” mentality. We want the restaurant as a whole to succeed, we want the hotel to succeed, we want the customers happy, we want ourselves to be happy.
Of course that doesn’t mean I didn’t screw up a few times. Some of the fish I’d never cooked before, let alone seen, so I overdid it on the Opah and Wahoo more than once (yes, those are the actual names) and I was so flustered when I made the papaya dressing for the salad that I forgot to put the lid on the blender. Suffice to say, all of us were were covered in yellow goo by the time the shift was over.
But I survived. The customers seemed happy and the food tasted great. I just wish that Logan had come by at least once to see me in action, to realize that I pulled through after all. Beach bum or not, I’m a damn good cook and he should be happy he hired me.
Instead, while Jin finished up with the pots and pans, the rest of us moseyed on over to the bar to have a drink with Daniel and Nikki. It was my first time officially meeting them.
Verdict is: Daniel the bartender, with his curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, his Hawaiian shirt, cheesy grin and the way he hands out his realtor business card like he’s a quick draw in a Western, is the type to try and get in your pants. And Nikki, though frazzled from a busy night, is your quintessential waitress—sweet, talkative, and pretty, a combination that I’m sure leads to the perfect tips.
All in all, as the five of us sit at the bar and sip some beers, there’s an easy sense of camaraderie. There’s a bit of sexual tension between Nikki and Daniel…and Nikki and Charlie, for that matter, but that’s to be expected. From what I’ve seen, seems like everyone gets along here like a big happy family.
“So the boys tell me you’re Juliet’s sister,” Nikki says, her voice still bright, which I appreciate. Somehow it always makes things worse when people lower their voice, like they’re ashamed or afraid to mention her name.
I nod, slowly twirling the beer around in my hand, studying the Hawaiian-style art on the bottle. “Yup.”
“But this is your first time out here?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “I never really got around to visiting. You know how it is. Work kept me busy. And it seemed that Juliet and Logan were too busy running this place.”
A silence falls over us, punctuated by the roar of the ocean. Daniel clears his throat. “How about we all do a shot in honor of your lovely sister.” Before I can say anything, he’s turning around and pulling out a bottle of Koloa Rum and several shot glasses.
He pours us each one, sliding them toward us. He picks up his and says, “Here’s to Juliet. We miss her dearly.”
“Here, here,” we all say before shooting back the coconut rum. It burns pleasantly on the way down, immediately washing away the day’s stress. I have another drink after that as the group starts chatting about the surf report and future hiking endeavors, but I’m starting to tune them out. Despite my long beach nap that afternoon, I’m beyond exhausted.
As I leave the bar and walk through the parking lot to the hotel, the crickets chirping, the waves breaking on the shore, I take in a deep breath of the soft, warm air, exhaling slowly. I did it. My first day here and I did it. I’m almost giddy with relief that I survived and it was nowhere near as bad as my worrisome heart made it out to be.
Then I see Logan disappearing into the reception, shutting the door behind him. If he saw me at all, he didn’t show it.
Shit.
As well as the rest of my shift went, Logan missed all of it. He was only there to see me literally sleeping on the job.
What was one of the things Kate had told me that morning? Never give Logan the upper hand.
Moonwater Inn—Veronica 0, Logan 1.
I sigh and head up to the stairs to my unit. Better luck tomorrow.
7
“Nice bum, where you from?”
I glare at Charlie over my shoulder and resist the urge to pull down my bikini bottoms. I knew I should have worn my board shorts, but they were still damp from yesterday. At least I’ve got a tank top on to protect me against board rash, which is no joke.
It’s been two weeks since I first landed on Kauai, and this is surf lesson number two. The first one Charlie gave me was on the smooth waves of Hanalei Bay. He spent about an hour just going over the basics of the board, including form and posture, all while on the beach. The following hour was spent in the water, with me bailing on every single wave I attempted to ride.
That was a few days ago. Today we don’t have as much time so we’re hitting up the beach just to the side of the hotel. There’s a narrow patch where the sand stretches out and the reef is set back far from the shore. Today the waves are coming in mild, rolling swells that can’t be more than two feet high.
To anyone else they would be children’s waves—and not even that. When we were at Hanalei, I was getting schooled by six-year-olds who could take the waves better than I could. But to me, they are just big enough. Even though I’d played it cautious with the ocean the last two weeks, it still makes me nervous.
I’ve got my own board now, tucked under my arm. It’s a longboard, since they’re easier to learn on and even though it’s bruised and battered—Charlie says he reserves it for the timid learners—I’ve already formed a strange attachment to it. When we’re out there, it’s the only thing to keep me from sinking.
Charlie follows me into the water—I struggle a bit at the break—until my toes barely touch the bottom and he holds the board while I climb on.
“Okay,” he says, letting go and moving away. I get myself into position, lying flat on it with my hands in the push up position, my toes pressed down against the board. “Don’t look behind you, just look forward. You see that gnarly looking tree on the shore between the palms? That’s an ironwood tree. Keep your focus there.”
“When do I stand up?” I ask him nervously. I hate the feel of the ocean at my back, hate the fact that he lets go so soon. Even though the water is somewhat calm today, I still get the fear of an unseen rip coming underneath me and taking me and the board far out to where no one can reach me.
Not to mention sharks. They’re real and I try my hardest not to think about them.
“You’ll know,” he says.
Right. Like the ocean is whispering its fucking secrets to me. I’m not Ariel!
“Not these waves,” he says, “next ones.”
I feel the board rise up, the sun filtering through the water and turning it a glowing aquamarine. It’s not that deep here, and with the water so clear I can see the sandy bottom interspersed with the occasional rock that catches my eye. Is that a fish? Something worse?
“Focus on the tree!” Charlie says and out of the corner of my vision I see him treading water, being taken in closer to the shore with each pass of the waves.
I take in a deep breath and steady myself.
“Now!” Charlie yells. “Paddle, paddle, paddle!”
I stick my hands in the water and start moving them as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast. I can beat an egg a mile a minute, but this is a total body workout, my shoulders and triceps working overtime as I try and keep up with the wave.
“Up, up up!” Charlie’s now yelling.
I’m not sure I agree. I’m ahead of the wave now but it doesn’t feel right. Still, what the hell do I know? Unsteadily, I push myself up onto my knees, trying to keep my balance and do that final, terrifying step to my feet.
“Focus on the tree!”
My head snaps up but instead of seeing the tree like I should, I see Logan, walking along the beach and staring at us with a disapproving expression.
Great.
That’s all it takes for me to completely lose my balance.
I tilt to the left and hit the water just as the wave crashes on top of me. I’m swirling, the water rushing past my ears, the sand sweeping over my face. The board goes in another direction, still dragged by the surf, the band tugging hard at my ankle until I’m sure it’s going to snap.
I swim for the surface and burst through as the bottom scrapes against my knees and I’m swept up on the shore.
I quickly wipe my eyes with one hand as I stagger to my knees, the next wave crashing behind me, and pull out the giant wedgie from my butt with my other.
“Ron!” Charlie is yelling from behind me and I can hear him splashing to shore. “Are you okay?”
But I don’t turn around. My eyes are glued to Logan’s. He’s standing right in front of me, the ocean licking the tops of his bare feet as they sink into the sand, staring down at me with an expression I can’t read.
Then he sticks his hand out. “Here,” he says and I hesitantly put my hand in his. He hauls me up to my feet, his hand gripping my elbow. “You better free your ankle before the next wave yanks you back.”
I nod, my head dizzy, my sinuses full of salt water, and he steadies me while I lift up my ankle and quickly undo the Velcro strap. I wrap it a few times around my hand and pull the board in to me.
His hand on my elbow still remains, his grip warm and firm against my wet skin. This is the closest I’ve been to Logan in the last two weeks. Even though I’ve been working steadily, he’s only come into the restaurant three times to check on how things are going. And by “check on,” I mean look around and make a grunting sound. I can’t tell if he’s been impressed with my performance so far or the exact opposite. My caveman deciphering skills only go so far.