Gentry came out of the laundry closet with the basket full of clothes. He wanted to get off the phone, but a tentacle had snaked out and coiled his neck.
“Regret is death. If I’m ever sorry, I’ll die.” And her laugh had faded, replaced by the stormy turbulence of someone who couldn’t look back.
His voice rusted. “Okay.”
“Can we talk?”
“Um, yeah.”
Her relief was audible. “When?”
He glanced up at Gentry, feeling gutshot. “When I’m back.” He hung up and stood. “Let me move Nica’s car. We’ll hang those in the carport.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The silks had lost sheen and shape, the cottons color; everything grayed like the dawn, hung over from the night’s rain; the dragon man’s taint washed away, but damage done. How did one rewind past the part where someone tried to kill you? Grover Malakua had reprogrammed her brain to fear.
Holding her against him, Cameron had leeched it from her until she slept. Now, once again, threads of relationship entangled them. She wanted to thank him, but the phone call had put him in a funk, and he needed to work his way out of it. She hadn’t asked who called, but the impact was palpable; his efforts to brush it off ineffective. Maybe it was related to her situation, but his bleak expression had suggested a more personal hit.
As they neared the bottom of the laundry basket, he found her bronze Esteban Cortezar bikini and straightened. “This isn’t too damp.”
“For what?”
“Hitting the surf.”
He’d taken her seriously? “You mean now?”
“Definitely.”
“Shouldn’t we—”
“No. There’s nothing we should do instead.” He wore an expression that brooked no dissention. “Would you rather borrow Nica’s?”
“Why would Nica have a swimsuit if she won’t go in the water?”
“She sits on the shore and watches. If the surf ’s off the Richter, she prays.”
“Oh.” Gentry looked down at her rumpled dress. “I can pray in this.”
He held out her bikini.
She planted her hands on her hips. “How do you know I’m not afraid of water?”
“I’ve seen you, remember?”
“Okay, but …”
“Come on. Trust me.”
She couldn’t fight rivers and cling to cliffs with a man and not trust him—as she’d learned last night, settling into the curve of his body and not admitting even to herself that she didn’t want to leave it. Fear was a terrible decision maker.
“I’m not sure I want another encounter with powerful water.”
“When fear is strongest, you strike back.”
“You sound like Uncle Rob.”
“You’ve got balance and strength. You’ll do fine.” He stuck two boards in the bed of his truck. “This shorter one got me the junior championship. Should fit you close enough.” He’d said last night he had to keep beating the sea. Now he was doing his best to ask, but she had the feeling argument was futile. He needed to take control of something.
Deciding she wouldn’t mind a measure of it herself, she put on the damp swimsuit, T-shirt, and shorts.
“When fear is strongest, you strike back.” She could be hiding, dreading what might happen next, fixating on the fact that someone had tried to kill her. Instead they were heading to the shore.
Cameron focused when the surf report came on the radio. It meant nothing to her, but he must not like what he heard.
“Why the frown?”
He glanced over. “We’re not going to get much. Acid Drops at Lawai can be a good, strong right with steep, hollow barrels. But today’s conditions … Maybe we’ll try Pakalas.” He nodded. “Yeah, that should work. It’s a mellow left that peels forever.”
“Is that English?”
“Some da kine surfin’ slang.” He touched his temple. “Got one choke vocabulary.”
She shook her head.
When they reached the beach, he took out the boards. “I’ll teach you a few points on the sand first.” He stopped near the line where the waves foamed in and set the boards aside. “Lie down on your stomach.”
The brittle, lightweight sand gritted and clung as she and Cameron stretched out like two seals who’d scooched onto the beach to sun.
“This won’t be the first thing we’ll do, but it’s easier to learn how to stand up on solid ground. Watch.”
He did a push-up and, in one swift motion, pulled his knees to his stomach, hopped to his feet—right in front of left—and stood back bent, arms outstretched. The sharp, lean muscles of his calves were eye level as she watched, the tendons of his feet revealing years of clinging.
He dropped down again. “You’ll be holding the rails, the sides of the board.” He positioned his hands as though a board lay beneath him. “About halfway between the nose and your chest.”
“Shouldn’t I practice on the board?”
“It would damage the fins. Just get the feel of it for now.”
Imagining his junior championship board beneath her, she pushed up, dragged her knees up under her, and stood.
“Your position’s good, but do it faster.”
She did.
“Hanah hou.”
“What?”
“Again. Do it over and over until it’s in your subconscious.”
She repeated the process, gaining speed and balance.
“That foot feel good forward?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“I showed you regular, but you can do it goofy if you want.”
“Why would I want goofy?”
He shrugged. “Some dudes like the left foot up. Some, da kine, like me switch it by the wave.”
“I’m thinking basic English, Mr. Choke Vocabulary. And basic surfing, if you don’t mind.”
Climbing another step out of his funk, he took hold of her sandcrusted T-shirt and pulled her closer. “Lose the shorts, but keep this on for now to prevent a rub rash.”
In spite of the fact that her body had been rated and discussed by tabloids during the scandal, she felt self-conscious removing the shorts. But Cameron pulled his shirt over his head and reached for his board, already focused on the water and the waves he would beat.
Though the sun was barely up, a few other surfers were out already. Noting her glance, Cameron said, “We’re not going that deep yet.”
She nodded. “Good.”
He stood his board at the edge of the surf. “The board’s got a center of gravity; you want to distribute your weight so that it floats on the water just as it would without you.”
Floating sounded okay.
“We’ll start in the mushy surf. I’ll show you how to paddle out, but first I want to tell you about duck-diving.”
“Cameron.”
“That’s what it’s called. Now listen up.”
After taking a while to find her balance, paddling, duck-diving under the oncoming waves, trying not to cork or dig the nose or rails, and lifting her chest in the chop, she made it out among the sloping swells that were not yet, as Cameron put it, “standing up straight.”
From his position a short distance away, he said, “Watch me sit.” He straddled his board as easily as though it weren’t bucking and rocking. “Keep just below the center point so you can swing the nose left or right, but not so far back it tips you off.” She planted herself as he directed, wobbling on the board but managing not to topple.
“Kay den. First you need to know when not to catch a wave.”
“Great.”
He held up his fingers. “Three mistakes’ll give you a jarring experience called—you’ll appreciate the terminology—going over the falls.”
She groaned.
“Catching a wave too late, when it’s already pitching over, is the first mistake. Do that and it’ll just be you and tons of water arching down to the seabed. While you’re rolling around in fetal position on the bottom, the whole wave dog piles on.
”
Her stomach turned with a sensation that struck too close to home.
“Mistake number two, falling in front of an arching wave, will get you a ride up with time to anticipate the over-the-falls crash and roll experience previously described.”
She pushed the wet hair from her face. “And we’re out here, why?”
He smiled. “The third thing to know is that big waves tend to stand up and crash over in about the same spot. Loitering where the curtain drops is one lolo idea.”
“This whole thing is lolo. Did I tell you I’ve just recovered from a head injury?”
“We won’t have any of that here unless conditions change. Surf ’s so mushy, it’s a baby cradle.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So now you know what not to do. Let’s have some fun.” His smile had a dangerous edge. “When the wave you want comes, lie down. When you feel the lift, paddle hard. Lean forward and raise your chest. On these mushy waves, wait until you’re in the flat water, but as soon as the momentum flows faster than you can paddle, stand up; just like we did onshore.”
Sure. Just like solid ground.
“Remember, keep your eyes forward, not down at your feet. Ready?”
He sounded so eager something inside her awakened, and she laughed. “Okay.” She was probably out of her mind, but she pushed against the fear, and it felt good.
The contest had hardly been fair, conditions almost a forfeit, but being out there had still worked its magic. By the time they splashed ashore, Cameron had pressed his conversation with Myra into the hard place that held the previous nine years. Guarding Gentry was enough to think about.
She’d done great in the water—as he’d expected, given her natural athleticism. If they got a high surf before she left, he’d show her how good it could be. Now, in her soaked T-shirt and bikini, she signed autographs and allowed a few photos while he searched the faces of fans for murderous intentions.
A guy he knew by the broad nose he’d gotten from too many faceplants on his board nodded toward her. “Geev ’um, brah.”
Cameron smiled, but “going for it” with Gentry Fox made as much sense as surfing the boneyard. If it came to choices, she’d take the cameras and the lights. She’d said so.
He toweled off, his thinking cleared by the sea. Kai. His namesake. Sometimes brutal, sometimes deadly; beautiful, seductive, ever present. Since his parents’ deaths he couldn’t remember a dream without the ocean in it. It was more alive than their memories. He’d dived its depths, forced out its secrets, ridden its crests, swum its currents. He breathed its scent even miles from the shore. He tasted its salt in his sleep.
Gentry said she could still feel the waves as they drove back to Nica’s, but he carried their loft and thrust inside always. Anytime he started to stray, he had only to ground himself in the sea.
While Gentry showered, he called Bette Walden, got through on the third ring and said, “I think we should talk.”
“I might agree if I knew who you were.”
Cameron leaned against the wall. “Your bag of tricks doesn’t include voice recognition?”
“Fancy maneuvering yesterday.”
“That was nothing.”
She sniffed. “What do you want?”
“To meet, come together on this thing.”
“We both have a job to do.” Her avoidance grated. “I skidded into a rock yesterday.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“My client can’t afford those kinds of expenses.”
Possibly informative. “Send me the bill.”
“So Gentry can pay? That’s almost worth it.”
He looked at his watch. “Where are you?”
“Lihue.”
Exactly where he’d be taking Gentry. The hospital should be safe enough for the span of time he’d spend with Bette. “I can be there in an hour.” Forty minutes for the drive and time for Gentry to clean up and dress. It wouldn’t be long before the police had questioned Malakua.
The island wasn’t that big. After the vehicular homicide, he’d skulked at his cousin’s house, but that cousin was in jail, and Malakua was easily recognized and unpopular. Not many would stick out their necks for him.
Bette said, “Good, you can buy me lunch.”
“Paradise Grill. South of town.” He’d try to have an appetite.
Gentry sat down beside her napping uncle and lifted the booklet from the side of the bed where it had fallen, one of his favorites, Living the Psalms, written by his pastor. It fell open from use on the page titled: Being a Man After God’s Own Heart. Was he finding solace in words that had shaped and defined him the last few years?
As her gaze slid to his sleeping face, his eyes shot open; he hollered and jolted up.
“Uncle Rob? What is it?”
He stared at her with reddened eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m—”
“I can’t keep you safe. Don’t you see?” He gripped the bed rails. “I can’t do anything for you! I can’t do anything …” He dropped back down.
She clutched his hand, feeling his anxiety and agitation. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” But her heart raced. Was this the post-traumatic stress Paul had warned them about?
Her uncle’s face pulled into a tight grimace as he sank into the pillows. He’d been so confident last night, meeting Cameron, charging him with her protection. Loving, strong, real.
He groaned.
“What is it, Uncle Rob? Were you dreaming?”
He rolled his head her way. “I’ve lost her, Gentry.”
She frowned. “Aunt Allegra?”
“You know how she is. Botox, tucks, liposuction, implants.”
More than she wanted to discuss, but no way would she stop him.
“She thought I wanted her that way.” He turned. “Maybe I did. I never stopped her, never told her she didn’t have to be thin, voluptuous, and wrinkle free. Not until I realized what mattered. Then telling her invalidated everything she’d done.”
“She didn’t understand.”
“Neither did I.”
“She wouldn’t listen.”
“Neither would I.” He groaned. “Now look at me. Look.”
She took in the maimed limb that would surely horrify Aunt Allegra, whose quest for perfection never ceased. The ache in his face showed how much he still loved her, how he needed her. She felt his fear and desolation.
She almost sank back into the mires of guilt, but the rhythm of the waves still rocked her. God had a plan, even in this. Life wasn’t random. They had only to do the best they could with what they had. “Hang on, Uncle Rob. Hold on to what you know is true.” His breath made a slow escape. “Tell me what’s true.”
She lifted the booklet. “ ‘Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you. I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise you.’ ”
The last thing Allegra wanted was a manicure. But she’d kept her standing appointment, because Gloria expected her. Allegra met people’s expectations. She knew how to qualify, modify, nullify. Like the real nails ground off to make room for the fake, a smoother, stronger self poured into the holes.
She’d been scheduled to return from Hawaii the day before so, of course, Gloria wanted to hear all about it. Allegra described the beach, the hotel, the sunset view with the correct excitement. She had told her only that she was going with a friend, so needn’t discuss Curt, but when Gloria took her hand, Allegra shrank back, wanting to shout, “Unclean, unclean!”
Gloria chattered over her nails, blind to the pestilence, deaf to the silent screams. Guilt remained an invisible specter, and in fact Gloria would think nothing of it if she laid out the whole sordid affair. “Happens all the time,” she’d say. “Do you really think you’re the worst? Honey, the stories I hear …”
She wished she could put it behind her, out of
her mind away from her thoughts. Instead, as Gloria worked, she imagined pulling each ground, shaped, and painted nail out. How people would stare at her bloody stumps. Bloody stump. Her gorge rose, and she pressed it down.
She couldn’t think of Rob that way. He’d always been so … whole. No pieces missing, nothing that didn’t fit. He knew so many things, did so many things. He was the fixer and the doer. He was the standard by which she measured—and always, always fell short. That was the downfall to marrying the perfect man—even before he found Divinity.
Waves of agony scoured her. Gentry had asked her to come. Instead she’d flown home. Gloria saw nothing. But Rob … Rob would look into her soul and recoil. The horror she felt for his mutilation wouldn’t touch what he’d feel for hers. Her amputated spirit writhed. Unclean.
TWENTY-NINE
Cameron ordered broiled-fish tacos; Bette Walden the fish and chips. With all her angles and points, she must shed fat like sloughed skin. Or else she burned it away with white-hot spite.
When the waitress left, he said, “Who sent you the photos?”
Sweet’N Low dissolved in the whirlpool inside her tea glass. “You know I won’t say.”
“Whoever did is accessory to fraud and possibly attempted murder.”
She paused the spoon in her tea. “What are you talking about?”
“Gentry’s face; someone else’s lewd poses. I have a copy of the file used to create them.”
Bette brutalized the lemon that had hung innocently at the rim. “And you got this file …”
“From the source. Troy’s mother.”
Bette wrung the last drop from the fruit and drowned it. “She gave it to you?”
“Troy did.”
She looked up. “Troy, who’s on suicide watch?”
He frowned. “Since when?”
“Two months ago. Admitted to a juvenile facility for emotional distress resulting from sexual and emotional abuse. Gentry might have the biggest platform for denial, but—”
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