Iced in Paradise Page 11

  Baachan brings out the whole Panasonic rice cooker and puts it down in the middle of the table, and Mom brings over a stack of bowls, all mismatched. Hot white rice is scooped into the bowls, and they are passed around to each person.

  My father sits at the head of the table, with Sean sitting at his right and me on the left. “So, Dad, dis Sean Cohen. Da guy who drove us in his white van. He da new owner of Waimea Junction.”

  “I thought he made soap.” Dad speaks as if Sean’s not there.

  “I do, sir, or else I’m planning to. All natural sourced ingredients, no sulfates or parabens.”

  “What’s a paraben?” asks Dani, who is shushed by Mom.

  Dad finally takes a look at Sean. “So you SC Enterprises.”

  Sean nods. “I’ve now moved here permanently from California. Sunnyvale.”

  “That’s in Silicon Valley,” I say.

  Baachan tosses a knit trivet in the shape of a pineapple onto the middle of the table. Then comes a huge pot of steaming goodness. “Dis okazu,” she explains, shoving a ladle into the stew. “Pork. Potato. A lil bit of everyting.”

  Dad gestures for Sean to fill his bowl first, and he complies. He waits until every bowl is filled. “Itadakimasu,” we Santiagos call out. Sean cautiously uses his chopsticks to bring the food to his mouth, chews, and swallows. “Delicious. You’ll have to teach me how to make it.”

  We all start laughing, even Dad. “You can’t teach okazu,” Baachan says. “It tells you what it’s gonna be.”

  “But I’ve seen lots of okazu-ya places all over the island,” Sean says.

  “Oh, dat’s fancy places. Not Santiagos’.”

  We all stop talking for a while, enjoying the meal and the mango shakes, and I feel the stress of being a jailbird melting away. After I had returned from the police station in high school, Mom told me, “Don’t let this experience define you, Leilani. You aren’t a bad person. You just have to learn how to deal with your anger in a different way.” I guess that I still haven’t learned. But I’m not going to let what happened to me today define me.

  “My sistah ova dea in California,” Baachan abruptly says. Her dentures have been making clicking noises, and somehow eating has made her top bridge go slightly lopsided.

  I am surprised that Baachan’s even talking about her blood relatives on the Mainland. Up to this point, the subject was taboo. I know she was kind of abandoned on Kaua‘i with her grandparents on the plantation in the 1930s, when her parents and older sister left for greener pastures.

  “Where in California?” Sean asks.

  “Los Angelesy.” There’s no point in correcting her pronunciation.

  “Have you gone to visit?”

  “Nah, Los Angelesy not for me.”

  That Baachan shared something so personal makes our dinner more intimate. We are not Santiagos and a stranger. We are family.

  When we are finished stacking all the dirty plates and collecting the chopsticks, Dad gets up and says to Sean, “Tanks for bringing ova our car.”

  After dinner, Sean and I sit on tourist magazines on top of the wooden porch.

  I have some fresh fruit that Mom purchased from the local farmers’ market. I cut into the papaya first. I brush away the little black pellet seeds and slice the orange flesh into quarters. I offer one of them to Sean. “It’s papaya.”

  “I know that much,” he says, taking a big bite.

  “Just checkin’.”

  After he chews, he locks his hands together. “Look, I want to apologize. I should have told you who I was. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. I know how people feel about outsiders buying up the land.”

  I trim the papaya skin and continue listening.

  “I did well in tech. Sold my company to one of the big ones. I was finished with it all. Working twenty hours a day. Literally being chained to my job. I came to Kaua‘i with my girlfriend—she practically forced me to take a break—and I fell in love … with the island. The girlfriend and I, on the other hand, broke up. Ironic, huh?”

  I don’t want to get into girlfriend-boyfriend talk, because that means I would have to mention Travis and to tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure what he means to me right now.

  “And since I’m coming clean with everything, I should probably tell you that I am looking into who bought that surfboard.”

  “How come?” This is really not his business.

  “I’m curious who would want to buy something with a swastika.”

  “But I thought you said the symbol meant something different before the Nazis got ahold of it.”

  “I know. I want to make sure.”

  That still seems a bit odd to me, yet I decide to let it go for now.

  “I also had a long talk with all the tenants, all your friends at Waimea Junction. I want to hear what they want from the property. I’m going to have a luau tomorrow for everyone connected with Waimea Junction. A kalua pig and everything.”

  “You mean in an imu? You’ll have to dig a hole on your property.”

  “Yeah, I know. Kelly and Pekelo’s friend are going to take care of the cooking. They’re already starting to get things ready. There will be lotta grindz.”

  “Really?” I start laughing at his attempts at pidgin.

  “And I can help you with your father. I know some good lawyers in Honolulu. I’m sure they can recommend a top-notch criminal one.”

  “That would help.” I now have another fruit, the size of a huge hand grenade, that is covered in spiky red leaves.

  “Dragon fruit. I know that, too.” Sean is feeling pretty proud of himself.

  “But have you ever had a Hawaiian one?”

  Sean shakes his head. “No, but I can’t wait to try.”

  After we finish half of the dragon fruit, Sean excuses himself to make plans for the luau. He seems relieved that the truth about his identity is out.

  I peel the other half of the dragon fruit in the quiet of twilight. I forgot to ask Sean about what he knows about kuleana land quiet titles. Being a privileged owner, he must have come across such things. There are other issues that Sean can’t help me with. Like why would Luke just give his surfboard to Dad? What was that text message he received?

  A familiar SUV, its headlights on, comes up the hill and enters our driveway.

  Mama Liu is dropping someone off at our house. I squint and stand up, the skin of the dragon fruit falling from my lap. It can’t be, but it is.

  It’s Travis.

  Chapter Ten

  SOMETHING IS A BIT OFF. Here I’ve been fantasizing about this for months, but our reunion is not what I expected.

  First, his hands. They feel clammy, like octopus tentacles. Why didn’t I notice that before?

  When he kisses me on the lips, it feels strange. I don’t get that spark of electricity, the chicken skin all over my body. The kiss feels cold, clinical, as if we are engaging in some kind of medical procedure.

  Dani and Sophie have gathered in the doorway, the screen door held open by their dirty bare feet and hands. “This is like The Bachelor,” Sophie whispers in Dani’s ear, loud enough for me to hear.

  I glare at them over Travis’s shoulder, and they erupt in giggles, then run back into the house, the screen door slapping closed behind them.

  “The Bachelor?” Travis grins. “I should have brought a rose.”

  “Ya huh,” I say. He has no idea that another bachelor graced these doors just a few minutes ago.

  “What are you doing here?” I try not to say that in the tone I’m thinking it in my head: WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!

  “I wanted to surprise you. I know everything seems to be crazy right now, so I wanted to take you away.”

  “Eh, take me away what?”

  “You look like you’re having a heart attack. I know you have responsibilities here and can’t go far. So I booked an Airbnb a few blocks away from your house. Only it’s much bigger.” He might as well have added “nicer.” I feel defensive for no
good reason.

  “Well, come in and meet the fam,” I say as enthusiastically as lukewarm bathwater.

  Travis leaves his duffel on the porch and smooths out his longish, wispy hair. He’s wearing a plaid button-down shirt and dark skinny jeans. Back in Seattle, he would be considered geeky sexy, but here in Waimea, he looks strange.

  “Hello, Santiago family,” he says as he walks into the house. I don’t know why he’s acting so upbeat.

  Mom is crocheting some pot holders and looks up over her reading glasses.

  “Ah, Mom, this is Travis. Made a surprise visit.”

  She puts down her craft project and starts to get up, holding on to the arm of the couch for support.

  “No, no, please, don’t overextend yourself. Leilani told me all about it.” Travis goes to her and shakes her hand. Mom looks a bit stunned.

  My father walks into the living room from the bedroom hallway. “Now who dis guy?”

  “Tommy, it’s Leilani’s boyfriend. From Seattle.”

  He frowns and retreats back to his bedroom.

  “He’s a little tired,” Mom explains.

  “Well, makes sense from having to go to jail and all.”

  Baachan’s mouth falls open and her top dentures come loose. She’s working on a puzzle at the kitchen table, and the last thing I’m going to do is introduce Travis to her. Was he always this awkward?

  “Ah, Travis is staying—how long are you staying?”

  “I could only get four days off of work.” Only three nights, thank God.

  I explain to Mom that Travis has already rented a nearby Airbnb and that I’ll be staying there with him.

  “Good,” Mom says to me. “And take a few days off of work. Dad can run things at Santiago’s. In fact, it’s better if he has something to do.”

  I go into my bedroom to stuff a few pieces of clothes and underwear into a Big Save Market plastic bag. I feel a bit discombobulated. Am I happy or unhappy that my boyfriend is here in Hawai‘i? After all that has happened in the past few days, I don’t know how I feel about it.

  Travis wanders into my bedroom. “You sleep here?” His hand is on his hip as he soaks in my beautiful décor. High school banner, photo collage of Court, Kelly, and me wearing baseball caps and doing hiphop moves, a poster of Beyoncé. “It’s like a tomb. No windows.”

  “I like it that way. You know me and mornings.”

  “If I lived in Hawai‘i, I’d live in a glass house. I’d let the sun in 24/7.”

  I’ve never seen Travis so rah-rah about the sun. Maybe the gray skies of Seattle had been taking a toll on him.

  We look up the location of the rental on our phones. Totally walkable. We say goodbye to Mom, and I’m thankful that the girls and Baachan are behind closed doors watching their samurai movies.

  “It smells so good here,” he says as we walk up the dark road. Plumeria blossoms hang in bunches on expansive, rounded trees. On waxy bushes are gardenias, which glow white under the moon.

  After a few blocks we pass a beautiful plantation house that’s been redone. In typical plantation style, the roof is wide, with the pitch split in two places. Eaves are supported by double brackets. There’s a single light on over the wide porch. Otherwise, it’s dark. No one seems to be home.

  “Wow, I’ve never noticed that one before,” I say. I never go this way in my neighborhood.

  “Our place is right next door.”

  The Airbnb is also a plantation house, more modest than the updated one, yet still gorgeous and with a terrific view. Looking up the combination on his phone, Travis opens the lock and pushes the door open. He gives me a weird look, and at first I’m worried that he’s going to try to carry me across the threshold or something. Thank God, he doesn’t try anything so cheesy.

  He clicks on the light. “Can you imagine living in a house like this?”

  In a way, I can’t. It’s so quiet and the hardwood floors are spotless and shiny. I would be scared to walk on them. My bag of clothing seems hopelessly out of place in such a pristine home. We wander from room to room, oohing and aahing about various features—the exposed-wood beams, the clean white walls and ceiling, the pretty floral-print couches, modern kitchen, and so on.

  He takes my hand—his hands now feel warmer than before—to go upstairs and find the master bedroom. My plastic grocery bag of clothes and I follow.

  The harsh light filters through the opaque curtains, nearly blinding me as I try to open my eyes.

  I look at the empty space next to me on the bed. Only crumpled-up luxury sheets. Travis has already gotten up. I haven’t slept this well in a long time.

  When I go downstairs in an oversize Hamura Saimin T-shirt, I find Travis beating eggs in a small bowl.

  “They left a few things in the refrigerator for us. And I brought coffee.” He points to the coffeemaker. This is why I love him.

  Slices of bread pop up in the toaster. I grab the slices and put each on a different plate. “Umm. Raisin.”

  We bring everything outside onto the deck, which overlooks Waimea. Sitting at the table with steaming mugs of coffee, fluffy eggs, and toast, I feel like I’m in one of those travel advertisements—“Experience Kaua‘i.”

  “What should we do today?” Travis asks when the food is all gone and only a bit of the coffee is left.

  “We can go hiking up Waimea Canyon. I even saw some day packs here and water bottles.”

  “I’d totally go for that.”

  “I’ll see if I can borrow my family’s car,” I tell him. I also need to find better hiking footwear than my Crocs. All the dirty plates go into the deep farmhouse-style stainless steel sink, and Travis volunteers to clean up the kitchen while I go to my family’s house.

  I go outside, and coming out of the neighboring house is a man with a mop of curly hair. It can’t be, but then I see the white van parked in the driveway. Shit. I walk in the opposite direction, hoping that Sean hasn’t noticed me.

  “Leilani, is that you?”

  “Ah—” I stop, closing my eyes, and turn. “Eh, mornin’.”

  “What are you doing here?” Sean walks down the driveway to the street.

  “I’m staying in that Airbnb next door,” I tell him. “My boyfriend made a surprise visit.”

  “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  “Well, you know, yeah.” So awkward. “So you live here?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s finally livable.”

  The house in daylight is even more impressive. “It’s really beautiful. I don’t really come up this way.”

  “You want a tour?”

  I look back at the rental. Why not take a quick detour?

  The house, also two stories, has a golden sheen to it. Inside, the floors and furniture look like they are made from koa wood, and Sean confirms it. I’ve always been partial to our native wood, the unique striping that makes the wooden surface almost three-dimensional. Upstairs, next to the master bedroom is a corner library, custom shelves built to accommodate smaller books at the top and heavy coffee-table books on the bottom. Large windows allow the eastern light to stream in. There’s also a big lamp with a Tiffany glass shade next to a comfy leather easy chair.

  “You read a lot.”

  “Yeah, I’m hoping one day to maybe have a little popup bookstore in Waimea Junction.”

  “You can call it Books and Suds.”

  Sean looks confused.

  “You know, books and soap. Or maybe beer.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He points at me. “I got it. I like it.”

  Nah, it’s totally lame, but I appreciate that he doesn’t tell me so.

  He’s quiet for a moment and studies my face as if he’s trying to figure out if he can trust me. “You want to see my war room?”

  I’m surprised and a little worried. What the hell is a war room? Is he into Dungeons & Dragons? Tin soldiers? Or something more along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey?

  I shrug my shoulders, tr
ying to act casual, as if all people have a war room in their homes. Sean doesn’t look that physically strong, so I think that I can take him if something takes a dark turn.

  He opens a narrow door next to his library and flicks on the light. I’m not sure if it’s a large utility closet or a baby nursery, but there are no windows. On one side he’s propped up large pieces of foam core with photos of men wearing swastikas, buildings that look like prisons, and maps of Hawai‘i.

  Oh my God. He’s created a crazy wall, an evidence board like the ones in the old Law & Order episodes.

  “I’m a Nazi hunter,” he announces, and I start wondering if he’s mento or something. “One of the last Nazis is hiding out here in Hawai‘i.” He pushes his index finger into the face of a balding white man in a photograph. Underneath the color photo is his name: John Fischer. Sean explains that’s his last known alias.

  “The guy must be a hundred or so.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what he did during World War II.”

  “Well, you betta catch him before he make, die, dead.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “That’s why you were so into that swastika surfboard.” Sean had said something like it was personal.

  “The dealer emailed me late last night. He has a buyer. I’m going to follow up with him.”

  “It might be a rabid surfboard collector, that’s all,” I warn him.

  “Maybe.” Sean’s brown eyes look different here. Laser focused and determined. He frightens me a little.

  We leave the war room, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sad about it. I wonder why Sean feels so motivated to do something so intense like that, but I don’t feel like we know each other well enough for me to ask.

  “Well, anyway, I hope you can come for the luau. Both of you, of course. I think the pig will be ready around four.”

  “’K den. I’ll see.” I make my way down the stairs to the front door.