Iced in Paradise Read online

  “Hope you’ll be there.”

  I walk down the road, and I feel like a bit of a two-timer, at least in my heart. Is this how it first happened with Celia? That she and Luke weren’t quite clicking, or maybe spending too much time apart, and she started hanging out with someone new? I’m not a cheater, though, I tell myself. Absolutely nothing has happened between me and Sean.

  As I make my way to my family’s house, I hear roosters trying to out cock-a-doodle-doo each other. The loudest one is Jimin, the new rooster on the block. I’m sure the whole neighborhood appreciates the monster we have brought in.

  When I go into the house to get my hiking shoes and retrieve the car keys, I see my father sitting alone in the living room. His face is grayish; his hair, bedraggled. He winces as he massages the ankle shackled to the monitoring device. I’m reminded that this getaway with Travis is pretend. Nothing in my family is fine.

  It’s a good day to hike Waimea Canyon. I usually go later in the day, right before sunset, but there’s a hush in the morning that saturates your body with peace. Despite everything that is happening right now, my head feels lighter and, to be perfectly cheesy, for a brief moment I feel happy to be alive.

  The jagged cliffs have layers of brilliant red and orange with dots of green plants and trees. Travis is absolutely captivated. “This does kind of look like the Grand Canyon,” he says.

  We pass the stacked yellow flowers of the kāhili ginger and tall trunks of eucalyptus trees. Soon we are swallowed by the grove of giant ferns; it’s like a scene in Jurassic Park. While we continue our hike, I tell Travis about Celia, how she was so awful to me and that Sammie told me that she was cheating on Luke. And about Wynn Hightower’s multimillion-dollar project to decimate the natural beauty of the North Shore. Could the quiet title lawsuits have prompted a dissenter to kill Wynn’s son for revenge?

  Travis comes to a stop. “Listen, can we talk about something else? I mean, no offense, but this whole thing is kind of a downer.”

  “Ah, this downer is what my family is dealing with. What I’m dealing with.”

  “It’s practically over, right? Your dad is innocent, and his lawyer will take care of his defense.”

  “It’s not so easy, Travis. I mean, your mom’s a therapist—”

  “Well, technically a psychologist.”

  “’K, psychologist, and your dad’s a college professor and everyting makes sense. I mean, a straight line is just dat, straight. But for us Santiagos, it’s not so simple.”

  “It’s because you are making it complicated. Leilani, you are your own person. You need to create boundaries between yourself and your family.”

  “Uh, you’re so frustrating.” The path is now made up of slippery smooth rocks in red dirt. Pools of water have accumulated in crevices between the stones, so both of us stay quiet as we make sure that we don’t lose our footing.

  We are behind Waipo‘o Falls, not in front of it. Small streams run toward the head of the waterfall. In front of us is a small waterfall pouring down black volcanic rock into a small pool. Birds sing overhead, and the smell of the yellow kāhili ginger flowers is intoxicating.

  “Man, that’s so beautiful.”

  It is. The beauty catches my throat. Taking off our hiking boots and socks, we dip our toes in the pool of freezing cold water. The exercise has left us thirsty and hungry, and I take out my full water bottle and the energy bars generously provided by our Airbnb Superhosts.

  “I don’t want to fight, Leilani,” Travis says after taking a swig of water. “I’m only here for you. To support you.”

  We hike back to the car, and I drive Travis to the front view of the falls. Other tourists have gathered there, and Travis agrees to take a photo of a family from Texas. The water cascading down the red-orange cliffs is spectacular; there’s absolutely no place on earth like Waimea Canyon. I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, but I’m convinced that it can’t be as beautiful as this.

  “I’m getting hungry,” Travis comments, and I look down at my phone. At least three people have texted me about the luau at Waimea Junction.

  “Our landlord is having luau today. There’s kalua pig and everything.”

  “Is that when they roast a pig in the ground?”

  I nod.

  “Hell, yeah, I’m in. I’ll get to see where you work, too.”

  “It’s nothing special. I mean, it’s a shack.” I don’t know why I’m dissing my family’s business. It’s lasted three generations, whereas most eateries don’t last three years.

  By the time we arrive, the roasted kalua pig is ready for its unveiling in back of Waimea Junction. Pekelo, Kelly, their friends, and my dad are shoveling dirt and hot rocks off of the pig, which is wrapped in chicken wire and banana leaves. It smells so good. “Dis gonna broke da mouth,” I murmur to myself.

  “What did you say?” Travis asks me.

  “Oh, that it’s gonna be delicious.”

  “Ono kau kau,” says a small person by my side. It’s Mama Liu, wearing a neon pink T-shirt, tan clam diggers, and oversize sunglasses that competitive cyclists wear. Her wardrobe is composed of clothing found in unclaimed luggage in her taxi.

  “Oh, howzit, Mama Liu?” She’s literally licking her lips in anticipation of the food.

  “Waimea Junction popular place these days,” she says.

  I have no idea what she is getting at.

  She pulls me aside, and Travis is so transfixed by the digging out of the kalua pig that he doesn’t notice.

  “I picked up big-shot money man from the airport and dropped him off here.”

  I’m thinking that she’s talking about Wynn Hightower.

  “When?”

  “The day before his boy got killed.”

  What? That didn’t make sense. I knew that he had been on Kaua‘i for business, but why in the world would Wynn Hightower come to Waimea Junction?

  “Gave me an extra fifty to keep my mouth shut.” She grins, revealing her yellow and brown teeth.

  Mr. Hightower, I think, that was the worst fifty-dollar investment of your life.

  “Do you know who he spoke to?”

  Mama Liu shakes her head. “Got one oddah call, so I go.”

  Why did Wynn Hightower come to Waimea Junction on Friday? Before I leave the luau tonight, I’m sure as hell going to find out.

  Chapter Eleven

  “YOU WANNA SEE DA PIG HEAD?” Dani asks Travis, and I’m surprised that Travis is actually game. Dani takes him through the back door into Santiago’s, where I think the head is probably cooling in the fridge for some of Grandpop Santiago’s relatives to make sisig, a traditional Filipino dish.

  Uncle Rick appears from the side of the imu. His face is red, and I don’t know if that’s from the sun, heat, or maybe liquor. I nod to him.

  “Foot okay?” he asks.

  “Yah, like brand-new. Tanks for da oddah day.”

  “You see Auntie Barbara?”

  “She here?” Dad really went all out to invite everyone. Since his activity is so limited by his ankle bracelet, he is making sure that people are coming to him.

  Uncle Rick excuses himself to find her, and I kind of wonder what the big deal is. At a luau, people go from one corner to another. I need to find the corner where men and women are preparing the kalua pig for the crowd.

  While Kelly is setting up the giant rice cookers in back of Killer Wave, Pekelo is at the table, using tongs to tear the soft meat off the cooked pig. He’s wearing a tank top, revealing all his tattoos on his arms and back. I see King Kamehameha, Queen Lili‘uokalani, and two more recent tats of his parents with halos over their heads. Mr. and Mrs. Kahuakai tragically died within six months of each other last year—the husband of complications from diabetes, and the wife, a heart attack.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say to him. Since he was at Killer Wave last Friday, he might have seen Wynn Hightower.

  “Supa busy right now,” he says, his cigarette tipping out of his mouth. I want a cig
arette, too, but I don’t dare with both my dad and Travis close by.

  “Later den. It’s important.” I’m not sure that he’s listening to me, but I’ll track him down.

  “Eh, Pekelo, watch da ash,” my dad scolds him from across the way.

  Farther down the food prep line is Sean, surrounded by some twentysomething women, some former high school classmates of mine. They were the ones who studied hula, belonged to a hālau, wore their dark hair long down to their waists. They fit the stereotype of the ideal woman from Hawai‘i, the one in grass skirts on travel brochures. Sean sees me and waves a plastic gloved hand my way. Of course he’s smiling. He’s in paradise.

  I don’t know why I feel jealous. I’m with Travis. Why should I care that Sean is surrounded by beautiful women?

  “Leilani Santiago?” A woman wearing long pants and a button-down shirt comes over and stands next to me. She’s up to no good in an outfit like that at a luau, and it turns out I’m right. She identifies herself as a reporter for one of the local newspapers. “I was at Wynn Hightower’s press conference and I saw you getting arrested. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  I check if anyone might have heard her. I walk her down to the far end of the property. Is she pupule? How could she come to Waimea Junction—during a luau, no less—for an interview?

  I cross my arms and face her. Like me, she wears hardly any makeup. Her hair is cut in a straight bob and her cheeks are dotted with acne scars. She wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but then I wouldn’t, either. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a private event.”

  She glances back at the varied collection of random people, ancient surfers, baachans and jiichans, babies, even homeless people. Hell, I don’t know half the people there. “Really?” she says.

  “What do you want?”

  “I had written up a story about the protest, but my editor killed it. He said that my job was to write about the new development and how it would be good for the local economy.”

  Why should I care that your news company is so shady, I think.

  “I think there’s something more to Wynn Hightower. I’ve been doing research on him, the way he does business. I think you have information on him, too. We can help each other.”

  “So your editor can reject another story?”

  “No, I want to take it to another department. News instead of business.”

  “I have no information,” I tell her. “Only that he’s an asshole. And you can quote me on that.”

  The reporter’s lips form a straight line. I’m not giving her what she wants. She hands me her company business card. “Taylor Ogura,” it reads, “Business Reporter.”

  “If you change your mind, get in touch. My cell phone’s on there.”

  I watch her walk back to the luau and feel sorry for her. If she’s looking for any confidential news sources, she’s come to the wrong place.

  I return to Santiago’s to get Travis, but both he and Dani have disappeared. Baachan has set up a card table inside of the shack for a game of pepito, kind of like Filipino poker. One of her ukulele-playing friends is at the game, and two young men—one of them is Andy Mabalot. How dare he set foot in our place after literally arresting both my dad and me? But that’s how it is in Waimea. We’ve grown up with each other and sometimes that’s enough, at least for a game of cards. Baachan, who seems to be winning, has resorted to her special strategy—placing her dentures in a glass of water to distract the other players.

  I leave Santiago’s and go into Lee’s Leis and Flowers. Court must have done bouquets for a wedding this morning, because the scent of stephanotis, the white wedding flower, lingers in the shop. She sits alone at her worktable, stringing leftover flowers into a lei, which she often does at the end of the day. She’s delighted to see me and invites me to sit with her to talk story and share her plate of poke—not the fake Mainland kind with avocado and other nonsense, but seasoned with chopped kukui nut and the tendrils of ogo, as fresh as the sea.

  “Your dad seems okay,” she says as I claim one of the folding chairs around the table. In addition to the random flower heads, the table holds rolls of green floral tape and a metal thorn and leaf stripper, which resembles a giant staple remover.

  “Ho no. He has to wear one ankle bracelet. Only allowed to go from Santiago’s and home.”

  “Eh, sorry, Leilani.” A yellow cymbidium bloom joins a purple orchid on her string of flowers.

  “Gotta find out who wen kill Luke Hightower. Den it’ll all be ova,” I say, more for my benefit than Court’s. “You know Andy Mabalot next door playing pepito with Baachan dem?”

  Next comes a couple of red carnations. “Oh, yah?” Court is not surprised.

  I tell her that there are no leads in Luke’s murder investigation. I’m frustrated as hell. “Maybe instead of taking money from Baachan, he should try for work some.”

  “He not losing to your baachan.”

  We both laugh. That was for sure. Once he starts winning, Baachan will make sure he’ll be out of the game.

  “Mama Liu is here, too,” I announce.

  “Oh, yah? Once she hears of free grindz—”

  “She wen tell me she drove Wynn Hightower here last Friday. You wen see him?”

  She purses her lips and puts the lei down to check her calendar on her phone. “I had a retirement party at the community center. Kelly wen help me dat day.”

  I now remember. Pekelo was filling in for Kelly at Killer Wave.

  I watch as Court finishes and ties the two ends of her lei together.

  “Howzit going with Travis?” she asks.

  “Good. We staying at one pretty place up on da hill. Went hiking in the canyon.” I lift my hiking boots, now coated in red dirt as proof.

  With any other girlfriend, that would be an adequate answer. But Court must sense that there’s more because she doesn’t react.

  “Out of Seattle, he different,” I finally admit.

  Still nothing. She’s my only local friend who’s visited me in Washington, and I want to hear what’s on her mind.

  “You one different person in Seattle,” she finally offers.

  “Well, yeah. I’m not the same person I was in high school.”

  “I know dat. But in Seattle, it seems … like you shame you from Hawai‘i.”

  “Dat’s bulai.” I can’t believe my sweet Court is saying something so outrageous.

  “Right dea. No way you would say ‘bulai’ on the Mainland.”

  “That’s because no one understand. It’s called code switching, Court.” “Code switching,” changing from one dialect or language, is actually something Travis taught me.

  “I dunno about code switching bullshit,” Court says, “but I know you switch and I not talking just your words. When you not hea, you no even tink about us. Wen you stay in Seattle, you no make a place for us.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “When I wen visit, did you ask me where I like go?”

  “We went to Pike’s Market, Underground Tour, Mariner’s game.”

  “I wanted for go to Space Needle and Nordstroms.”

  “But dat’s tourist trap. So expensive for go Space Needle. Not worth it.”

  “Dat’s what Travis said, and you went along wid him. You nevah back me up.”

  I think about what Court is saying. I’m replaying our time in Seattle together in my mind. I hate to admit it, but I think she’s right.

  “Why you nevah say anyting?”

  “Because he’s your man. I no like talk stink about him.” She stands up and starts putting her floral tools away. “Mo’ important, what’s happening with you and Sean?”

  “Whatchu tryin’ for say?”

  “I see, Leilani. I know you. Are you sure maybe Sean da problem between you and Travis?”

  We hear a commotion next door at Santiago’s. We both rush outside. It’s Dad helping Uncle Rick from the floor of the shave shack, with Auntie Barbara a few steps behind. A broken beer bott
le is on the floor, and Court grabs a spare bucket to place the shards of glass out of people’s way. Sophie and Ro squat next me. I appreciate their help but tell them to watch themselves. “Sophie, get me a wet rag,” I say, and she goes to the sink and runs water over a dish towel.

  She squats down and hands me the towel. “Auntie Barbara sure likes to drink,” she whispers in my ear.

  No, that’s Uncle Rick, I feel like telling Sophie, but I don’t respond.

  She senses my disbelief. “I smelled alcohol on her breath when we went ova dea,” she whispers again.

  I frown. My little sister must be confused. In light of everything that has happened, I don’t blame her.

  After we clean up the broken grass, I apologize to Court for not listening to her on her Seattle trip.

  “No worries. You still da best.”

  After we hug it out, I weave through the crowd to find Travis.

  Mom is sitting at the picnic table with D-man. She’s sipping some kind of orange-green drink, probably full of kale that D-man whipped up special for her. Before Mom was diagnosed, I don’t think D-man even knew what kale was.

  Dad is approaching the picnic table, carrying two plates full of shredded kalua pig, scoops of white rice, poi, and lomi-lomi salmon. The table, however, is full. I’m not sure that there’s a place for him.

  I finally find Travis at D-man’s, drinking with a bunch of old surfers. One of D-man’s employees, Malcolm, is manning the bar.

  “Leilani, come here,” the men call me over.

  OhmyGod, really?

  Travis moves halfway on his stool to give me room. I’m not going to sit butt to butt with him in front of this crowd. “C’mon, Leilani, have some fun,” he urges. He orders some tequila, my downfall, for both of us. “I see you running around, taking care of people. You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  I stare at my shot glass of tequila. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  He looks at me incredulously. “Oh, not again. I’m privileged, blah, blah, blah.”

  “You’re drunk.” I hate it when he gets like this.

  D-man has returned to relieve Malcolm, and he’s able to quickly assess what’s going on. “Hey, brah, maybe go easy on the tequila.”