Killer Confections8 Delectable Mysteries(18)
Last night I’d turned my phone to silent for the luau performance and missed a call from Tom. I couldn’t decide if I should be pleased or annoyed that he’d finally phoned. His brief message said he hoped we were all having a great time.
No mention that he missed me. Or longed for my return. Or that he wished he could have joined me at this beautiful tropical resort. My fingers hovered over the phone itching to send an equally curt text message, but I decided to wait. Maybe the magic of this island would restore my spirits.
Jenna, my sixteen-year-old, had also left a message. Though her voice mail kept cutting in and out, I heard her mention something that cost “only two hundred dollars.” I texted and asked her to elaborate. With my new stepfather, a retired detective babysitting both kids, I wasn’t worried about either of them getting into trouble. The request for something that cost only two hundred dollars was more troubling.
But I’d worry about that later. Today I was on vacation.
Three hours and three thousand calories later, with my body stretched out on an inadequately sized beach towel, I attempted to keep the broiling black sand from turning the soles of my feet to burnt charcoal.
My towel rested twenty feet away from some sunbathing sea turtles. After practically inhaling three of the cream-filled pastries at the southernmost bakery in the United States, my body felt bloated. I bet the turtles could move faster than I could. Every now and then, one of the placid creatures would poke his or her head out, gaze at the crowd of tourists and withdraw back into its shell.
I wished I had a cool shell to hide my own sweaty body. The palm trees that lined the Punalu’u Black Sand Beach made for a postcard photo op, but the black sand formed from the lava flowing into the sea had created a molten hot playground for beachgoers.
Mother lay next to me on an oversized hot pink beach towel. She’d rearranged it at least ten times until it sat perfectly perpendicular to the ocean. Her thick-soled flip-flops, a lovely shade of raspberry edged in rhinestones, shimmered in the noon sun.
She rolled over to face me. “This vacation probably isn’t what you expected, is it?”
What I’d expected was some quality bonding with the brother and sister-in-law I rarely saw. Not intervening in a domestic dispute that may have turned deadly. I’d also anticipated private time alone with Tom.
I swiped at tiny grains of sand on my legs. “It’s not exactly the romantic vacation I envisioned when we initially planned this trip.”
“You know how I hate to pry…” I stifled a snort, but my mother has excellent hearing. She sniffed, but continued. “Detective Hunter is a fine man, but maybe he has too much responsibility with his new position to be in a relationship with you. Or with any woman.”
“You’re probably right. It was silly to get my hopes up for this trip. I kept imagining the two of us sharing romantic evenings––walking the beach together and later making––” My face turned the color of my mother’s beach towel when I realized I was about to discuss my sex life with her.
Or my hope that I would finally have a sex life once Tom and I vacationed together in Hawaii.
She chuckled. “It’s okay, honey. You’ve been single for a few years now, although not nearly as long as I was alone after your father passed away. Try not having a sex life for almost thirty years.”
Talk about TMI! That was way too much information.
After my Dad died, I’d never seen my mother with another man until she started dating Detective Bradford the previous fall. I’d always wondered if she’d squeezed any dating into her busy life once my brother and I moved out. No need to wonder any more.
“How could you tell Bradford was the man for you?” The question had nagged at me since their initial meeting, but I’d never had the nerve to ask, even after they married.
She rolled over on her back and rested her hands on her stomach. “Timing had a lot to do with it. Robert and I are both sixty-two. He was contemplating retirement from the sheriff’s department. I was wondering if I’d still be selling real estate and showing houses twenty years from now. I’ve enjoyed my career, but I haven’t had much of a life of my own, other than raising you and your brother.”
She sat up and smiled. “I doubt any Realtor on their death bed ever said they wished they’d gotten one more listing.”
My turn to chuckle. My mother had been a workaholic all of her life. In the beginning, she had no choice because she needed to support her young family. Once she became the top agent in her office, her competitive nature wouldn’t allow her to drop back to number two in sales.