The sky above stretched to the horizon, so deliciously blue he could taste it, drink in eternity in a quenchless gulp of joy. From here, four stories up, he overlooked the entire rim of Waikiki Beach and the long pier that jutted from shore, where sunbaked ten-year-olds dove from the end for tourist tips and beachcombers pressed divots in the sand, only to be tsked by the vigilant sea. Catamarans, their tall masts like church spires, moored on the sand, a lure for snorkelers longing to explore the reefs offshore.
Beyond the curve of the beach jutted the dark magnificence of Diamond Head, the dormant volcano. From the jagged rim, a man might too easily mistake himself for an albatross and take flight, to soar over the expanse of blue ocean, the lush rainforest to the northeast, the cobble of skyscrapers of Honolulu, the snorkeling cove of Hanauma Bay, and the bodysurfing beaches on the southeastern shore of Oahu.
The delicate fragrance of plumeria, tuberose, and jasmine, the flowers of the lei that he’d received yesterday upon arrival and that bedecked the lush resort landscaping, sweetened the sultry morning air, but behind the aroma lurked the salty lure of the ocean, the scent of adventure, danger, and mystery.
In truth, the taste of peace rather than the culinary delights lured Max to Hawaii every year. Here, his life quieted, and his inevitable future felt tenable. Hawaii vanquished the bitterness that too easily coated the back of his throat. Freed him to breathe.
It distracted him with the sense that maybe his tomorrows could be rich.
He needed the distraction because Grace’s words as he’d dropped her off at her room had chased him into his sleep, all four jet-lagged hours.
You don’t have to take care of me, Max. I’ll be fine.
She probably would be. Which meant he should be relieved and not gnawed by the fear that she’d miss today’s culinary tour. He’d never seen such a vicious case of airsickness, and somehow, over the course of the six-hour flight, his annoyance turned to admiration for her tenacity. For the way she joked through her bouts of nausea. For her determination to finish the crossword puzzle even after her fifth trip to the bathroom. To play through the pain.
Yeah, she had Owen’s stubborn athlete genes, and that only made it easier to help her. After all, he owed Owen.
Clearly, however, she didn’t know about Max’s part in Owen’s injury, because when they finally got around to talking hockey and Owen, she seemed less than abreast of the details.
And he certainly wouldn’t be the one to reveal how they’d gotten into an after-game, on-ice brawl with a few players from an opposing team. How, in the middle of the fight, he’d accidentally slammed the butt of his stick into Owen’s eye socket.
Accidentally. But the fact that he’d filled Owen’s position on the first line and ended the season with a personal scoring record stirred the guilt in his gut.
Which was why Max had helped Grace retrieve her luggage and given her a ride in his rental car to the resort. Why he’d helped her to her room and even fetched a bucket of ice, just in case the nausea continued.
He’d done his part, and she was probably right. She could take care of herself. She didn’t need a babysitter.
But Jace had failed to mention that his future sister-in-law had eyes that could make a man forget why he was flying to Hawaii in the first place.
Max leaned over the rail, searching for her in the breakfast crowd eating on the veranda. He spied a woman in a floppy beach hat that gave him pause, then decided to scan the crowd in person. He stepped off the balcony into the cool trapped air of his room, his skin prickling against the sudden change, grabbed his sunglasses and a hat, and headed downstairs.
He could live incognito in Hawaii, with his cargo shorts and printed floral shirt. A regular beach bum, although by tomorrow, he’d add a chef’s cap and apron.
Today’s activities on the school’s schedule included a morning tour of the open markets and a tasting of some of the island’s best specialties. Kālua pork stands, fresh poke from the seafood market, sweet pineapple, malasadas, baked manapua, and maybe they’d end with a late lunch at one of the many cafés that served loco moco, another island specialty.
Max took the elevator to the open-air lobby, then headed outside to the terrace, where diners ate at teakwood tables. A long buffet of mangos, papaya, passion fruit, kiwi, Hawaiian breads, and fresh and smoked seafood gave guests a taste of Hawaiian breakfast. An omelet chef, however, stood ready at the far end, for those with a more traditional palate.
Max wandered around the terrace, searching for Grace.
“Max! I thought I saw your name on the class list.”
Max turned at the voice, smiled. “Keoni. Dude, great to see you.” He extended his hand and caught the grip of his favorite Hawaiian chef. “Are you guest teaching this week?”