“You went to camp to cook?”
“No, but after dinner, when the rest of the campers were playing games, I found the staff singing in the kitchen. It reminded me of home, of my family working together after dinner, so I sat on the stoop and listened, and one of the girls, Kiley, found me. She and the other girls took me under their wing. They would let me help make the late-night snack, and they’d talk about boys and high school, and I felt like they let me into their world.”
“So food isn’t really about food for you,” Max said, finishing his shrimp. “It’s about camaraderie.”
“Sometimes I don’t even eat what I make. But I always watch people eat it. I love it when they make those little sounds of joy.” She closed her mouth. “Mmm . . . yum . . . those sounds.”
“Like these?” He slurped, then licked his lips.
She laughed. “I like watching people be happy. Unfortunately, I sometimes think that food will fix things. After Owen’s accident, I kept making muffins and trying to feed everyone into feeling better. But no one could fix it; no one could stop his life from unraveling.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. We all hate what happened to Owen.” He sighed, and on the tail edge, she felt again that strange, painful sense that she’d treaded into something dark. And why not? Owen was his friend. He reached for a napkin, wiped his fingers. She probably needed a bath.
“Ready to see the turtles?” he asked.
“Really?” She went to work on her fingers, her chin, with a napkin. Yep, a bath.
“Yeah, big sea turtles lying on the shore.”
“Every day?”
“Almost. Just basking in the sun.”
“Do they bite?”
“No. They’re turtles. They lie there. Sometimes they stick their tongues out like this.” He opened his mouth to demonstrate.
She laughed. “And then what, cruise director?”
He got up, gathering her plate. “I think tomorrow after class we’ll climb Diamond Head, and I’ll show you a gorgeous view of the island. And maybe the day after that, Hanauma Bay, for snorkeling.”
“Snorkeling?”
“By the end of the week, I’ll have you up on a surfboard.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you have big plans for little me.”
“It’s time to live a little.” He winked. She expected him to move away, but he stood there as the wind shifted, rippled his Hawaiian shirt, revealing those hockey biceps. She noticed a hint of the sun’s lipstick on his nose. Those beautiful brown eyes with emerald centers held a twinkle of mischief.
Hawaii is an easy place to fall in love.
And then he sank the hook. “C’mon, 9B, haven’t you figured it out yet? For this trip, I’m your swim buddy.”
MAX SHARPE HAD A SPLIT PERSONALITY.
The carefree surfer who tooled Grace around Hawaii, who dared her to touch a sea turtle and showed up barefoot, in black linen pants and yet another Hawaiian shirt, for the first night’s luau, turned into Maximoto, ninja chef, when he got near a kitchen.
She almost hadn’t recognized him in his chef’s whites the next morning—a floppy hat, pants, apron, and a full double-breasted chef’s jacket, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows as if girded for battle. He had the demeanor of a samurai—all business, no games.
Apparently Max considered the kitchen a serious, even dangerous, place, one he needed to conquer. Although he saved her a seat on one of the stainless steel stools, he shushed her the second class started. She tried cracking a joke about their instructor, Keoni, who looked like he should be saying, “Let’s hang ten, dude!” instead of giving them a talk on the history of Hawaiian cuisine. Max had once more shut her down with a harsh “Shh!”
Admittedly, she hadn’t quite expected this level of teaching on a culinary vacation. She thought it might be a cadre of Hawaiian-shirted tourists standing around tasting wine as a chef prepared lunch, allowing them to chop a vegetable or two.
No. Hawaiian Culinary Adventures turned out top-notch chefs. She’d never seen such an expertly equipped kitchen, from the commercial-grade prep counters, each with its own range, and the six large ovens, one for each two-person group, to the expansive dry storage pantry, the racks and racks of equipment, and even a bakery and patisserie area.
Yes, she might learn to cook. Really cook, not just throw together fridge leftovers. For the first time since Eden proposed it, Grace considered that she might be able to pull off catering their wedding.
Maybe she should adopt Max’s posture.
They’d spent most of the first day of class reviewing culinary fundamentals: safety and sanitation in the kitchen, proper storage of foods, care and use of equipment. Max had listened with the attention of a soldier learning his AK-47. They’d ended the morning with a quick lesson on poi, which he executed perfectly.