Grace’s resembled the texture of wallpaper paste, but she choked it down, chewing on a few gummy chunks, wishing for something—salt or honey or brown sugar or even pineapple—to add to the water-and-taro-plant porridge. She’d quietly made the suggestion to Max, who looked at her as if she’d suggested taking crayon to the Mona Lisa.
When the class let out at noon, 9A had appeared.
Max had arrived in the lobby attired in shorts and a crisp white T-shirt, wearing hiking sandals, his aviators clipped to his neck, grinning, not a hint of samurai chef in his demeanor. He kept his promise to take her to the top of Diamond Head and held her hand as she walked out onto one of the platforms overlooking the crater below. Grace stood there for nearly an hour, just drinking in the vast beauty of the island.
Yesterday, after their second day of class, they’d walked barefoot down the shoreline, all the way to Waikiki Beach, where he took her to a restaurant and ordered fish tacos with mango. Her taste buds were living dangerously.
But this morning she felt sure they weren’t quite adventurous enough to gulp down the bright-orange lomi-lomi salmon Keoni had them preparing.
“The color has a ritual significance to luaus. The ancient Hawaiians offered kumu, another type of reddish-colored fish, to their god, so the salmon is our modern-day substitute. Be sure to get in there with your fingers and massage the tomatoes, ice, and green onions together. After all, that’s what lomi means in Hawaiian. ‘Massage.’” Keoni demonstrated by kneading his mixture together in a glass bowl on the counter.
Next to Grace, Max massaged his fish mixture with the care of a professional therapist, working the flavors together.
Where was a wooden spoon when she needed one?
“What’s the matter?” Max said quietly, glancing at her.
“It’s . . . cold. Really cold.”
“That’s the crushed ice.”
“And did I mention slimy? I mean—I get it, but I’m not a fan.”
He stared at her. “You’re a chef. This is gourmet fish, not gopher guts. Stick your fingers in there and start massaging.”
“You know, Samurai Jack, just ease up there. It’s food, not a nuclear bomb. The world won’t end if I use a spoon.”
His mouth opened, and for a second she had the sense of being in second grade, her classmate threatening to tell on her for writing in her textbook.
“Fine. Chill. I’m massaging; I’m massaging.” Except her massage spilled salmon onto the counter, froze her fingertips, and left her hands dripping.
She glanced behind her. Marnee Miller had the masseuse techniques of a master, while her husband mangled his fish. He looked as if he might have taken this adventure for the tasting portion of the class.
Over at table three, the two socialites with perfect hair were giggling; Grace didn’t want to surmise what they might be saying. Especially as they kept shooting looks Max’s direction. Yeah, well, she didn’t blame them. The man could make even a floppy chef’s hat look dangerously adorable.
She picked her spilled lomi off the counter and threw it back into her bowl. “I hope this is served with crackers or toasted bread.”
“Seriously, Grace. This is sacred food.”
She affected a monkish hum as she massaged.
“I can’t take you anywhere.”
She glanced at him again and caught the hint of a smirk. So maybe, deep inside, Mr. Adventure still lurked. She’d just have to figure out how to lure him out, past the indomitable samurai chef.
“Well done, Max,” Keoni said as he walked by their table. He eyed Grace’s lomi.
“I think my lomi is going to leave me a big tip.” She smiled at Keoni.
He pursed his lips and walked by.
“I did mention that he’s one of the top chefs in the world, right?” Max said quietly. “We usually just say, ‘Yes, chef.’”
“Oh.” She cut her voice low. “But can he fry fish on the side of a lake? Or make flapjacks that can make a grown man cry?”
Again the smile. It was enough to make her at least try the lomi.
She refused to admit to Max that maybe she wouldn’t die. It was better than the poi.
Once again, after class he emerged without a trace of the Iron Chef persona, dressed in swim trunks and a T-shirt. “Ready to snorkel?”
She’d changed, per his suggestion, into a one-piece swimsuit and pulled a long T-shirt over as a cover-up. “I should warn you. Underneath this shirt I resemble the underside of a whale.”
He tossed her a bottle. “SPF 80. Layer it.”
They climbed into the convertible and headed east out of Honolulu, along the Kalanianaole Highway. “Where are we going?”