Relapse In Paradise. Roxanne Smith
white people. Whether or not it had prejudice connotations depended largely on who was saying it and how. Hani used it as a term of endearment these days, but that hadn’t always been the case.
He hesitated to say it, to give Hani hope, but maybe… “I might be able to squeeze a little more out of Quinn.”
Hani had started sorting through a shelf of pots and pans on the far wall. He didn’t look up but raised his voice over the clunks and clangs. “Oh, yeah? How you gonna do that? Be a real guide after all? I got a clipboard ’round here somewhere.” He hefted a huge stainless steel pot into the sink.
Boston grinned at Hani’s doubtful expression. “Hell, no. This lady’s vacation is open-ended. No departure date is set. I got a two-week advance. If she stays longer than two weeks, I get to charge for it. The longer she stays, the more I get paid.”
“Why can’t you just tell them your rates went up? Insurance companies pull that crap all the time. Inflation, man. I’m just saying.” Hani’s innocent shrug almost made Boston laugh.
“I’m not successful because I gouge my clients. You know that.”
Hani gave the stove a frustrated kick and muttered something unintelligible and probably offensive under his breath in Hawaiian. He smoothed down a long strand of hair that had escaped from his braid. “Don’t try to sell me your credo, Boston. I think we both know why you’re so damn good at this private guide business, and it ain’t nothing to do with prices.”
Was Hani about to berate him for giving away Oahu’s local secrets to tourists? He thought they were past this.
Hani’s grin came slowly. “It’s them long, golden locks. Akela knows what I’m talking about. You’re like a Barbie doll, man. You’re so pretty it’s confusing sometimes.”
Boston refused to be baited. Hani constantly gave him a hard time about his “pretty boy” looks. Maybe he should grow a beard after all, his clients be damned. “Flattery won’t convince me to marry your sister.” It might be playing with fire to tease Hani about the mean crush Akela had on him, and the pink hibiscus tucked perpetually behind her right ear, a status symbol declaring to anyone in the know that she was both single and available. Unfortunately, Akela didn’t merely resemble Hani—they were practically identical. They even had matching braids, big thick black ones they wore straight down their backs.
He hadn’t noticed the blue speckled stovetop coffee urn sitting atop the broken stove until Hani reached for it and poured the dark contents into a mug, disgruntled. “Cold coffee, man. How do you like that? I was gonna offer you some brew, but I guess compliments are all I can afford. You’d make a terrible prince, anyway. Don’t know why I bother.”
Boston’s eye roll didn’t do the situation justice, but he didn’t have time to groan and walk away.
Hani bobbed his head like he knew what was coming. “I know, I know. You don’t believe me, but I’m telling you, brother. We’re descendants of the royal Hawaiian family. Kemahameha the Great, man. He’s my great, great, great, great something. With the conquest of O’hua in 1795, he became the founder of the Kingdom of Hawai’i. Fifteen years and a few concessions later, bam! You’ve got a unified country, my friend.” He poked Boston in the chest with a large, stubby finger. “Until your people showed up, anyway. I’d be living at Iolani Palace right now if it weren’t for you haoles.”
On an island where dialects and languages came in many flavors, Boston appreciated the universal. He flipped Hani the bird. “I have to go. Keep an eye out for the delivery guy from the appliance yard. We’ll have rice flying out of here by lunchtime.”
Hani grimaced after taking a sip of the cold half-brewed coffee. “Hey, you never said what this lady’s name is. How you gonna find her at the airport if you don’t know her name?”
Boston dug around inside the outer pocket of his frayed cargos and came up with a crumpled yellow note. He unfolded it. “Emily Buzzly-Cobb. That’s one hell of a name.”
Another grimace from his friend. “I’m starting to feel sorry for you, brother. She even sounds like a stick in the mud.”
Boston smirked. “I’ll just have to knock her loose.”
* * * *
Some places on the Web described Honolulu International Airport as the busiest U.S. airport.
Emily glanced around and doubted it. A seasoned traveler, she’d seen far worse at LAX, O’Hare, and JFK. Perhaps Hawaiians weren’t morning flyers. She checked her watch. Six hour flight plus a three hour time difference in her favor meant she’d only lost three hours.
If she didn’t calculate for jet lag.
Which she wouldn’t. She could sleep when she went back to California. On Hawaii time, it was seven in the morning. The perfect hour to begin her first official day in paradise. First, she needed to get to her room at the Hilton her sister, Quinn, had reserved for her stay.
Her completely open-ended stay.
No return ticket accompanied the surprise flight to Honolulu Quinn and her husband, Jack, had sprung on Emily out of the blue in an effort to help her escape her post-divorce funk. But that was the point—to break free of deadlines. If she wanted to go home after a week, she’d book the flight. If she wanted to stay, she’d stay. Stay and do what, who the heck knew.
Maybe forget Blake Cobb existed for a few weeks. Forget her failure as a wife and her failure to be true to herself. She should’ve never gotten involved with her sister’s ex-husband, especially knowing what she did about him. How could she be so successful in one arena of life, yet such a miserable failure where it mattered?
Usually, Emily had meetings and consultations to keep her mind from such dour reflections. The lack of a schedule and sense of urgency was like having the floor shift beneath her feet with nothing to hang on to. No tether. No one waited for her at the hotel, no one expected her at a function downtown, and no one clamored for her expertise.
Emily caught herself smiling, despite the disheartening thoughts of her ex-husband. No consultations. No meetings. No pencil skirts, panty hose, or sensible black pumps.
She glanced at her pin-striped pencil skirt and slide-on loafers.
Okay, first her hotel room. Then, a gratuitous shopping venture for a vacation wardrobe. She must’ve gone into autopilot when she dressed for the flight and wore what she always wore. She’d even taken to wearing slacks on the weekend because why buy jeans to wear one day a week? She didn’t recall if she even owned a pair anymore.
Emily stopped at the conveniently placed Starbucks kiosk outside the terminal exit and ordered a tall caramel frappe. It was downright decadent compared to the coffee she’d suffered on the plane. With her indulgent coffee in one hand and her luggage handle in the other, Emily navigated her way through swarms of travelers to a cabstand outside.
A native woman greeted Emily with a friendly welcoming smile and a lei of white, heavenly-scented flowers. She inhaled deeply and let the floral aroma take over her senses.
Her shoulders relaxed. This must be the island vibe people talked about. An ocean breeze from the west blew the fine hairs around her face into a playful dance. Even the humidity enticed her. Such rich air. So tropical.
She came to a dead halt that nearly sent the scalding contents of her coffee flying. Without blatantly staring, Emily recovered herself and tried to get a better glimpse of the man standing near the cabstand with her name on a sign.
She double-checked the placard.
Yep. Emily Buzzly-Cobb. That was her name. Pretty unmistakable except for the time she’d gone down on a reservation list as Buzzing Cod. Or, more facetiously, the time she’d been addressed as Fuzzy Knob at a school fund-raiser with her nephew.
She regarded the man holding the sign.
Definitely homeless. His unwashed sun-streaked blond hair was a few tangles away from