Heat Wave by Karina Halle
The funny thing is, if Juliet were still alive, I'm not sure she'd be all too enthused about me moving here to work at her hotel. After all, she spent four years running this place with Logan, and not once did she invite me to visit, let alone offer me a job. I mean, I knew she knew I was happy at Piccolo. But that was based on assumption. She never asked me if I was happy with my job or the way my career was going. I'm not sure if I'm good at faking happiness or what, but it's like the thought to check in with my well-being never crossed her mind.
Not that it surprises me. Juliet always had a lot on her plate with a million things to think about. Wondering about how her little sister was doing was always very low on her priority list.
Still, I'm thinking back to the time she came to Chicago alone and stayed with me. I always thought that was odd in its own way. Normally my parents were the default, not me. But she asked to stay at my tiny apartment and so she did. I was thrilled, naturally, since she never showed that kind of interest in me before, not really.
That was when she came clean about what Logan was doing to her—all the heartache brought on by his cheating and affairs. I felt strangely privileged that she was sharing all this with me, something that tainted her, something other than perfect. Even though she wasn't at fault, it meant that her marriage wasn't the happy one we all were led to believe.
I finish the rest of the toast, wiping the crumbs off of the contract. I bet if Juliet were still alive, I wouldn't be here. I hate to think it, but if I hit a rough patch in my career and Moonwater was my only option and she knew that, I don't think she would have gone for it. It wouldn't have mattered what my mother told her or even Logan (there were a few rare occasions in the past where he stood up for me, but since he's such a dick now I tend not to think about them)—Juliet would have vetoed the whole situation.
Juliet always liked to keep me as separate from her life as possible. Even when growing up. She'd have secret clubs in her bedroom with her and her stuffed animals and dolls, meetings I wasn’t allowed to attend. When she went out to play, she preferred to do it alone. Even when our mother would force us to play together on some days, she was always off in her own little world. Leaving me behind. Sometimes I chalked it up to the age difference between us, but even so there was always something a bit off about our relationship.
When we got older, the distance between us was magnified. She'd go out with her friends all the time. At the dinner table, she rarely spoke to me, let alone looked at me. The most I would get from her was a yearly Christmas and birthday gift, always something generic, nothing that ever hinted that she knew me at all.
And yet people thought the world of her. She was beautiful enough to be a model—and she did do some teenage modeling, something I was always deeply jealous of—yet smart enough to get scholarships. She was valedictorian and homecoming queen. She spent her Wednesday nights at a soup kitchen and she never got in trouble for anything, even though I knew she would go out drinking on the weekends. More than a few times I found pot or blotter paper in her bedroom when I was sneaking around to borrow one of her dirty books or find her secret diary (I was always empty-handed). I'm sure I found something that must have been cocaine once.
But I never brought it up with her—she would only deny it and my parents would never believe me. Besides, I didn't want to get her in trouble. As much as I envied her, I craved her attention. I wanted nothing more than for her to like me, to love me. The more distant and mysterious Juliet became to me, the more of her approval I craved.
And so here I am, sitting on a balcony in a tropical paradise, the sun breaking through the morning clouds and lighting up the ocean in dizzying rays of light, and I still need her approval. She's dead, gone forever, I'm not even sure I've started to properly grieve—and yet all I can think about is whether she would have wanted me to be here.
“Hey, sweet thing!”
Charlie's voice breaks through my thoughts. I get off my chair and peer over the edge. He's standing beneath the balcony, shirtless, his surfboard tucked under his arm.
I can't help but smile at him and his goofy charm, happy he's pulled me out of my thought spiral. “Hey!”
“I’m heading out to Hanalei. Fancy a morning surf?”
I shake my head, still horrified after what Logan told me about the ocean. “No way.”
“You know I'm going to wear you down, right?”
“You know that ocean is waiting to kill me, right?”
He shrugs. “Whatever. It's what we have to tell newcomers so they don't go all crazy. You're safe with me. Come on, we have plenty of time before work.”
“Maybe some other time,” I say. “I'm just going to spend the day adjusting to everything. Take it easy.”
“Suit yourself.” He gives me a head nod and then walks toward the parking lot.
I sigh and head back inside, hoping that unpacking my suitcases and putting things away will help me feel a bit more settled.
True to my word with Charlie, I take it easy for the rest of the morning. Once I’m unpacked, I head down to reception and drop off the forms for Logan. Kate’s there but she says Logan isn’t anywhere to be found. I’m relieved.
I decide to stroll around the grounds for a bit, taking in the surroundings and getting to know the area. I trace over the same route that Logan took me yesterday. It looks completely different this morning, maybe because the surf has died down a bit and the sun is coming through. The water sparkles a brilliant aquamarine and the breeze is soft, warm and fresh. I stand on the beach for a few minutes, letting the moment sink in, breathing that salty air deep into my lungs while the wind tosses my hair.
This is more like it. This is the paradise that everyone waxes on about. Yesterday with Logan, I didn't have a proper chance to enjoy it, let it soak in. I was too preoccupied with him, the way he was watching me, whether I was saying the right things or not. Everything had an ominous tone to it that seems to have been swept away overnight.
I round the curve of the beach, trying not to peer up at the guests on their oceanfront balconies, and stroll past the restaurant, glancing in the salt-sprayed windows as I go. It's dark inside, not open for lunch, and my stomach rumbles. Kate had mentioned that we could do a trip to the grocery store after her shift ended, but until then there's nothing much but a few pastries at the café and a juice and fruit truck down by Haena Beach. Apparently if I just follow the beach for another twenty minutes I'll come to it.
Of course twenty minutes to Kate is at least a half hour by my standards. She seems to be in incredible shape, while walking in sand has tired me out after no time. By the time I reach the food truck in the Haena Beach parking lot, I'm dripping with sweat and winded.
That's not to say it wasn't the most stunning walk I've ever been on. The beach that leads away from Moonwater Inn eventually turns into Tunnels Beach, the island's best snorkeling spot, and then busy Haena. At the ocean's edge, beach houses stake their claim for best view. As you walk you head straight toward the lush green mountain peaks of the Na Pali Coast, made even more dramatic by the passing wisps of clouds. It's all so close you truly feel you're in the shadow of something otherworldly as your eyes pick up every wild detail of the sharp cliffs and valleys. Then there's the golden-white sand beneath your feet and the crystal-clear water as it slips past the outer reefs, lapping gently at the shore. Everything here is vying for your attention, daring you to look away.
There are people everywhere, for sure, but it's nowhere near as crowded as the beaches of Lake Michigan during the height of summer. There's just enough of a crowd so you don't feel so alone. The island feels so inherently wild, like it’s a beast floating at the edge of infinity, that you almost crave the company around you.
After I get my fresh slices of mango and coconut, I eat them sitting on the beach, watching surfers play in the waves, until my phone rings.
Surprised I even get reception here, I fish it out. It's my friend Claire, wanting to Facetime.
I answ
“Hey Ronnie,” Claire says. “I had to check in. How are things? You were supposed to text me, you loser.”
Staring at my friend's cherubic face brings a pang of loneliness to my heart. I've never Facetimed her before. I never had a reason to—she always lived down the street from me. Now that I'm staring at her, in what looks like her apartment, probably having just finished work, I'm aware that this is the only way I'll be able to see her for the next while.
“I texted you when I landed,” I protest. “And I sent you that picture of the chicken. Do you want more? I’ve got chickens all around me.” And it’s true. A group of hens are a few feet away, scratching at the sand and eyeing my fruit.
She giggles, brushing her brown hair out of her eyes. “Look, the next time you send me a picture of a cock, I hope it's not of the feathered variety.” I roll my eyes. “Besides, telling me you've safely landed is not texting me. You were supposed to fill me in.” Pause. “How's Logan?”
“Fine,” I say dismissively. “Hey, look where I am.” I bring the phone up and slowly bring it around me in a circle, aiming at the scenery.
“Seriously?” Claire's voice crackles until I bring the phone back to me. “And you said you didn't want to go.”
“I didn't!” I tell her. “And I still don't want to be here.”
Claire is the only person who knows the truth about everything. She knows how Logan and I met. She knows that he cheated on Juliet with God knows who. She knows why I was fired from my last job. She knows that I had no choice but to come out here. She knows everything. Yet another reason why I'm already missing her.
“Well I'm sure waking up to paradise every day will eventually start to wear your cynicism down.”
“Cynicism?”
“You know what I mean, Ron. It could be worse. Everything can always be worse.”
That's the other thing about Claire. She takes no crap. That might be why I like Kate, they're both similar in that way. There's only so much “boo hoo I'm moving to Hawaii” Claire can handle, even if she knows the truth.
“Right,” I say. “Well anyway, now you get to come with me on my walk back to the hotel. If the reception cuts out I'll try and call you back later. There's no TV or landlines at the hotel you know, but at least the internet somewhat works.”
“I think that's charming. Makes you get out there and enjoy the outdoors. How is the hotel anyway?”
I explain to her the gist of it all, from the layout and the restaurant to the sleeping arrangements and the staff.
“So it wasn't weird when you saw Logan?”
I swallow, wishing she wasn't staring at my face and studying it. Fuck Facetime. “Um, well it was weird. Yeah.”
“Did you talk about Juliet?” she asks softly. Claire always softens her voice when she mentions her name. I think it’s because she's still not sure how I'm going to react.
“In passing,” I say, then cringe at the poor choice of words. “I mean, she came up but indirectly.”
“Did you see where . . . it happened? The crash site?”
That was one of the things I was trying not to look for. I knew it happened near the hotel but I wasn't sure where. “I closed my eyes for some of the ride over,” I admit. “I don't know if I passed it or not. I'm not sure I want to see it, actually.”
“Fair enough. God, sorry Ron. I can't imagine how hard it must be for you now that you’re finally there.”
Claire knows I was never close with my sister but she also knows how badly I wanted to be. How I lost that chance for good.
“Yeah well, I'm just going to take it day by day. Everyone here talks about Juliet like, well, like everyone else does at home. So I suppose that's a good thing. She wasn't just this amazing person in Chicago, she was the same amazing person here.”
Claire falls silent, her brows furrowing as she thinks that over. “Are you going to talk to Logan about what you know?” she finally asks.
I sigh, looking up from the phone just as I round the bend and see the hotel creep into sight.
“I don't see the point,” I tell her. “What's done is done.”
“Well it might clue him into why you hate him so much.”
“I'm sure he knows why. I don't have to say anything. He knows what he did. And he's probably always known that Juliet told me. That's why he's been a dick ever since then.”
“Are you sure he hasn't been a dick because you've been a dick?”
I glare at her, hoping it comes through the screen. “Claire,” I warn her before switching the subject. I start showing her the hotel as I get closer and eventually we end the phone call with me sitting out on the beach, right in front of the restaurant.
“I better go,” she says. “Break a leg tonight.”
I can't help but yawn, a wave of fatigue washing over me. Maybe such a strenuous walk wasn't the best idea when jetlagged and on minimal food. I'm used to eating a lot more than this.
“Break a leg,” I scoff. “You know how many times that's nearly happened to me in the kitchen? Wet floors are no joke.”
She laughs. “Then bring a mop. I love you. Talk to you later.”
“Love you,” I tell her, my words coming out almost in a whisper as the connection is severed.
Even though I know I'll get sand everywhere, I lay back on the beach, my phone resting on my chest.
I'd met Claire back in culinary school. She had been just like me, a bright young thing with dreams of being the next cooking superstar. But Claire's talent for cooking only ran so deep and she was easily discouraged. She dropped out before it was over, even though it all worked out for the better. While I stayed with the program, she went on to combine the little experience she had with her love of wine. She's now a sommelier at one of the better wine stores in town and has her eyes on opening a vineyard in the future. As hard as it was to leave my best friend, I know she would eventually do the same to me one day. The woman belongs on a vineyard in Chile somewhere, living out her dream.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath through my nose, willing the sweet, sultry air and steady crash of waves to calm my heart.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s not long before I’ve fallen asleep, and once again I know I’m dreaming. My lucidness has been working overtime since I got here.
But my dream isn’t a new scenario like the sex dream I had about Logan. It still features him, but it’s set in the past, in a real event.
The Christmas we all spent together. The one the first year they were together, before they were married, before they moved to Kauai. The hotel was in the final stages of takeover and Logan was spending more and more time in Hawaii, but we were all together for the holidays.
In reality, Christmas was held at my parents’ house. It always was. My mother always went way out—and by that, I mean she hired the same decorator every year to make our home look like a Christmas wonderland. Then the news channels and newspaper reporters would come by and do a yearly special on our place. Christmas in my family wasn’t really about family—it was about showing off.
And Janice, our decorator, was a fixture around the holidays, popping in a few times a week between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day to add some touches. From the time my mom entered politics, when I was around seven years old, Christmas has always been the largest event of the year. But even as a kid, I could tell something was off. I was the envy of children at school and yet I envied after their tales of Christmas Eve when one of their parents dressed up as Santa, or the ritual of leaving out milk and cookies, or the next morning, ripping into their presents. I always got far more than them, sometimes as many as one hundred presents, which looking back now, was a disgusting waste of wealth. I would have rather gotten one or two gifts that had meaning and love behind them. Some parents underestimate how simple kids really are—love, unconditional and ongoing, is really all we need.
So with that in mind, Christmas was always a cold, joyless time.
In my dream, it wa
But even though the setting was different, everything else was the same.
My father, with his pinched nose and stern mouth, his grey suits and burgundy ties (always the same, my mother wouldn’t let him try another color), barely said two words, my mother dominating most of the conversation. Her face was doing that weird thing where sometimes she looked like Juliet and sometimes she looked like herself, always interchanging, but the conversation was word for word.
I know because I’ve never forgotten it.
Juliet asked for my father to pass her the bottle of red wine, wanting to top off her glass.
“No, darling,” my mother had said with that politician’s smile. “One glass is your limit these days.”
“Why?” I asked. Juliet loved wine.
Juliet and Logan exchanged a glance. My mother gave me a placating smile. “Because your sister is going to be married in the spring. As soon as it’s official, I expect they’ll be trying for a child. The last thing we want is a tainted child in this family. Juliet’s diet will be very strict. Mothers have to start months in advance to rid their bodies of all impurities.”
None of this was surprising to me. I had figured that they’d start having kids after getting married. Even so, there was something in my mother’s tone, some kind of pride that hinted that the conversation wasn’t over.
And it wasn’t.
“Oh,” I’d said and motioned for the bottle. If she wasn’t drinking it, I was going to.