“I know, but I want you to take it. For good luck.” I wrap my arms around Sydney and give her a kiss on the cheek.
We say our goodbyes as I wait for the car to pick me up downstairs.
Once I wrote back to the email address provided in the letter, Amelia Dual, a concierge, wrote me back immediately with all of the arrangements.
Even though I’m not much of a phone talker, I didn’t feel comfortable doing all of this online. So, we video chatted and she explained what will happen.
She will send a car to pick me up at my apartment, which will then take me to Logan International Airport. I received the flight information in my email: a First-Class ticket to Maui, Hawaii, with a brief stop in Los Angeles. Once there, another car will take me to my final destination.
I get to the airport an hour before my flight and wander around the shops, leafing through the magazines and debating what kind of junk food is the healthiest to buy for the plane. I message Amelia about the exact location of where I am going, but she refuses to provide me with any additional details.
An email trail, car service, and first class tickets definitely make me feel safer about the fact that I am probably not being kidnapped.
Still, Sydney’s concerns echo my own. The thing is that I don’t really know what I’m getting myself into and I’m doing it all alone.
First-class passengers board first and a flight attendant offers me a warm towel and asks for my drink order.
“She’ll have a bloody Mary,” a familiar voice says, grabbing the empty seat next to mine. “I’ll have one, too.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
9
When she surprises me…
Sydney takes the seat next to mine with a mischievous look on her face. She takes her time and builds anticipation with first putting her carry-on luggage in the overhead bin and then unpacking her earbuds, iPad, and phone, putting them into the compartment in the back of the seat in front of her.
Finally, she turns to me and says, “I’m coming with you.”
I start to laugh, shaking my head.
A wave of relief sweeps over me.
I hadn’t realized until this very moment how much I was dreading doing this on my own.
Sydney is not technically invited, but I don’t care. They can’t expect me to go out there all alone, not knowing what I am walking into.
“So, you just…what? Booked a ticket yourself?”
“Yep,” she says, tossing her shiny hair from her shoulders. “I saw the itinerary and the flight that you were on and I booked mine the same day.”
“You’re so sweet,” I say, squeezing her hand. “It must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Don’t worry, I told my dad that I need some girl time with my roomie and we’re getting away for the week.”
“You’re staying the whole week?”
“I can easily change the tickets if you don’t want me to. Don’t worry.”
The flight is long but uneventful.
I read a book on my phone, I stare into space, I page through the magazines I got at the gift shop back in Boston.
I eat two packets of peanut M&M’s even though I promised myself that I would save them until Hawaii.
I try to sleep but my mind keeps running around in circles so I entertain myself with three movies and consume an enormous amount of pretzels and two packets of salt and vinegar potato chips.
When we arrive and get our bags, we walk up to the man holding a sign with my name on it and follow him to his car.
He has jet black hair with a few wisps of gray, dark olive skin, and a mega-watt smile.
Dressed in a flowing Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, and leather flip-flops, he looks exactly like what I imagined every man on this island to look like.
“Wow, interesting choice,” Sydney says, looking around the new model Jeep Wrangler as Thomas, our driver, loads our bags.
I guess I was expecting a man in a black suit and a Lincoln town car or a BMW because I’m just as surprised by the greeting as she is.
On the drive out, I plaster my face to the window staring at the lush vegetation on either side of the highway.
“The first explorer to come to Maui was Admiral Jean-Francois de La Perouse in 1786,” Thomas, our driver, says.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say, looking at bright blue water and the pristine beaches on one side of us.
“Maui is the second largest Hawaiian island with over 120 miles of coastline and beaches. The island itself is over 727 square miles.”
“It looks very wild.” Sydney points out to the luscious green jungles on the other side of the road.
“It is. Not all roads around here are easily drivable but that’s partly what makes it so charming. It has a lot of hidden places. One of which is where you are going.”
My ears perk up.
“And where’s that?”
“I am under strict instructions not to reveal a thing, I am sorry,” Thomas says, quickly changing the subject. “This road, the Hana Highway, is considered one of the most scenic ones in the world.”
I look down and watch the way the asphalt looks as if it’s almost hugging the cliffs. Sydney, who is terrified of heights, moves closer to the middle of the car and shields her eyes.
The highway doesn’t match any normal definition of a highway. There are hundreds and hundreds of breathtaking and hairpin turns that alternate between waterfalls on one side and soaring and plunging sea cliffs on the other.
We drive for nearly two hours then turn onto a poorly paved road that goes through the lush tropical rainforest, so thick that it’s just a sea of green. Rain comes and goes, leaving behind a sparkling rainbow.
We drive out onto a clearing, a beautiful green pasture. There are dramatic mountains behind us and miles of a deep blue ocean in the front. The grass moves slightly in the breeze almost as if it were dancing. Were it not for the sprawling home positioned near the cliff, this place would be completely wild.
As we pull up closer to the house, I am surprised by how it looks. Instead of the brand new Mediterranean type of estate that I imagined this would be, this house is a blast from the past.
Thick plantation shutters, a ranch-style design, and a wrap-around lanai gives me a feeling of old Hawaii, the kind that I’ve only seen in movies. There is extensive ocean frontage with an infinity pool that looks out onto the water below.
Slightly to the back of the house, there are two cottages painted the same soothing taupe color as the main house. They also have matching thick shutters and oscillating ceiling fans on the porches.
My eyes are immediately drawn to something in the distance that is perched almost over the cliff.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That’s our gazebo. It’s perfect for watching turtles, whales, and other wildlife,” Thomas says.
“Can I go take a look?” I ask.
“No, not just yet,” he says, getting my suitcases.
“I will show you to your cottage, Ms. Kernes, and our staff will get the other one ready for you, Ms. Catalano,” Thomas says.
I don’t know if he’s just too polite to say anything about me bringing a friend along, but now suddenly I feel very uncomfortable about Sydney’s presence. I am an invited guest, maybe I had no right to invite my roommate along on this trip.
When we follow Thomas to my cottage, a beautiful woman with dark flowing hair and a flower behind her left ear walks up to us. She’s dressed in a casual summer dress and wedges and gives me a warm hug.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Kernes,” she says. “I’m Amelia Dual.”
10
While we wait…
Amelia shows us my cottage. It’s a spacious one-bedroom with comfortable off-white furniture and a beautiful marble kitchen island. A large television hangs above the fireplace. I’m immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that span the whole side of the place, looking out onto the ocean below. Large palm trees cr
adle the place on either side, putting me strangely at ease at being here.
“Mr. Crawford hopes that you will be comfortable here, Ms. Kernes,” Amelia says.
“Please call me Olive,” I correct her. “And she’s Sydney.”
“Yes, of course,” Amelia says. “Would you mind waiting here, Sydney, while I get someone to set up your cottage?”
“Of course, no problem.” She nods.
Amelia is also too nice to say anything, but I feel like I have to.
“Sydney can stay with me, it’s no problem,” I say. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about this earlier but…I was unsure about coming here all by myself since I don’t know why I was even invited here.”
“You don’t have to apologize. You are our guest and Mr. Crawford will understand,” she says and leaves.
Sydney and I exchange looks. She doesn’t have to say a word, I know exactly what she’s thinking by the expression on her face. She thinks this place is amazing and is very impressed with the professionalism of the staff.
There’s a plate of fruit and pastries sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter along with a collection of teas, some of which are Hawaiian. I forgo the traditional ones like Earl Grey and peppermint and steep a bag of the local mango, pineapple, and passion fruit. Sydney makes herself a cup of Royal Kona coffee and takes the tray of food out onto the lanai overlooking the sea.
“So, what do you think?” she asks, taking a sip.
My mouth salivates at the sight of the slices of bright yellow starfruit and I quickly bite into one.
“I don’t know what to think,” I say. “I mean, why am I here? Who brought me here?”
“Apparently, Mr. Crawford did,” Sydney says, her eyes lighting up. “Do you know of any Mr. Crawford?”
I shake my head no.
“Think hard. Do you know of anyone with the last name Crawford at all?”
I think about it for a moment. But the answer is again no.
“I don’t remember anyone named Crawford growing up. I don’t remember even meeting a Crawford before.”
We sit out on the porch enjoying the light breeze and watching the whitecaps of the ocean below collide with the pristine white beach. The flight was long and tiring, and I can’t help but sit back in my rocking chair and close my eyes. I listen to the chirping of birds somewhere in the distance until I fall into a deep sleep.
“She’s coming back,” Sydney whispers to me, rousing me.
I don’t know how much time has passed but there are three fewer croissants than there were before I fell asleep.
Amelia walks up to us and tells us that Sydney’s cottage is now ready.
Sydney insists on carrying her own bags so I just follow her down a footpath to her place, which is identical to mine in every way down to the nautical decorations and throw pillows.
“Mr. Crawford is hosting a cocktail party tonight at six at the main house. He would like to invite you both there,” Amelia says.
“Yes, of course,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.
“It’s only three now, so if you want to take a rest or a dip in the pool, feel free,” she says. “There are towels and bathing suits and anything else you may need in your cottages.”
After Amelia leaves, Sydney says she’s going to take a nap but I want to go on a walk to clear my head. I’m afraid that going to sleep now is just going to make me more drowsy for the party. Hey, maybe I’ll even do a few laps in the pool.
I change out of my sweaty leggings and black t-shirt and into a light sleeveless beach dress. It’s unfitted and airy, like a long t-shirt, and finally I enjoy the way the breeze feels wrapping around my bare legs as I make my way toward the cliff.
“There must be some way down,” I say to myself, looking down at the ocean below. I’m standing at the edge of a nearly twenty-foot cliff.
I walk over to the batch of swaying palm trees to one side and examine the rugged terrain again. The overhang back toward the main house is a near straight up and down face, but there does seem to be more of a path in the direction toward the rainforest.
I head in there and then slowly start to make my way down the narrow winding trail down the rocky bluff.
This walk is no joke and I’m about halfway down before I realize that this may have been a really bad decision.
With each step, I kick up the sand and rocks and a few fall straight down below. Each time I place my feet onto the ground, I test it first to make sure that it’s stable but one time I’m wrong. My foot slips and I land on my butt and start to slide all the way to the bottom.
“Are you okay?” A guy runs over to me.
Putting down his surfboard, he kneels down next to me and we both stare at my bleeding leg. I move it around to assess the damage.
“It seems to be okay,” I say. “Just a few cuts and bruises.”
“Did you just come down this way?” he asks, pointing to the precipice above. The trail that I thought was a path doesn’t look anything like it from this direction and I’m kind of shocked that I even made it all of the way down without breaking my back.
“I wanted to touch the water,” I say, getting up and straightening my dress.
“Well, if you want to go back up, make sure to go that way.” He points a little further down the beach. “That’s where the real trail starts.”
I’m about to ask him for his name, but he dives into the water before I can get the chance.
“Thanks!” I yell after him. He raises his hand for an acknowledgment and disappears below the waves.
11
When we get ready…
I can’t help but wade in the water and swim around a bit. I would go skinny dipping, but the surfer is still somewhere on the horizon so I go in with my dress on.
When I get to my cottage, I hang up my dress and jump straight into the shower. Fresh water feels good on my scrapes as the tingling from the salt finally goes away.
When I examine my legs closer, I see the scratches from the rocks go almost the whole way down from my thighs to my ankles. The bleeding has stopped, but after the hot shower, the scrapes look pretty bad.
Wrapped in a towel, I go through my suitcase trying to figure out what to wear to this cocktail party. I have no idea how dressy or not dressy it is and I’m always a little uncomfortable in being overdressed. Unlike Sydney, I’d rather be the girl that few people notice.
I’m ready half an hour ahead of schedule and go to see Sydney who is probably still in the midst of her transformation. She lets me in with her hair still wet and a tornado of clothes on her bed.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she gasps.
I smile from getting the reaction that every girl dreams of when she takes the time to get a look together.
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask.
“Jeans? Really?”
“They aren’t jeans, they are black jean leggings and they make my butt and legs look really nice,” I say.
Paired with a pair of nude wedges and a flowing, sleeveless top with a plunging neckline, I know that I look sophisticated but not overdressed.
“And what if this is some sort of black tie thing?”
“It’s a cocktail party, I’m wearing cocktail attire. C’mon, you’re the one who always says that a nice pair of heels dresses up any outfit.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says loudly over the sound of the hairdryer. “I just thought you’d wear my dress.”
I shrug. I’d given that a thought as well, but I couldn’t. I don’t know what I’m walking into here and I need to feel as comfortable as possible. I’m not good at heels and dresses in general, and I’m only willing to sacrifice one of those tonight. Sydney knows all of this, of course, so she doesn’t push me any further.
Even though it doesn’t look like she would have enough time to do everything that she needs to get done for her to look presentable, Sydney is ready by exactly six o’clock. It’s amazing how quickly she dries and straight irons her hair, applies
her makeup, and slips on her little black dress.
“I figured that I’d go with the classic cocktail look,” she says, applying one last coat of red lipstick to complete the look.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
“As do you.” She gives me a quick squeeze on the hand. “I’m sorry if I made you feel bad earlier, I was just joking.”
“I know you were.” I smile back at her.
The sun is just starting to set and the wrap-around lanai is illuminated with a brilliant explosion of pinks, yellows, and reds. Waiters, dressed in black tuxes, meander among the guests who are dressed in almost casual attire with men wearing Hawaiian shirts and khakis and women floral dresses. Some are sleeveless, others are strapless, and wrap-style but all move softly in the light breeze coming off the ocean.
I don’t have the skills to be able to walk up to a perfect stranger and start a conversation, but luckily Sydney does. Within a few moments, I am engrossed in a discussion about Boston with a couple of women in their thirties who have never been there.
They both grew up in Hawaii, on different islands, and now work in real estate. If it were up to me, I would just keep talking to them all night, but Sydney has an effortless way of flowing in and out of conversations and quickly we move on to new people. Within the hour, we have talked to almost half of the attendees.
There are a few commonalities among them. Most are in their thirties and forties and live on Maui. Many of the women do not work and those who do, work in real estate. The men are involved in various investment projects ‘on the island,’ that’s what they say when referring to this place.
In every conversation, I keep meaning to ask about Mr. Crawford, but then I always get a little bit shy. I don’t really want to go into the reason why I’m here and I fear that if they find out that I don’t even know who he is then I will inevitably have to.
Tell Me to Stop Page 4
