Here Today, Gone to Maui

by Carol Snow

  I laughed. He didn’t. “Did you ever find the phone?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “It didn’t work, but I found it.”

  “And . . . did you lose the customer?”

  “Nope. I told him the story—he loved it.” He held my eyes for a moment and then looked away.

  “And the girlfriend?”

  “Her I lost for good.”

  “Because of that?”

  “Not because of that specifically—but because of that generally. Because she wanted me to be somebody different, someone less—I don’t know. Driven, I guess. But after we broke up, it occurred to me that maybe she had a point. If you can’t relax on the beach, where can you?”

  “Underwater?”

  He smiled. “But when someone figures out how to get a signal down there, I’m all over it.”

  “But no more phone on the beach?” I bit into the turkey sandwich. It was better than the Brie; quite tasty, in fact.

  “It’s in my bag.” He gestured behind him, where a black sports bag lay on the rocks. “But it’s turned off.” He pulled my new mask out of my bag. “This yours?”

  “Pretty nifty, huh?”

  “It’s a piece of crap. Wait here.”

  A few minutes later, he was back with a mesh bag filled with several masks.

  “Are these from your company?” I asked, forgetting for a moment that I knew all about his company and that they only made wetsuits.

  “Nope. A lot of bartering goes on at the trade shows.”

  He held a black mask up to my face. “When I press it against you, suck in through your nose.”

  “What about the strap?”

  “If it fits properly, it should hold without it, at least for a few seconds.”

  The mask stuck for barely an instant before falling off.

  “Too big,” he said. “You have a small face. Let’s see . . .” He dug around in the mesh bag and yanked out another mask, pale blue this time. He pressed it against my face, and I sucked in through my nose. It stayed in place until I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I have no idea,” I said honestly, surprised that I could laugh at all.

  He got into the water before me, of course. But after putting my mask and a borrowed snorkel in place, I submerged myself relatively quickly, at least by my low standards. Treading water, I yanked on my flippers and turned onto my belly. I didn’t see much at first, just brown sand and gray rocks and a few pale, darting fish.

  When I looked up, Michael waved me out to him. I swam smoothly, arms at my sides, legs scissoring through the water. A rogue wave broke over my head, but the snorkel had a whizzy splash guard that kept the water out.

  Far below us, a hunk of coral swarmed with fish. Because of the depth, the light was diffused, the colors dull. I pulled my head up and treaded water. Above me, the sky was a bright, clear blue. Farther inland, puffy white clouds hugged the mountains. Michael pulled his snorkel from his mouth. “You want to see something cool? Swim around the corner with me.”

  The “corner” was a towering mass of rocks, the surf pounding the point. Already, the rocky little beach seemed far away.

  Without meaning to, I pictured Jimmy snagged on an underwater rock, his air running out. Jimmy diving into ever-deeper water, drunk with nitrogen narcosis. Jimmy in the clutches of a heart attack. Jimmy and Jaws.

  “I think I’d feel better—” I spat out some rubber-flavored spit. “Just going in.” A wave slammed against the rocks, the spray darting up like white fireworks. “After what happened the other day . . .”

  He pulled his mask down to his neck so I could look into his eyes, brown ringed with copper. “Nothing happened the other day. At least not in the water.” He pushed his mask back into place. “You coming?”

  He was right, of course: Jimmy was alive.

  “I’m coming.”

  The currents were stronger out beyond the rocks, and the water deeper. Michael tapped my arm and cupped a hand to his ear, making the universal sign for “listen.”

  I held my hands out in the universal sign for “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He pointed to his ear again, and that’s when I heard what sounded like a cross between a rusty hinge and off-key singing.

  I squealed into my snorkel and popped my head out of the water for confirmation. “Whales?” I asked, the snorkel still in my mouth. (“Wawf?”)

  He nodded and then swam farther out, his movements so graceful that his flippers barely splashed. I hurried behind him, forgetting my energy-saving form, slapping at the water with my arms.

  On the other side of the point, the water splashed over my head, and the current grew more insistent. My heart pounded. Suddenly I felt cold to my core. The ground below us was dark and rocky. Michael skin-dived way down, gliding around the rock and coral like a manta ray. I floated on the surface, wondering why I had agreed to come out here.

  Michael returned to the surface in a diagonal line and flippered parallel to the rocky shoreline. I followed fearfully. The only thing worse than being stuck out here, shivering and afraid, was swimming back alone.

  And then, suddenly, I forgot about everything: my fear, the cold, the slight cramp in my right foot. A sea turtle the size of a coffee table swam below me, its flippers stroking the water so gracefully it looked like it was flying: an underwater UFO. I followed without thinking about the cold or the waves or how far we were from shore. Ahead of me, it floated up until it reached the surface. I lifted my head in time to see its scaly nose peeking above the water, sucking some air. And then it was under again: down, down into the protection of the shadows.

  When the turtle disappeared, Michael asked if I was getting cold, shouting over the wind and waves to be heard.

  I nodded, my lips too numb to speak.

  He swam over and said, “You want a tow?”

  I was all set to say no when I realized just how tired I was.

  “Hold on to my shoulder,” he instructed. “And keep your body streamlined.”

  When the water was shallow enough to stand, I let go of Michael’s shoulder and stood up, only to be knocked over by the first wave.

  “Whoa,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back up. “Next time I won’t keep you out so long.”

  I gazed back at the deep water, already missing the turtles.

  Tiara was standing on the rocks. I tried to say hi, but it came out as “huh.” I sat down at the water’s edge and tugged off my flippers, a dinky wave knocking me back against the rocks. I slipped off my mask and handed it to Michael with wobbly arms. “Thanks,” I wheezed. (“Thass.”)

  He made a wiping motion above his lip.

  “Huh?”

  He did it again. When I blinked at him, confused, he said, “You have a little . . . slime.”

  I reached up under my nose. Sure enough, thick, slimy mucus glazed the lower half of my face. Grunting, I wiped it with my hand and then retreated to the surf for a rinse and a moment of solitude and self-hatred.

  Tiara wore her white bikini. Today the top and bottom appeared to be the same size. The bottom fit. Her hair was done up in country-and-western glamour, moving only slightly in the wind. The diamonds glinted in her ears, echoed by a rhinestone navel stud. Her star tattoo seemed sprinkled with glitter, but I couldn’t confirm it without staring at her chest. Her makeup, more dramatic than usual, made her look like a doll. A Bratz doll, but still.

  She did not have snot on her face.

  “Guess you got your product,” I said, my facial rinse completed. I pulled a green-and-white beach towel out of my tote and did my best to hide my entire body in its folds. My flirty, skirted bikini suddenly seemed far less adorable than before. “Is Albert still here?”

  Tiara squirted some lotion on her hand and stroked it along one perfectly toned arm. “He said he had to get back. He put all the groceries away, though.”

  “That was nice of him,” I said.

  “Up for a swim?” Michael as
ked Tiara. He didn’t even look tired. “There are sea turtles out there.”

  I felt a pang. Tiara and I had shared enough already. The sea turtles were mine.

  “Oh! No.” Tiara shuddered, as if Michael had suggested she bathe in goat’s blood. “I don’t really like the water.”

  Michael reached around for his bag and pulled it onto his lap, digging until he retrieved his phone.

  “Just checking messages,” he mumbled, like a junkie sneaking a fix. From where I stood, I could see a towel inside his bag, some flip-flops, a wallet.

  I remembered Jimmy’s warnings about theft. “Is that a good idea? Leaving your wallet on the shore when you’re swimming?”

  Michael’s eyes shot to his friend’s house plus the other large ones that sat on either side of it; all three had access to this spot, plus there was a tiny path that ran to the road. “I wouldn’t leave it out someplace really busy, but if I’m on a little beach in Maui or a quiet cove in Laguna—sure, why not?”

  Suddenly I pictured Michael’s bag, left on the sand while he went diving. And then I pictured someone rifling through it. “Wait,” I said. “You’ve left your bag unattended on a beach in Laguna? With your wallet in it?”

  He began to shrug and then froze. “Do you think that—”

  I stared back, speechless.

  “Well, I guess that’s one mystery solved,” Michael said.

  “What?” Tiara asked.

  “Michael left his wallet on the beach in Laguna,” I told her. “And then he went in the water. And Jimmy was there and he copied everything down.”

  Something occurred to me. “But wouldn’t he need your PIN numbers to get the frequent-flier miles and the Amex points?” I asked Michael.

  He pulled his aviator sunglasses from the bag and slipped them on—perhaps to avoid my gaze. “I keep a list of my PINs in my wallet. So I don’t forget them.”

  “Mm,” I said. “Good thinking.”

  “Guess I should call Sergeant Hosozawa.” Michael sighed, pushing buttons on his phone.

  “You were just looking for an excuse to use that thing,” I said.

  While Michael waited for the sergeant to come on the line, Tiara said, “So when Albert took me to the Hyatt? After they gave me my makeup bag? I used the showers and changing room by the pool while Albert went to the grocery store.”

  “Yeah—you really can’t be too trusting,” Michael said into his phone.

  “And then after that?” Tiara said. “Albert took me back to the Maui Hi.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Michael told the police. “It really has gotten out of control.”

  “The news crews were gone,” Tiara continued. “There’s some stupid surf contest on the north shore they wanted to cover.” She rolled her eyes. “But a couple of photographers were still hanging out—they didn’t even know we’d left the condo. And they did this whole, like photo shoot of me!”

  She paused for a moment to let this sink in, her bright white teeth shining in the sunlight. “One of them—I think his name was Jacko—said I should be a model. And so I told him, well, I kind of already am a model! Have I told you about my modeling?”

  “Mm,” I said.

  “Well, we’re all staying away from the press,” Michael told the police. “So they’re bound to lose interest.”

  “Tiara went back to the Maui Hi,” I told Michael once he’d closed his phone. “For a photo shoot.” My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth.

  He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I spoke to Sergeant Hosozawa,” he said finally. “Assuming the body doesn’t turn up tomorrow, he’s going to call a press conference to say that Jimmy appears to have faked his drowning to escape legal troubles. And he’s going to say that none of us is under suspicion.”

  He narrowed his eyes at Tiara. “And he asks that we all try to keep a low profile.”

  She did a little head toss so that the breeze blew her hair just so. “The photographer said we should check the television tonight.”

  Finding a hair dryer in the bathroom was the best thing that had happened to me all week, which says a lot about how my week was going. I spent longer than usual styling my hair. Nothing short of extensions would give it Tiara’s kind of volume, but that was okay. Big hair had been out of style for twenty years.

  My cheeks were so rosy from the sun I didn’t need much makeup, just a little lip gloss and a coat of mascara. I hadn’t looked this good in ages, I thought, slipping some dangly silver earrings into my lobes. A pale blue Lands’ End tank top and a white skirt completed my casual chic look.

  I checked my phone: there was a message from Lena, asking me to check my e-mail, and one from Mary, asking me to call.

  “Just wanted to see how you’re making out,” Mary told me.

  A glass of lemon water in hand, I strolled out to my lanai and settled onto the lounge. “I’m holding up. Were there any more calls?”

  “About”—she paused to count—“thirty.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I told them you were in seclusion. That they should leave you alone. They were even asking me questions—where you came from, where you worked. That kind of thing. It’s like they think they’ll find some skeletons in your closet.”

  “Oh God.”

  “What? Is there something I don’t know?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’m the dullest person in the world.”

  Michael’s door was open. His room, large with a partial ocean view, was nicer than Tiara’s but not as nice as mine.

  “I don’t suppose you have Internet access,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t be caught dead without it.” He motioned to a desk with a laptop. “I’m just going out. Help yourself.” Today’s black shirt was a short-sleeved cotton button-up, paired with khaki shorts.

  “You look nice. Got a date?” I joked. Well, I meant it as a joke, though it came out sounding weird.

  “Customer meeting.”

  “Tom Paulson?” I asked.

  “I—no.” He peered at me. “How do you know Tom?”

  “He gave me the air tank. The morning Jimmy disappeared. You might want to call him. He said he liked your stuff but the shipments were unreliable.”

  “Really?” He looked stunned. “He always told me that my stuff was just too high-end for his store.”

  “You might want to call him,” I said again. “Tell him you’ve shortened your turnaround times, contracted with some new suppliers—whatever. I mean, assuming it’s true.”

  He bit his lip.

  “Is the Web site working?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I called the office this morning, really got on our computer guy’s case.” He paused before admitting, “He’s really not very good.”

  “So get rid of him and hire someone else,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I just don’t have time to interview—not to mention the retraining. I don’t know—maybe in a few months.”

  He picked up a cardboard box from the corner of the room, put it on his bed, and started pulling out wetsuits. “What do you think?”

  They were unlike any wetsuits I had seen before. There was a black one with a fireworks pattern, another with a multicolored tie-dye effect, and my favorite, a kelly-green shorty with bright pink fish swimming across the bodice. It was the kind of wetsuit Talbot’s would make if they were in the business.

  “Wow,” I said, fingering the suits. “These are really cool.”

  “You should see our bridal line—they’re really flying out the door. These are just prototypes of some of our new designs. Ana’s really talented.”

  “I thought Ana was your secretary.”

  “Administrator,” he corrected. “She is. But she’s also the designer.”

  “You’ve got your head designer answering your phones?” I asked. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ana’s phone manne
r is awful—completely unprofessional. Plus, she cuts people off.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “But she’s been under a lot of stress. New phone system, added responsibilities . . .”

  “Dead boss,” I added.

  He smiled. “She loses things, too,” he admitted. “Phone numbers, contracts, customer orders. But until we get bigger, I’ve got to make it work. Anyway, I gotta run. The computer’s all yours.”

  Perhaps I shouldn’t be advising someone else on his career, I thought when I opened my e-mail. Mixed in with questions about sick leave, complaints about coworkers, and the inevitable ads for Viagra, there was a memo from Mr. Wills.

  Re: news and publicity surrounding Wills Rubber Company Dear Jane,

  You have nothing but my utmost sympathy regarding the recent events concerning your relationship with your gentleman friend and his apparent deception and subsequent disappearance. All of us here at Wills Rubber Company recognize that this is a difficult time for you, and we will do our best to keep Human Resources running smoothly until you feel you can return to your job in a calm and professional manner.

  In addition to my concern for you, however, is a concern for the impact this resulting media attention has had on all of us here in the Wills Rubber family. We have had numerous phone inquiries regarding both your personal and professional qualities as well as intrusive in-person interview attempts, all of which combine to create a distracting work environment. Furthermore, Wills Rubber Company has been described more than once in the media as “a rubber manufacturer,” when, as you are aware, we prefer to be identified as “an industry leader in the creation and distribution of playground flooring constructed from 100% recycled automobile tires.”

  We would appreciate your effort to keep Wills Rubber from inclusion in any sensationalist media reports and in correcting the description when such exposure is unavoidable. In the meantime, all of us are hoping for a quick resolution to your current situation, and we look forward to having you back in Brea.

  Best regards,

  Bob Wills