Caleb + Kate

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  Outside, the decks and events areas descend in sections down toward the small Aloha Cove. Natural rock, native ferns and flowers, and giant wood timbers decorate the pathways and secret gardens. A world-class golf course spreads out opposite the ocean with the hotel in between. Together, my grandfather and my father after him have created a hotel that’s been featured in magazines and television shows. It was the first of a chain of hotels my grandfather opened around the world with his signature Monrovi logo—a circle with a bold, cursive M.

  “Good afternoon, Kate,” Betty says from behind the front desk.

  “Hi, Betty. How is he holding up?”

  She laughs. “We both know how your father will handle hosting a high school dance on the property.”

  “He promised he’d stay at the downtown office and wouldn’t come out until the party is going.”

  “Ha! He’s at his office here,” she says, motioning to Dad’s upstairs office. “He said he’d be a bad father if he didn’t see his little girl and her best friends before their big dance.”

  “Great,” Monica and I say at the same time.

  “He keeps threatening to make me dance with him,” I say. “And me too,” Monica states, drumming her fingernails on the desk.

  “I don’t think it’s a threat,” Betty says with a laugh.

  “Maybe he’ll be too stressed to remember. It’s not easy seeing a bunch of teenagers tromping through the foyer.”

  I glance up at the security camera and wave, knowing Mr. Lopez is probably waving back, happy for some action. Whoever has the night shift is in for an exciting night on the security screens.

  Betty continues, “I was shocked he agreed to hold it here this year, of all years.”

  I wonder what she means by that, but my attention is diverted by Jessica clapping her hands in excitement as she checks out the aquarium embedded in the south wall of the lobby.

  Monica clears her throat and points to the clock sitting on the counter, interrupting further small talk.

  “Was there an open suite for us to have?” There are other guests lingering in the lobby, otherwise, I’d check us in myself. Dad wants the staff to be warm and friendly, but especially professional. For the past six months, I’ve helped five hours a week as part of my arrangement with the headmistress for my misdeed. I’ve also organized and worked at several community service programs through the hotel to help—as Ms. Liberty calls them—the “not even fortunate.” In that time, I’ve become close with the hotel workings and the staff, like I had been as a little girl going to work with Daddy.

  “You dad has the Orchid Suite reserved for you. He gave strict instructions that it be yours, no matter who requested it.”

  “Very cool,” Monica says with a smile; she’s a softy underneath it all. “I would have wanted the presidential suite, but I guess the Orchid will do.”

  The hotel and gardens were my playground as a child. My older sister, Kirsten, and younger brother didn’t spend as much time here as I did. Kirsten had little imagination, and Jake was sick and home with Mom a lot—though he was more fun than Kirsten when we were all here together.

  The Orchid Suite is my favorite room in the entire hotel. It’s like a small apartment, with a fireplace and views overlooking the ocean and the orchid gardens. It’s cozier than the more luxurious marble-encased suites, and I’ve had slumber parties here when I turned ten, thirteen, and sixteen. When we remodeled the suites a few years ago, my dad let me work with the interior designer to update the room.

  Betty puts an old-fashioned brass key on the counter. “Here is your key. Barney will have your luggage in the room by now, and I’ll call to confirm your 1:00 p.m. spa appointments. Does that still work with your schedule?”

  I glance at my toes that are perfectly painted already and try deciding if I want French tips or a solid color this time.

  “Yes, and it can’t come too soon,” Monica says with a stamp of her foot. “Can we go already?”

  As we walk across the dark wood plank floor, Monica complains about how I must talk to everyone in the building; that’s why she prefers we stay at anonymous hotels. I see some guests through the massive windows, pointing and grabbing each other’s arms with awed expressions as they tour the grounds. They stop to take photographs.

  “Can we get rid of her?” Monica mumbles as Jessica calls out and hurries after us.

  “You are so lucky, Kate,” Jessica says, nearly breathless. She’s even annoying me with her over-the-top excitement.

  Monica makes a quick turn toward Jessica. “Cut the adoring fan routine. Where did you grow up, the Bronx? You’re a little parasite who needs to fly away, fly, fly away, before I squash the life out of you.”

  Jessica’s eyes widen into near-perfect circles. “I’ll text you later, Kate. I’ll go down and start setting up the booth. I think I have everything figured out.”

  I remember that Jessica is a scholarship student at Gaitlin. I try being grateful for everything we have, but it’s easy to forget until someone like Jessica puts it into perspective.

  “Thanks—and don’t listen to Monica. I appreciate what you’re doing. You’ve made tonight really easy on me. I thought it would be a lot of work.”

  “I want you to enjoy your prom,” she says with a smile that fades when she glances at Monica.

  “No defending the freshman,” Monica says, adjusting her purse on her shoulder as Jessica hurries away.

  “You know I have to defend you to practically every person in your wake.”

  “Don’t defend me. I don’t care if they hate me. I really don’t.”

  “It’s okay to be nice to people sometimes.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Monica says as I push the elevator call button. “People always think rich people are snooty and conceited. But as soon as we start being nice, the moochers come running, expecting a free ride. I’ve seen it time and time again.”

  I shake my head. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Do you see me having to make idle small talk with the desk clerk or the bellboy or some freshman who annoys the heck out me? Admit it. You’ll learn. Just because you and your family are Christians, you think it’s doubly your duty to be nice. Rich and Christian makes you think you owe the world.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I say this in love.” She gives me a stern look. “Oliver agrees, by the way, we’ve talked about it. You don’t see your father bending over backward to the staff or his subordinates.”

  The elevator door opens and we step in side by side. I push the number five. “My father donates tons of money to charities, and he’s won best employer of the county multiple times.”

  “Yes, but he understands where to draw the line. You don’t. You’d probably fall in love with the poor scholarship student who works here—except you vowed not to.”

  “I don’t care if the guy I fall in love with has money or not.” Monica swings her purse, smacking me in the arm. “Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I will abuse Gucci for the sake of your stupidity.” She sighs. “You are a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “What?” I roll my eyes at her.

  “Listen.” She takes me by the shoulders. “The type of guy who comes into a relationship poor and is content with your being rich . . . is that the type of guy you want? It’s different for a woman to marry for money. But when a guy does it—unless he’s determined to make his own as well—you don’t want that guy. And you’d better realize right here and now that a lot—and I mean a lot—of people in the world will want you for your money.”

  “You act like I know nothing about the world.”

  Monica shakes her finger at me. “You’ve traveled, you’ve been your dad’s sidekick, helped the poor at the missions, and all that. You give good advice to your friends too. But you’re always around people like you. Either they are rich or they’re from your church or both. Almost exclusively.”

  I try to think of other people in my life who fit outside o
f Monica’s parameters. There’s the hotel staff, but I know she’ll say something about those relationships being tainted by the fact that I’m the owner’s daughter.

  The elevator swoops us up to the top floor and opens to a dramatic view of the ocean. There’s giant Seal Rock, which looks as if it’s a sleeping giant who froze as he was rising out of the sea. A few sunbathing seals are stretched out near the bottom of the rock.

  “I say these things because I love you. You don’t have to be as stuck-up as I am. I won’t be nice to the staff or to people outside of my circle simply because we offer nothing to one another.” Monica fishes in her purse for her cell phone. She glances at it briefly. “Don’t be like me. Be friendly, beautiful Kate. But be careful who you trust, and don’t give too much of yourself to people who don’t deserve you.”

  I don’t know quite what to say to this. Monica always seems to understand more about such things. My parents have sheltered me in some ways. Yet I believe that verse that says to those who are given much, much is required. If more of the wealthy in the world helped the poor, we’d have less of a divide between us. I love the life I have. It’s my norm. The idea of struggling to pay for a house or food . . . I honestly can’t relate to such things at all. There’s something terrifying about that.

  We reach the door to the Orchid Suite.

  A text from Oliver beeps on my phone. You don’t care if I check out other women tonight, do you?

  I TYPE BACK: As long as I can check out other men.

  OLIVER: We have a deal.

  “I wonder if your maintenance man is working today,” Monica says.

  “He’s not my maintenance man,” I say, putting the key in the lock. Of course, I’ve already wondered this. I hope I see Caleb’s father too.

  “Maybe we’ll say something is broken and have him come fix it. Or he could be our own personal cabana boy—and you know what they say about personal cabana boys. This might be fun after all.”

  And I suddenly understand that this talk about being careful around lower-income people and staying in our own circle all hinges upon Monica’s concern about this guy Caleb.

  The door opens to a mass of yellow and white flowers on the dining room table, with a card that I know will be from my father.

  I put my hand across the door. “Once we enter, no more talk about staff and the new guy or anything else. Today is the prom. We’ve been waiting for this day for how many years? It’s time to enjoy our day with no distractions or arguments.”

  Monica pulls down my arm. “Your wish is my command.” She walks inside, making a half twirl with a smile. “Just promise you’ll stay away from Cabana Boy.”

  CALEB

  I take the stairs two at a time down into the spa area. Wealthy women—and even some men—pay big bucks to have someone else pamper their bodies here.

  Maggie works the spa desk. She’s one of those cute white girls who seem perpetually in a good mood. She told me on my second day of work that if she were three years younger, she’d ask me out. Then she said, “Rules were made to be broken.” She’s good for a laugh.

  Maggie glances up and immediately smiles when she sees me.

  “That was fast,” she says.

  “Problem with one of the pumps in the men’s steam room?”

  Maggie leans forward and talks as if telling a juicy bit of gossip. “This old guy came out in his towel, shivering, saying that he couldn’t get anything but cold air to come out.”

  “Guess I’ll have to save the day. He still in there?”

  “He said he’d wait in the hot tub.”

  “How’s the women’s?” If I remember right, the two spas are back-to-back, running the same plumbing lines. If there’s a problem with one, there’s probably a problem with both.

  “No complaints so far,” she says cheerily. “I’d send you in, but you’d get quite an eyeful.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Boss’s daughter and her friend. Toes, waxings, body wraps . . .” She looks at the schedule book. “And hair and makeup.”

  “Don’t they do anything themselves?” I ask.

  Maggie laughs. “Not on prom day, I guess.”

  For some reason, this irritates me.

  Maggie sighs dramatically. “They’re staying in the Orchid Suite, and I heard that Mr. Monrovi turned down several requests for the room. It rents for a thousand dollars—that’s one thousand a night.”

  The phone beeps on the desk, but Maggie keeps talking, shaking her head. “Rich girls, can you believe the nerve, they actually asked me—oh, wait a second.” She holds up one finger. “Monrovi Spa.”

  I’m strangely curious to know what they wanted. My father may speak well of the Monrovis, but I’ve heard from other staff about how spoiled Kate is. The inn isn’t even rightfully her family’s, at least according to Grandfather.

  “Caleb, go on in,” Maggie whispers with her hand over the phone. “I’ll be on forever with this lady.”

  I pick up my tool bag and walk down the stone hallway toward the men’s room. Why am I so interested in Kate Monrovi? People talk about her, I saw her in the parking lot the other day, even Dad brings her up. It’s like being haunted—and not in an interesting way. Since I’ve been here, she’s been like a nagging thought in the back of my head, a word on the tip of my tongue . . . More like a bad taste in my mouth.

  Maybe I need to see this girl, up close and personal–like, and then I’ll be over this ludicrous whatever-it-is. It’s time to be over it.

  Chapter Four

  Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Measure for Measure (Act 1, Scene 4)

  KATE

  The music moves through my body as we dance. The band has called everyone to the dance floor, and we’re crammed together, swaying, laughing, singing the old familiar rock song. All animosity, broken hearts, or clique distinctions are gone, at least during this song. The guys wear tuxes and the girls wear the best labels in fashion. Even love-is-death Elaine now smiles and laughs, her hands raised with everyone else’s. Some people hold up their iPhones and BlackBerrys, trying to record the occasion. The photos will be online before the night is done.

  It’s a moment. One of those special high school times I’m sure we’ll remember into old age and wish we’d savored more. I take it in, surprised by the joy pulsing through me.

  High school prom. While so many things don’t live up to expectations, this actually does. The evening sky is a vivid kaleidoscope growing brighter toward the sunset over the sea.

  Monica, Oliver, and I dance close to each other, twisting our arms together, laughing and singing with the band. There are years of memories between us, and I swear, I love these two people more than almost anyone in the world. Even as I dance, the music pounding through my chest, I want to capture this night, stretch it out, iron it onto our memories, keep it from ending.

  The next song winds down. My mouth is parched and I gasp to catch my breath.

  “We’re going to take a quick little break,” the lead singer announces, followed by dissenting moans from the crowd.

  “Need drink,” I call to Oliver, motioning with my head toward our table.

  “I’ll get them!” he says, and I smile at how utterly handsome my best guy friend looks in his Armani tux. His hair is grown out a bit, and he looks like some model from Europe, maybe someone from the British aristocracy. In my opinion, Oliver was born in the wrong era. He dresses to perfection, plays poker and rugby, is already involved in the family business, and has a collection of cigars from around the world—though he never actually smokes them. He tends to like older women, and I tease him mercilessly about that. He absolutely hates being called a metrosexual.

  “This is the perfect place to have prom. It’s fabulous,” Monica says with one of her rare exuberant smiles.

  “If you say it’s perfect, then I know that’s the truth.”

  Mon
ica and I move toward our table. Emily drops to a chair, fanning her face as Trevor leans down and kisses her shoulder. Half of the seniors at the table next to us appear to be at least slightly intoxicated as they snap picture after picture, nearly falling over several times. Ted and his date, Talia—a senior—are at another table near ours. Monica is convinced he’s trying to make me jealous. I don’t think anything could spoil tonight. For weeks, I’ve dreaded the idea of prom. I’m burned out on social events, small talk, fake people. But this night could almost make those of us who are jaded about love believe in it again.

  White lights are strung in lines over the entire event area. The lawn is covered with a temporary wooden floor. The tables are covered and hold centerpieces themed after different works of Shakespeare. We have the Romeo and Juliet table.

  Some of the band members begin to mingle. Even Oliver, who is a music junkie, is impressed with this local group; talk is they’re supposed to break out this year. Now that the music has paused, a lot of people are moving around. Lanterns light all the pathways; I see people walking down the steep stairway from the main grounds of the hotel and others down the pathway to the small beach at Aloha Cove. More lanterns decorate the massive rocks that rise from the sea floor.

  Jessica waves and jumps up and down from her post at the beverage counter.

  “I can’t even be annoyed by Jessica,” Monica says, sitting in a chair.

  “You do realize this is the first time you haven’t called her ‘freshman.’ You must be in a good mood.”

  Monica laughs and folds her thin, tanned legs gently one over the other. Our dresses, though completely different in style, are both silver and both from a new SoHo designer. Monica thought we should somewhat coordinate our dresses since we’re dates. Hers is a tight dress with a long slit up one leg. My strapless bodice is white, with a full silver princess skirt. Monica’s silky brown hair has already lost most of its curl, despite the foam rollers, and my blonde chignon has a few tendrils falling loose down my back. “Ah my dates! I have the sexy vixen and the virgin maiden,” Oliver said when he saw us.