When I Fall in Love

by Susan May Warren

  “Wow, it’s packed.”

  “That’s because it’s world famous. C’mon, it’s delicious.” He got out and just like that seemed to revert back to himself, the casual cowboy swagger taking on a surfer aura as he moved toward the menu board posted at the edge of the property.

  He looked so easy, casual, like he belonged here, belonged anywhere. Could conquer anything.

  She wanted that—the confidence to do anything, be anything, go anywhere.

  The ability to reach out and grab life.

  Grace stepped up beside him and studied the board. “The garlic shrimp scampi looks good.”

  “Hot and spicy for me,” he said. “I’ll order while you find us a table.”

  Grace looked around the crowded eating area. Not a space in sight. In fact, at least two couples were eating on the hoods of their cars.

  But she hadn’t worked as a waitress without cultivating a few skills. She zeroed in on a woman sitting with two towheaded boys playing with their prawns, ketchup slathering their cheeks. Next to them, a small pile of used napkins signaled defeat. Grace swung by the condiment table, grabbed a handful of supplies, and headed their way.

  Walking by, she feigned nonchalance, then said, “Oh, my, you look fresh out of napkins.” She held out the offering.

  The mother looked up at her. “Thank you, that’s so kind.”

  “Not at all. I’m just waiting for my—” she glanced at Max—“friend to get us some lunch. I’ll get more napkins.”

  “We’re nearly finished. Would you like our seats?”

  Score. Grace retrieved more napkins, then helped the mother gather the debris. “Are you tourists?”

  “Oh no. The kids and I just love the shrimp. It’s worth the drive. We live in Pearl City. My husband is stationed here. I’m from Iowa.”

  “Minnesota.”

  “I should have recognized the accent. It’s nice to meet a fellow Midwesterner.” She propped one of the boys on her hip. He reached for her shell necklace and played with it.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “About six months.”

  “And . . .” Grace checked on Max’s progress. “How was it? Moving to Hawaii?”

  The woman caught her other youngster before he could run away. “You can do anything as long as you are with the one you love.”

  Right.

  The woman had followed her gaze to Max. “He’s very handsome.”

  Grace stood, flummoxed for a moment. “We’re . . . just friends.”

  “Well, Hawaii is an easy place to fall in love,” the woman teased. “Have a great time.”

  Uh-huh.

  Grace slid onto the bench and set the napkins across from her to save Max’s place as she watched the woman walk away.

  Fall in love. Right. It was enough that she was here in Hawaii, so far out of her comfort zone that she couldn’t even see it on the horizon. She wasn’t going to be so stupid as to let her heart fall for a guy who lived for adventure only when he wasn’t traveling all over America playing hockey. Max, with his big life, was exactly the wrong kind of guy for a small-town girl.

  But it didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Just like he and Owen were friends.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  She looked up as Max set a basket in front of her. Then stared down at the fresh shrimp bathed in garlic and lemon butter, the two scoops of rice and a wedge of lemon, and answered, “Lunch.”

  “Indeed.” He sat across from her, setting yet more napkins on the pile between them. “Enjoy.”

  If it killed her, yes, she planned to. She picked up a shrimp, refusing to wrinkle her nose.

  “I usually peel off the shell, then pinch the shrimp at the tail, and pull. That way you get all the meat.” He demonstrated, shooting hot sauce across the table. “Oops.”

  When she tried it, garlic splattered on her hands. “So it’s messy.”

  “But oh, so good.” Max finished off his first shrimp, licking his fingers. “Now, tell me, what was so scary about summer camp?”

  She didn’t expect that. Just like she didn’t expect to like the shrimp, especially with the flavors of garlic and lemon, the butter that dripped from her fingers. “Wow. That’s delicious.”

  He nodded, a silly grin on his face. The fact that he’d managed not to get hot sauce on his chin seemed unfair. She felt bathed in butter.

  “There’s more food adventuring in your future, if you’re ready.”

  No, she wasn’t ready, not at all.

  But maybe that was the point. If she waited until she was ready to taste life, it might pass her by.

  “It all started with the fact that I didn’t have a swim buddy.”

  He peeled and ate another shrimp. Frowned.

  “See, we had a cabin of odd numbers. I think one girl didn’t show up, so when it came time to choose swim buddies, I was left out. Which meant that they had to double me up with another pair. Unfortunately, the girls came from the same church, and I swear they made a pact to destroy my camping experience. From the first day, they hated me. They threw my shoes in the lake, put sand in my sleeping bag, and banged my bunk from below in the middle of the night. The last straw was when they put my swimsuit in the chimney and covered it with soot. I couldn’t swim after that—it was filthy.”

  He had stopped eating. “I have this insane urge to track down those two girls and hurt them. Please tell me that you didn’t let them get away with it.”

  “What could I do? I called myself a coward and vowed to never go back. But it set the mood for camp for me, and even though the next year I had a swim buddy, I had already decided I would hate it. And then I discovered the kitchen staff.”

  “You went to camp to cook?”

  “No, but after dinner, when the rest of the campers were playing games, I found the staff singing in the kitchen. It reminded me of home, of my family working together after dinner, so I sat on the stoop and listened, and one of the girls, Kiley, found me. She and the other girls took me under their wing. They would let me help make the late-night snack, and they’d talk about boys and high school, and I felt like they let me into their world.”

  “So food isn’t really about food for you,” Max said, finishing his shrimp. “It’s about camaraderie.”

  “Sometimes I don’t even eat what I make. But I always watch people eat it. I love it when they make those little sounds of joy.” She closed her mouth. “Mmm . . . yum . . . those sounds.”

  “Like these?” He slurped, then licked his lips.

  She laughed. “I like watching people be happy. Unfortunately, I sometimes think that food will fix things. After Owen’s accident, I kept making muffins and trying to feed everyone into feeling better. But no one could fix it; no one could stop his life from unraveling.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We all hate what happened to Owen.” He sighed, and on the tail edge, she felt again that strange, painful sense that she’d treaded into something dark. And why not? Owen was his friend. He reached for a napkin, wiped his fingers. She probably needed a bath.

  “Ready to see the turtles?” he asked.

  “Really?” She went to work on her fingers, her chin, with a napkin. Yep, a bath.

  “Yeah, big sea turtles lying on the shore.”

  “Every day?”

  “Almost. Just basking in the sun.”

  “Do they bite?”

  “No. They’re turtles. They lie there. Sometimes they stick their tongues out like this.” He opened his mouth to demonstrate.

  She laughed. “And then what, cruise director?”

  He got up, gathering her plate. “I think tomorrow after class we’ll climb Diamond Head, and I’ll show you a gorgeous view of the island. And maybe the day after that, Hanauma Bay, for snorkeling.”

  “Snorkeling?”

  “By the end of the week, I’ll have you up on a surfboard.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you have big plans fo
r little me.”

  “It’s time to live a little.” He winked. She expected him to move away, but he stood there as the wind shifted, rippled his Hawaiian shirt, revealing those hockey biceps. She noticed a hint of the sun’s lipstick on his nose. Those beautiful brown eyes with emerald centers held a twinkle of mischief.

  Hawaii is an easy place to fall in love.

  And then he sank the hook. “C’mon, 9B, haven’t you figured it out yet? For this trip, I’m your swim buddy.”

  MAX SHARPE HAD A SPLIT PERSONALITY.

  The carefree surfer who tooled Grace around Hawaii, who dared her to touch a sea turtle and showed up barefoot, in black linen pants and yet another Hawaiian shirt, for the first night’s luau, turned into Maximoto, ninja chef, when he got near a kitchen.

  She almost hadn’t recognized him in his chef’s whites the next morning—a floppy hat, pants, apron, and a full double-breasted chef’s jacket, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows as if girded for battle. He had the demeanor of a samurai—all business, no games.

  Apparently Max considered the kitchen a serious, even dangerous, place, one he needed to conquer. Although he saved her a seat on one of the stainless steel stools, he shushed her the second class started. She tried cracking a joke about their instructor, Keoni, who looked like he should be saying, “Let’s hang ten, dude!” instead of giving them a talk on the history of Hawaiian cuisine. Max had once more shut her down with a harsh “Shh!”

  Admittedly, she hadn’t quite expected this level of teaching on a culinary vacation. She thought it might be a cadre of Hawaiian-shirted tourists standing around tasting wine as a chef prepared lunch, allowing them to chop a vegetable or two.

  No. Hawaiian Culinary Adventures turned out top-notch chefs. She’d never seen such an expertly equipped kitchen, from the commercial-grade prep counters, each with its own range, and the six large ovens, one for each two-person group, to the expansive dry storage pantry, the racks and racks of equipment, and even a bakery and patisserie area.

  Yes, she might learn to cook. Really cook, not just throw together fridge leftovers. For the first time since Eden proposed it, Grace considered that she might be able to pull off catering their wedding.

  Maybe she should adopt Max’s posture.

  They’d spent most of the first day of class reviewing culinary fundamentals: safety and sanitation in the kitchen, proper storage of foods, care and use of equipment. Max had listened with the attention of a soldier learning his AK-47. They’d ended the morning with a quick lesson on poi, which he executed perfectly.

  Grace’s resembled the texture of wallpaper paste, but she choked it down, chewing on a few gummy chunks, wishing for something—salt or honey or brown sugar or even pineapple—to add to the water-and-taro-plant porridge. She’d quietly made the suggestion to Max, who looked at her as if she’d suggested taking crayon to the Mona Lisa.

  When the class let out at noon, 9A had appeared.

  Max had arrived in the lobby attired in shorts and a crisp white T-shirt, wearing hiking sandals, his aviators clipped to his neck, grinning, not a hint of samurai chef in his demeanor. He kept his promise to take her to the top of Diamond Head and held her hand as she walked out onto one of the platforms overlooking the crater below. Grace stood there for nearly an hour, just drinking in the vast beauty of the island.

  Yesterday, after their second day of class, they’d walked barefoot down the shoreline, all the way to Waikiki Beach, where he took her to a restaurant and ordered fish tacos with mango. Her taste buds were living dangerously.

  But this morning she felt sure they weren’t quite adventurous enough to gulp down the bright-orange lomi-lomi salmon Keoni had them preparing.

  “The color has a ritual significance to luaus. The ancient Hawaiians offered kumu, another type of reddish-colored fish, to their god, so the salmon is our modern-day substitute. Be sure to get in there with your fingers and massage the tomatoes, ice, and green onions together. After all, that’s what lomi means in Hawaiian. ‘Massage.’” Keoni demonstrated by kneading his mixture together in a glass bowl on the counter.

  Next to Grace, Max massaged his fish mixture with the care of a professional therapist, working the flavors together.

  Where was a wooden spoon when she needed one?

  “What’s the matter?” Max said quietly, glancing at her.

  “It’s . . . cold. Really cold.”

  “That’s the crushed ice.”

  “And did I mention slimy? I mean—I get it, but I’m not a fan.”

  He stared at her. “You’re a chef. This is gourmet fish, not gopher guts. Stick your fingers in there and start massaging.”

  “You know, Samurai Jack, just ease up there. It’s food, not a nuclear bomb. The world won’t end if I use a spoon.”

  His mouth opened, and for a second she had the sense of being in second grade, her classmate threatening to tell on her for writing in her textbook.

  “Fine. Chill. I’m massaging; I’m massaging.” Except her massage spilled salmon onto the counter, froze her fingertips, and left her hands dripping.

  She glanced behind her. Marnee Miller had the masseuse techniques of a master, while her husband mangled his fish. He looked as if he might have taken this adventure for the tasting portion of the class.

  Over at table three, the two socialites with perfect hair were giggling; Grace didn’t want to surmise what they might be saying. Especially as they kept shooting looks Max’s direction. Yeah, well, she didn’t blame them. The man could make even a floppy chef’s hat look dangerously adorable.

  She picked her spilled lomi off the counter and threw it back into her bowl. “I hope this is served with crackers or toasted bread.”

  “Seriously, Grace. This is sacred food.”

  She affected a monkish hum as she massaged.

  “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  She glanced at him again and caught the hint of a smirk. So maybe, deep inside, Mr. Adventure still lurked. She’d just have to figure out how to lure him out, past the indomitable samurai chef.

  “Well done, Max,” Keoni said as he walked by their table. He eyed Grace’s lomi.

  “I think my lomi is going to leave me a big tip.” She smiled at Keoni.

  He pursed his lips and walked by.

  “I did mention that he’s one of the top chefs in the world, right?” Max said quietly. “We usually just say, ‘Yes, chef.’”

  “Oh.” She cut her voice low. “But can he fry fish on the side of a lake? Or make flapjacks that can make a grown man cry?”

  Again the smile. It was enough to make her at least try the lomi.

  She refused to admit to Max that maybe she wouldn’t die. It was better than the poi.

  Once again, after class he emerged without a trace of the Iron Chef persona, dressed in swim trunks and a T-shirt. “Ready to snorkel?”

  She’d changed, per his suggestion, into a one-piece swimsuit and pulled a long T-shirt over as a cover-up. “I should warn you. Underneath this shirt I resemble the underside of a whale.”

  He tossed her a bottle. “SPF 80. Layer it.”

  They climbed into the convertible and headed east out of Honolulu, along the Kalanianaole Highway. “Where are we going?”

  “Hanauma Bay. It’s the top of a volcanic cone, and it’s one of the most beautiful places to snorkel on the island, at least for beginners. You’ll love it.”

  “What if I get water in my snorkeling tube?”

  “Then you blow it out. I promise—I’ll be right there. I won’t let you drown.”

  Swim buddy, right. “I am a good swimmer, by the way. I grew up on a lake.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “And I’m a good cook too. I just . . . Okay, I don’t follow the rules. If it tastes good, that’s enough for me.”

  He said nothing.

  “You, however, approach cooking like it’s a competition.”

  “I just want to get it right,” he said quietly. “I don�
��t have time for mistakes.”

  He offered nothing more and she stared at the scenery, puzzling out his words.

  The bay stretched out below them in a perfect arc, the water so blue it belonged on a postcard. They parked in the lot and stopped by the rental center for equipment. Max bought an extra sanitizer packet and sat on the bench, cleaning his gear.

  Ho-kay.

  They watched a short film about the ecology and sea life of the bay, then headed down the hill, towels tucked under their arms.

  “Why is the color so patchy—dark in some areas, turquoise in others?”

  “That’s the coral depth. See, to the left, it’s dark because the coral is near the surface. But in the middle, the sea is sandy. Over to the right, it’s patchy. That’s where we’ll find our sea turtles.” He looked at her, stuck out his tongue. “Remember, they don’t bite.”

  They picked a spot on the shore, dropped their gear, and Grace donned her flippers, mask, and snorkel. She kicked up sand as she walked to the ocean and nearly tripped on the edge of the flipper.

  Max had walked into the cool water, then sat to fit his flippers on. His mask he’d strapped onto his head, pushing it up to his forehead. “Let’s get into the water. I’ll show you how to clean your mask, and we’ll practice breathing.”

  He’d stripped off his shirt, revealing his wide, sculpted shoulders, still a little on the pale side thanks to his indoor profession. He had a toned chest, probably from his hours in the gym, and a tight six-pack stomach.

  Yeah, she—and the rest of the female beach population—might need to practice breathing.

  “Right,” Grace said and duckwalked into the water. Cool, refreshing. She sank into it, floated out until she was chest-deep.

  Max joined her, taking off his mask. “You want to make sure you have a nice snug seal on your mask and that the snorkel fits easily into your mouth.” He demonstrated, then came over to adjust her mask.

  The world became pinched, and she had the sense of looking through a window. She fitted the tube into her mouth and stuck her head in the water.

  Magic. She didn’t know how else to describe the abruptness of peeking under the surface and seeing the sea vibrant and bright, suddenly alive. She spotted an orange sea urchin nestled into the rocky sand and a small school of black- and white-striped tangs swimming by.