A is for Alpha

by Kate Aster

  There’s one Japanese child in this group, an adorably talkative eight-year-old. She’s the sole reason I’m here. Thanks to two years with the Shimozatos, I’m just this side of fluent and that really comes in handy at these big-moneyed hotels because Hawai‘i attracts a constant flood of Japanese tourists.

  I make a lei with the little girl, speaking to her as best as I can in her native language purely for the practice. She’s been in keiki care three times this week, and while Japanese might be her first language, the kid knows English as well as I do.

  I glance at my watch. “They’ve only got me here till ten, Kaila. You’ll be all right?” I ask my co-worker, silently praying she’ll need me for longer. She’s been working here since she was eighteen and the people in Human Resources might listen if she tells them to bulk up my schedule.

  “Oh, no. Her mom and dad will be back soon. They drove to Papakolea.”

  The little girl at my side frowns. “I wanted to go with them,” she says quietly.

  “You’re not missing anything,” I tell her in my broken Japanese. And I mean every word. I’ve never cared much for the famed green sand beach—much preferring the spectacle of the black sand of Punalu‘u Beach. Of course, it’s likely because I took a hell of a fall when I was scaling along the steep slope that leads down to its green shoreline a few years back.

  It’s illegal to take any of the green sand home, but I unwittingly took a fair amount of it embedded in my gaping knee wounds.

  I might love Papakolea if I wasn’t so much of a klutz.

  When the girl’s parents return, I stay for about ten more precious, money-earning minutes, wiping down the craft tables. I’d give up a kidney to have a forty-hour week here.

  “I told David in HR that we could really use you around here more.” Kaila’s words are music to my ears.

  “Reaaaally?” I can’t help drawing out the word. “That would be great.”

  “HR is chewing on it for a while. You know how slowly things move around here. They’re on island time.”

  I shrug. “I’m not going anywhere. I can wait.”

  She tilts her head, her gaze locked on mine. “You’re really not? Going, I mean?”

  “I just got here a couple months ago.”

  “Well, sure. But a lot of malihini come here and think they want to stay here forever. Then around the third month, they get island fever.”

  “Oh, that’s not me. I’ll be sticking around.” I feel tempted to tell her the truth—or at least some small portion of it. That I can’t go back. Not yet.

  While all the plans I’d laid out for my life are back on the East Coast where I went to college after I left Hawaii, this forced retreat to paradise is going to last a lot longer than a few months, unless a miracle happens.

  And my life is fresh out of miracles these days.

  “I don’t know why you would,” she says under her breath, her words shrouded behind Polynesian music as the kids do a little freestyle hula dancing.

  “Really?”

  “I’m trying to save enough money so I can get off this island.”

  “Leave paradise?”

  Brow raised, she eyes me. “It’s not paradise when you’ve got three generations of family watching your every move.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. California seems nice. I’ve always wanted to do that long drive up the coast.”

  “Highway 1?”

  Her eyes brighten. “You’ve done it?”

  “No. I’ve just heard about it. I have a friend who drove it though.”

  Kaila breathes out a sigh, then grins at my perplexed expression. “You don’t really get it, I know. But the idea of being able to just get in my car and drive for days is amazing to me. An island traps you. I’ve never been on a road vacation in my life.”

  Curious, I tilt my head. “You mean a road trip?”

  “Road trip,” she corrects herself, giving her head a shake. “See? I didn’t even know what to call it.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll clue you in on how we talk on the mainland if you teach me a little Hawaiian.” I lean against the counter. “Why don’t you just do it, then? Just buy a ticket and go?”

  “It takes a lot of money just to get anywhere from here. I’d need an apartment there. A car.” She bites her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. “I’d need a good one for all the driving I’ve got in mind. It adds up. And let’s face it; we’re not getting rich working here.”

  My mouth opens, wanting to say that I’d kill for the kind of regular pay she’s getting as a full-timer with a pretty impressive benefits package. But she doesn’t look like she wants the reminder.

  She cocks her head, her eyes aimed toward the kids in her care, but her mind looking like she’s somewhere else right now. “Maybe I’d just plunk myself down in the middle of it all so I can drive any direction I want. North, south, east, west. Just jump in my car and go. Like maybe…” Her voice drifts. “…Indianapolis or… Wichita.”

  Brows hiking up an inch, I sputter a laugh. “Have you been to Wichita?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “I grew up a few hours from there.”

  “I thought you said you were from the East Coast somewhere.”

  “I went to college there. But I was raised just outside of Kansas City.”

  She looks at me with misplaced intrigue. “What’s it like?”

  Pressing my lips together a moment, I picture the tract housing suburb where I grew up. “Great people. And the best corn you’ve had in your life. And it’s really…” I pause, struggling for the right word. “Flat. You know? Spread out.” I sigh, looking for more ways to talk about my home. How does one describe the Midwest to a person who grew up in a tropical paradise?

  I love my hometown—really, I do. And there are times when I think if I had stayed right where I’d been planted, I would have avoided the mess that now defines my life.

  But for the love of God, it’s just not Hawai‘i.

  “I’ll bet,” she breathes out. “I’m always looking at those Midwestern cities on Google maps—roads spitting out from them in every direction. I could drive anywhere I wanted and not hit the shore for days.”

  “True.” She’s got me there.

  “And there are Cracker Barrels everywhere,” she adds.

  My brow furrows yet again. This has to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. “You like Cracker Barrel?”

  “Mm, yeah. I went to one when my family went to Disneyland.”

  I shrug. To each her own. Maybe going to Cracker Barrel to her is kind of like a mainlander coming to Hawai‘i and getting shave ice.

  “Well, then you’d probably love it there.”

  I leave Kaila dreaming about Cracker Barrel and interstate highways as she settles in with four kids making leis—older kids who can handle the long lei needles without poking their eyes out.

  After changing out of my uniform in the locker room, I take the long route to the parking lot along the shoreline and watch a few whales breach in the distance.

  “Whale!” I shout when I see the first one and, here at the resort, it’s a welcome announcement. Every tourist within earshot drops what they’re doing and follows my pointed finger to the splash.

  After I get to my car, I text Sam. I can’t help it. There aren’t many people I can share good news with anymore, and I feel a hint of promise in the air.

  “Kaila asked HR to increase my hours!”

  I wait a moment for her response, knowing that if her phone is still on, I probably woke her up. Again.

  When my phone doesn’t chirp a reply, I set it down and start the drive to Hapuna Beach. I have to pay for parking there, but it’s well worth the small fee because the lot is filled with rental cars. I’ve gotten three babysitting jobs from cars parked at this beach.

  Despite the midday sun, I don’t even bother with sunscreen. I’m in a race, needing to feel the pulse of the ocean striking my calves. It calms me
somehow, reminds me that I’m not on the mainland, and if anyone here gives me a second glance it’s more likely because they’ve just never seen such pasty white skin on someone who’s not driving a rental.

  As I walk toward the sand, I put some more fliers under windshields even though I’m starting to question my marketing strategy. I need a freaking website, just like everyone keeps saying.

  But Annie Bradshaw can’t take a risk like that.

  I remember stammering my name to that broad-shouldered sex god with no paternal instincts, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. I would prefer to invent a completely fake name, but I still need to be able to cash checks like his.

  Fortunately, people here just aren’t putting two and two together. Even Human Resources at the Queen K didn’t raise an eyebrow when they punched my name into payroll.

  The Big Island is a half a world away from Washington, D.C.

  And a world away in every way that matters to me.

  Chapter 7

  - CAMDEN -

  “Stella? You okay?”

  Have fun with her, Annie had said.

  I had valued that advice, woken up this morning with that very thought in mind.

  Sandcastles. Of course! I was an engineering major at West Point. I know the serenity that comes from using my hands and actually creating something. That’s just what Stella needs.

  And it had been fun this morning on Mauna Kea Beach with Stella. A blast, actually. I’d pictured having to put her on a leash to keep her out of the deep water today; my brothers and I had been hard to tame at her age.

  Yet Stella did exactly as she was told—a little Soldier actually, taking orders better than most of the troops I’d had in my Rifle Company.

  But now… this.

  “Are you okay in there, Stella?” I repeat my question, my heart thumping in my chest as though I’m in a firefight.

  I’m standing outside the women’s restroom. Our condo is only a short walk from this beach, and I’d assumed that if Stella had needed the bathroom, we could have made it back to my place.

  But I’m learning now that when a four-year-old has got to go, she’s gotta go.

  “Stella?”

  There’s something terrifying about having a kid out of your sight for even a moment, and I’m wondering how parents ever get the nerve to drop their kids off at kindergarten.

  Ten… nine… If she doesn’t answer in ten seconds, I’m bolting in there no matter what the sign on the entry says. I should have just shielded her eyes and smuggled her into the men’s restroom. But she seemed pretty capable of taking care of business on her own at home, and too many guys use these beach restrooms as though they’re their own personal locker room, changing from their street clothes into swim trunks after work.

  Four… three… two…

  “I’m fine,” comes Stella’s faint, belated reply.

  Thank God.

  A tall blonde in a scant bikini strides out of the restroom, eyeing me curiously when she sees me. “Is that little girl in there yours?” she asks.

  If I weren’t so stressed about Stella being out of my sight right now, I’d be insanely aroused by this woman. Her suit—what there is of it—is pretty much painted on. “Kind of. She belongs to a friend of mine who’s deployed.”

  Her gaze sparks with interest as it drifts from my face… to my pecs… to my abs… to that part of me that’s already feeling deprived since a kid’s come into my life. “She’s adorable,” she adds when her eyes make the trek back to my face. “And she’s doing great in there, by the way.”

  “Is there anyone else in there?”

  “Nope. It was just me and her.”

  It says a lot about me that I’m more interested in what’s going on in that bathroom than in finding out whether this woman has any tan lines beneath that suit.

  “Do you have a phone with you?” she asks.

  My gut seizes up.

  A phone? Shit. What’s going on in there that I’d need a phone for? Did Stella slip and fall? Does she need an ambulance?

  I immediately reach into my pocket, and she takes my iPhone from me the moment it’s in her sights.

  “Let me punch in my number,” she purrs. “You might need some advice along the way.”

  She sucks in her lower lip and it glistens with moisture as it curves into a smile. I might be stressed right now, but I’m not blind.

  She’s totally wanting me right now.

  “If you ever get a babysitter, maybe we can go out sometime,” she suggests.

  I force a smile, more out of courtesy than interest, because the Ranger in me has a laser-sharp focus on the mission at hand—keeping Stella safe from any hostiles that she might encounter in a public restroom (even if the hostiles are more likely killed by a good dose of Lysol rather than an assault weapon).

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I try to not look indifferent as she hands my phone back to me. But this isn’t even surprising anymore. This has happened to me four times this morning since we arrived on the beach.

  Strangely, I’ve discovered that having Stella with me is like walking around the beach with a high-powered chick magnet. Who would have thought? If my brothers catch wind of this, they’ll probably be fighting for time with Stella just to attract the opposite sex. It’s not that any of us have had trouble in that department before. But this—this is just bat-shit crazy.

  As the blonde walks away, I take note of how perfectly her ass cheeks are showcased in that bikini. But then I can’t help thinking that I hope Stella never wears a bathing suit like that when she’d older because she’s likely to attract the wrong kind of guys.

  Guys like me.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  “How’s it going in there, Stella?” I ask.

  I hear a flush in response and I can finally feel a smile return to my face. Progress.

  God, this is tough. I wonder how the hell Lancaster’s managed to survive these past years raising a daughter on his own. If he’d had a son, at least he could do the bathroom thing without feeling like he’s sending his kid off to do battle alone.

  “I’m washing.” Her tone is sing-songy, like the way the kids talk on that syrupy sweet kids’ show she watched this morning while she ate breakfast, the same annoying show that had my brothers high-tailing it for the door before they even had their morning coffee.

  “Atta girl.”

  Stella is a kid of few words, I’ve discovered. Lancaster warned me that she’s not very chatty when she’s in uncomfortable situations, and I like that about her. In my book, it means she’s smart, taking it all in. There was a kid behind me on my flight to Hawai‘i whose mouth literally never stopped moving for the entire flight. It was cute at first, and I could understand his excitement. But toward the middle of the flight, I couldn’t resist offering to buy his parents a drink.

  They even took me up on it.

  Stella emerges triumphant from the bathroom and I want to do a fist pump. Success. It’s the little victories that seem to have me glowing these days.

  We head back to the beach at her request, and build our second sandcastle of the day.

  “Having fun?” I ask her.

  “Yesss!” She draws the s out like a hiss, like I’ve noticed she always does. She looks so serious when she’s saying it, as though she’s uttering the most important word in the English language. When she gets older and starts dating, I’ll advise Lancaster to make sure that she has just as much reverence for the word no.

  “Me, too,” I agree, surprised that it’s the truth. Though I’ll admit if I can get on that babysitter’s schedule and get a few hours to myself, I’ll be in dire need of a stiff drink.

  I’ve wanted to text Annie back all day, but I’m reluctant to deal with the distraction of a phone while I’m taking care of Stella. I’m sure parents are remarkably skilled at multi-tasking while they’re juggling kids. But I’m just an amateur.

  The alarm on my watch beeps.

  �
�What’s that?” Stella asks.

  “Time to reapply your sunscreen,” I tell her and pull it from my beach bag.

  “I’m hungry,” she says.

  “Want to go back home?” I ask it almost gleefully. Fun as it’s been making sandcastles and wading through the water, I’d love to corral this kid for a little while so I can let down my guard.

  “Yesss.” Again with the sss, making me smile. Just one day with her, and I’m growing accustomed to her little idiosyncrasies.

  “How about we take a picture of your castles that we can send to your dad?” I feel sorry for him just then. Sorry as hell.

  A glimmer of sadness creeps into her eyes and I’m immediately kicking myself for bringing up the thought of her dad.

  “Okay.” Her quiet voice can barely be heard over the roar of the ocean waves.

  I have her stand in between the two we built, and if I might brag, I’d say both of them eclipse anything my brothers and I made when we were young. After snapping the photo, I text it off to Lancaster.

  Then, thrusting a juice box in her hand (I’ve spent enough time in the desert to know how dangerous dehydration can be), we start our short trek back to the condo. My brothers have evacuated the premises and likely won’t return till after dark, each muttering something about being needed at work. Amazing how having a kid around the house has turned them into workaholics.

  Not so for me. I’ve got a backlog of website maintenance, and a voicemail from the Dancing Coconut saying that one of their other bartenders needs to fly to the mainland in a couple days for some distant aunt’s funeral, which coincidentally coincides with the Star Trek convention he’s been talking about for the past year.

  Funeral, my ass.

  So now they want me to pick up a few of his shifts, even though I’m supposed to have the week off.

  As I smear peanut butter on bread, I think about the schedule that Annie sent me last night.

  “Hey, Stella. Did you like the woman who was over last night?”

  “Yes.”