by J. M. Snyder
Lane couldn’t quite reconcile the woman who met them at the airport with the skinny punk girl he remembered from high school. As a teen, Michelle had been surly and dark, glowering at everyone, much the same way Braden had been when Lane first met him a year earlier. But at forty, Chell looked like something washed up with the tide, her hair filled with sea shells, her skin tanned from too much sun. She was vibrant and chatty, bordering on the manic, and Lane could tell Braden was a little afraid of her. She strode ahead blindly, half-turned so she could keep up a steady stream of conversation with them, but the crowds seemed to part without anyone tripping or bumping into her.
“So, Laney,” she said, flinging her dreads out of the way so she could look at him, “tell me how you two met. He’s such a looker!”
Reaching out, she grabbed Remy’s arm and shook it hard, grinning as she deftly stepped over a baby stroller that almost nicked the back of her heel. “Remy, right?” she asked, not waiting for Lane to answer. “Like the rat in that Disney movie. What is it, French?”
Remy gave Lane a suffering look. “It’s a nickname. Short for Jeremy. Don’t—”
“Jeremy!” Chell shrieked. “God, I love it!”
“Don’t call me that,” Remy finished.
Chell stopped, falling back a step so Remy and Lane had to separate to move around her. Linking her arm through Lane’s, she nudged his hip with hers and asked, “So who’s keiki is that again?”
Lane glanced around, confused, but Chell nodded at Braden and he realized who she meant. “That’s Remy’s son. From his first marriage.”
“Ah.” Chell reached over and laced her other arm through Remy’s. From the look on his face, it was obvious he wanted to shake her loose. Lane pressed his lips together to keep from laughing out loud. “Hey! That lady Kate we got a ticket for—that your old lady?”
“My ex-wife, yes.” Remy tried to pull his arm free, but Chell held on tight. “Look, if I rent a car today, I can come back here and pick them up tomorrow when their flight arrives…”
“That her new man coming in with her?” Chell wanted to know.
Remy gave Lane a desperate glance, his eyes flashing a plea. Help me!
Pulling Chell away from his lover, Lane asked, “Are you okay coming back tomorrow? Remy’s parents will be here at noon, and Kate’s flight’s arriving around three, and my family’s coming in after dinner—”
“Oh, tomorrow?” Chell asked.
The way she said it made Lane’s stomach flop. “Yeah, tomorrow. You booked the flights, remember? You said you’d pick us up.”
“Yeah, I’m picking you up.” She let Remy’s arm fall free and hugged Lane’s with both of hers. “But the Triple Crown is going on at the Pipe and this is the absolute last weekend. I can’t not be there.”
Lane stopped. “All weekend?”
Chell flashed her super-white smile. “Soon as I drop you guys off at the hotel, I’ll head back out there. Don’t worry, I’ll be here in time to get everything finalized for the wedding. It’s the twenty-fourth, right?”
“Twenty-eighth,” Remy growled.
Chell turned her goofy grin his way. “Even better! Come on, I’m wasting curl time!”
* * * *
Chell’s assurance that she had a car was little comfort when Lane actually saw the vehicle she drove. It was waiting for them at the curb, parked illegally in the unloading zone, hazards blinking, but no one seemed to care. Lane almost didn’t notice it at first, but she started towards it and Remy made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, which caught Lane’s attention.
Chell drove a battered Jeep of indeterminable age and indescribable color. Rust and mud came to mind, though. The tires looked out of place, like blow-up monster truck wheels and not average, road-worthy tires one usually found on normal cars. The Jeep was weathered and beaten, and had no windows of any kind—not even a windshield. There were no doors, either, and no roof, and nothing protecting the riders from the elements. The seats were cracked and mended with duct tape, the silver worn away until only dingy white strands remained to hold the yellow padding in place.
There were also no seatbelts, as Lane found when he climbed into the passenger seat.
Behind him, Remy muttered, “Oh God. This isn’t a car. It’s a death trap.”
“Just hold on,” Lane said, hugging his luggage between his knees as if it might somehow help anchor him in the Jeep.
Remy and Braden were holding onto their bags, too; there was nowhere else to put anything. In the rearview mirror, Remy gave Lane a wide-eyed stare. “Hold onto what?”
Chell slid into the driver’s seat and angled the rearview mirror to see Braden in the back. “Ready, boys?”
Without waiting for a reply, she revved the engine and zoomed away from the curb. Lane didn’t think she even bothered to check for traffic, and she drove with the hazards on for quite a while until he tapped on the button on the dashboard. “Are these supposed to be on?” he asked.
“Oh! Duh.” She hit the button but it didn’t turn off, so she pressed it in, hard, and the car swerved as she concentrated on the task at hand.
“Never mind,” Lane said. Just get us there alive, he prayed silently. I don’t want to die a bachelor, please God.
The prayer must have worked, or someone somewhere was looking out for them, because miraculously they arrived at the hotel without further incident. Chell drove fast, zipping from lane to lane without using turn signals or looking in her sideview mirrors, and more than once Lane shut his eyes as he fought back a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Finally, though, the Jeep squealed to a stop as Chell slammed on the brakes in front of a large revolving door crafted of heavy, leaden glass. It sparkled with soothing shades of green and blue, and looked so safe after the breakneck ride they’d just had.
Lane tumbled from the Jeep, relieved when his feet landed on the sidewalk; he had to resist the urge to fall to his knees and kiss the ground. “Hallelujah,” he told Remy, who wobbled to stand beside him.
“No shit,” Remy agreed. “I almost flew out a few times back there. How does this thing even pass inspection? It’s a far cry from street legal.”
“Maybe they don’t have inspections here,” Lane suggested. “You can ask Chell…”
Remy shook his head. “Are you kidding? I doubt she’d bother getting an inspection if she had to.”
Braden came around from behind the Jeep, Chell in his wake. He hurried to his father, as if eager to get out of her path. “Come on, guys,” she said, breezing past. “Let’s get you settled in, then I’m going out to the Pipe. Hey!” She stopped at the revolving door, so abruptly that Remy almost ran right into her. Over her shoulder, she gave them an excited look. “Unless you all want to come with? Watch the surfers hang ten up close and in the flesh? Whaddya say? Who’s in?”
“Dad, yeah!” Braden crowed.
But Remy shook his head. “No. We need to unwind after our flight. No—” he said again, when Braden started to protest. He looked to Lane for help.
“Your dad’s right, not today,” Lane said. When Braden started to pout, he added, “Maybe sometime this weekend, though, okay? I’m sure Chell knows where we can go watch people surfing at some other time, don’t you?”
Chell nodded. “Oh yeah, brah. This is Hawai’i. Someone’s always surfing somewhere.”
She led the way inside the hotel, pushing through the revolving door easily. Braden hung back a moment, confused by the door, but when it slowed down he dodged inside and let it carry him around one full turn, then another, before Remy stopped it and forced him to exit inside the lobby. Then Remy went in, and Lane.
Once they were all in, Braden grabbed Remy’s hand and tugged on it as he pointed to the hotel’s sign, illuminated above the reservation desk. It read Aloha Hoaloha in flowing, flowery script. “Look, Dad! I can read Hawaiian! That means hello and goodbye.”
Chell leaned against the desk and grinned down at him. “Actually, it means hello, fr
iend. Or goodbye, friend, depending on whether you’re coming or going.” Turning to the woman behind the desk, she added, “We’re coming, by the way. Party of three, reservation under the name of McIntosh.”
As Lane and Remy approached, the woman smiled at them. She was Polynesian, with mahogany skin the color of roasted chestnuts, black eyes, and long, black hair pulled back in a simple braid. “Aloha,” she said as she looked up their reservation in her computer. “McIntosh, Remy? Here we go. Is this your first visit to Hawai’i?”
“Aloha!” Braden cried happily, planting his chin on the counter and smiling up at her.
“Aloha,” the woman said again. Remy had his credit card ready and handed it over. “What brings you to our part of paradise?”
Braden didn’t reply, so Lane answered. “We’re getting married.”
The woman glanced from Lane to Chell and back again. “Ho’omaika’i ‘ana.”
“What’s that mean?” Braden asked.
Lane didn’t need a translation to figure it out. “What? No!”
“No, no,” Chell added, shaking her head. “Not us. Them. Him and him. Not me. God, no.”
Lane smirked. “Oh hell, no.”
The woman held up her hands, apologetic. “E kala mai ia’u,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Lane assured her.
Now Remy caught on, and he snickered. “God, that’s…ha! You and her? Jesus, no.”
“I’m really sorry,” the woman said again.
“It’s fine,” Lane said.
Chell leaned across the counter to glare at Remy. “What do you mean, you and her? Jesus, no, what?”
Remy took the credit card receipt the woman handed him and wisely decided not to respond. Lane looked down at Braden and also avoided Chell’s gaze.
* * * *
Chell saw them as far as the elevator, then waved goodbye—or, in her words, “aloha!”—with a promise to see them again sometime next week.
“Monday, right?” Lane asked.
With a shrug, Chell pushed her dreads off her shoulder. “Yeah, somewhere around then. Ciao.”
“Wait, no.” Remy stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. “What time Monday?”
Chell shrugged again, obviously not bothered to be tied down to a rigid schedule. “You know, sometime. Noon-ish, maybe. Whenever. After the gnarliest waves have rolled out.”
Braden frowned up at Lane. “What’s gnarliest mean?”
“It isn’t a real word,” Lane told him. “She made it up. Rem—”
Remy held up a hand to quiet everyone. “No, not whenever. Monday we have to get the marriage license. You said Lane and I have to both go down to city hall, or the tiki hut, or King Lollapalooza’s palace, or wherever the hell it is we have to go, together, in person, no more than thirty days prior to the ceremony to get the license.”
“Yeah, we’ll get it,” Chell assured him. “No worries.”
But when she tried to step around him, he moved to block her path. “Our wedding is Sunday,” he pointed out. “Saturday most every city office shuts down across the whole United States. I’m pretty sure Hawaii isn’t an exception. Friday’s the day after Christmas—they’ll probably be closed. Thursday, Christmas, closed. Wednesday, Christmas Eve, probably also closed. See where I’m going here?”
“We’ll get it,” Chell said again.
Placing his hands on his hips, Remy demanded, “When?”
Chell sighed, as if he were asking her to cancel her entire weekend plans at the last minute. As if she hadn’t known about this trip and her role in coordinating the details of it six months ago. “Monday, okay? Jeez.”
Remy shook his head. To Lane, he said, “It’d be better if we could get it tomorrow morning, before everyone else got here, but no, someone has to go surfing, as if she doesn’t already do that all the damn time anyway.”
“Dad!” Braden cried, excitement cracking his voice. “She’s getting away!”
Chell had ducked under Remy’s arm and wasn’t exactly running towards the revolving door, but she walked quickly, her skirt swishing around her legs and her dreads bouncing heavily on her shoulders and back. Remy called out, “Hey!” but she didn’t stop, and didn’t bother to look back. She hit the door at full-speed, pushed through it, and in minutes, her Jeep tore away from the curb and was gone.
“Shit,” Remy muttered.
“Aww, you said the s-word,” Braden said.
Remy warned, “Don’t start that, mister. Not today. I’m not in the mood.”
Behind them, the elevator chimed a moment before the doors slid open. Lane entered and placed a hand on the doors to keep them apart. “Let’s just go up to the room for now, okay? Relax, unpack, whatever. We’ll figure out what to do next later.”
“You see I’m right though, don’t you?” Remy asked, tugging his suitcase into the elevator as he followed Braden onboard. “We’re screwed if we don’t get that license. And what about everything else? The chapel, the reception area, the rehearsal? The tuxedos, the flowers, everything she’s supposed to be taking care of? She’s leaving it all to deal with next week so she can go play in the water, and next week everything’s shut down because it’s Christmas!”
Braden tugged on his father’s shirt. “Hey, Dad.”
“Not now,” Remy told him. To Lane, he added, “First thing I’m going to do is take a closer look at all those papers she sent me back over the summer. Now that I’m here, what do I really need her for, you know? I can call these people up and make my own arrangements—”
“Dad,” Braden said again.
Remy touched the top of his son’s head, distracted, but didn’t stop speaking. “I don’t need her help anymore, do I? Now that we’re here, we can do it all ourselves. Tomorrow we’ll go by city hall—”
“Lane,” Braden tried, taking Lane’s hand this time.
Lane draped an arm around Braden’s shoulder and murmured, “Let your father finish, Brae. He’s on a roll.”
But this interruption got Remy’s attention, and he stopped. “What is it, son?” he snapped.
Braden frowned up at his father. “Next week’s Christmas.”
Remy gave Lane a long-suffering look. “Yes, I know, Captain Obvious. Thanks for the update.”
“No, but what about presents?” Braden asked. “What about Santa?”
Lane smirked. “I thought you said you were getting too old to believe in Santa.”
“That don’t mean I don’t want presents!” Braden cried. “Daddy, I’m getting presents, aren’t I? It is Christmas next week!”
“Yeah, Rem,” Lane teased, “it is Christmas.”
He knew they hadn’t planned on celebrating the holiday in any big way while in Hawaii. Originally, their holiday plans had been for just the two of them to be on the island for Christmas, and Braden would have been home with Kate, where Santa would have delivered video games and CDs and whatever else it was he wanted to his home, and he could’ve left it all behind when he came to Hawaii for the wedding. But when Chell booked everyone’s flights earlier than Remy had intended, they were all going to have to celebrate Christmas together far from home.
Lane sort of liked the idea, personally. He hadn’t spent Christmas with his family since his college days, and it would be nice to be with his parents and sister again. Her husband and daughter would be there, as would Remy’s folks, and Kate, and Mike, and Braden. At only a year old, Angie’s daughter Emma was too young to really grasp the concept of Santa Claus yet, and the adults were all thrilled with the idea of spending time together in lieu of exchanging gifts, but of course, Braden was at that age where physical items trumped good intentions. Kate said she planned to have gifts for him to unwrap when he got home—she’d tell him Santa stopped by their home while they were away—but what would he open on Christmas day?
* * * *
Their room was on the hotel’s eleventh floor. “Not exactly the honeymoon penthouse suite,” Remy
grumbled as they headed down a hallway of closed doors.
“Maybe not, but it is nice,” Lane told him.
The carpet was a muted shade of mauve, dotted with turquoise and swirled with puce. Very tropical, and it wasn’t as jarring as most hotel carpets Lane had seen. Despite the busy pattern it was almost easy on the eyes. The walls were papered in a pretty, white-on-white design that looked very floral, but on closer inspection, the flowers were really the leafy tops of pineapples. More pineapples were used in displays on the tables scattered throughout the hall. There was a small area just off the elevators that housed a few vending machines—”Nice,” Lane said, with a nod.
But Remy scowled. “No ice maker? It’s probably on level three or something. I don’t want to be trooping downstairs all night in my skivvies for a few rocks for my scotch.”
Lane didn’t respond. His lover was in a mood that was darkening fast, and Lane knew better than to try to cheer him up when he got like this. Remy might get upset when Braden got pissy, but the fact of the matter was, like father, like son, and the grumpiness had to run its course.
Hopefully it wasn’t anything more than jet lag, and a nice, long nap would prove to be the cure.
Their room was at the end of a long hallway. There were no windows to see out of from up here, nothing but other rooms bumping up against theirs on either side. Lane reached the door first and eased his hand into Remy’s back pocket, where his lover had stowed the key card. “Hey, sexy,” Remy purred with a wink. “Looking to get lucky?”
Lane squeezed Remy’s buttock through the denim of his jeans. “Sorry, love. I don’t play to a full house.”
“Braden, go to your mother’s room,” Remy said. Then, before his son could answer, he added, “Oh, wait, that’s right, some crazy surfer pothead lady Lane knows screwed up our flight plans, so you’re stuck with us tonight. You do know she’s crazy, right?”
“Certifiable,” Lane agreed. Extracting the key card, he slid it into the slot on the door and almost expected it to not work. Given the way the rest of their trip was going so far, that wouldn’t surprise him. In fact, they should’ve taken bets on it. If the card worked, they all got a place to crash. If it didn’t, free drinks on the hotel down at the bar…
