Freefall

by Kristen Heitzmann

  While TJ gave an arm to Okelani, Nica wound her through to a woman whose deep hourglass figure perfectly adapted to supporting the chunky baby. “Gentry, this is TJ’s sister, Janie.”

  With her free hand, Janie slipped a potent, yellow plumeria lei around Gentry’s neck and kissed her cheek. “Aloha. And welcome to Davy’s baby luau.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. He’s adorable.” She stroked the hand of the smiling baby whose dimples resembled his Uncle TJ’s. Maybe the rolls on his arms and legs and neck would someday translate to muscle, but for now, his eyes were almost swallowed by his cheeks.

  Okelani put a hand on Davy’s head. “Strong, da baby.”

  Janie beamed. Her house was tiny and past due on paint and repairs, but she received Okelani’s words as a greater gift than a diamond choker. The way she cuddled her son gave Gentry a pang. Not that long ago, she’d contemplated marriage and children.

  Daniel would make someone very happy—the sort of Christian woman who wasn’t called to shine her light into the world, but only for him. He’d accepted the troupe as a mission ground, but the first whisper of Hollywood had stunned him. “ You can’t really mean it.”

  To a degree, he’d been right. The men she’d met since had thought faith in a spiritual power all right as long as it didn’t interfere with ambition and immediate gratification. She’d found herself in a no-man’s-land, caught between extremes and out of step with either side. Somewhere in the middle, she hoped, was someone who would matter.

  In the backyard she placed her gift among the others on the table. TJ seated Okelani and introduced “Auntie” Hanah, his grandmother, who spread across a good portion of the picnic bench with an old beagle in her lap. The dog could have been a member of the family. Gentry greeted her and asked how her hip was healing. A string of little girls in grass skirts and flowered headbands ran over and touched her, one by one, then wove away like a multicolored ribbon in the wind. As her gaze followed them across the yard, she caught Cameron walking in.

  Unprepared, her heart reacted with a quickened staccato. Myriad details her mind had hoarded surfaced now; first impressions that had triggered childhood memories, clashes that had forced instinctive bursts of recall, the way he’d defended her, and the trust she’d felt in turning over the photos. Shared experience spiced with opposition and seasoned with respect.

  Dressed casually in a white T-shirt and frayed shorts, he set a package on the gift table and moved through the crowd. His bold Shakespearean beard contrasted with his loose gait, a rolling stride that might come from riding the waves. His leaving had simplified things, but his return caused a visceral anticipation when his gaze locked on and held all the way across the yard.

  He stopped in front of her, the corners of his mouth deepening inside the parentheses of his mustache. His eyes still held unfathomed depths, but no longer threatened survival. “Hi.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Miss Davy’s baby luau?”

  She smiled. “Quite an event, it seems.”

  “A celebration of life. The baby’s completed his first year, and everybody parties. Traditionally no gifts are given until then. Used to be the baby wasn’t named until the first baby luau.”

  “Not named for a whole year?”

  “Infant mortality.”

  She shook her head. “Wow.”

  “So you see, dis baby luau ting one, da kine, big deal.” She laughed. “Is that really why you’re here?”

  “Not entirely.” He sobered. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  She’d like nothing better than to hike off into the woods with him and experience the island as they had before. But sneaking off to be alone was not a smart move.

  “I need to stay visible, Cameron.” She didn’t want to spell it out in terms of celebrity or bad press. If he’d forgotten that element, so much the better. “And I’m not missing that kalua pork.”

  He surveyed the party. “Okay. Eat first, den talk story.” He rested his hand on the small of her back.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t think anyone here’s a threat.”

  “You haven’t met TJ’s brothers.”

  Seth and Jacob Kanakanui dwarfed Cameron, in heft if not height, and spoke just like TJ; locally and sparingly. “Dunno whassamattah; you hang wit dis guy,” Seth told her with a grip on Cameron’s shoulder that shook him like a rag doll.

  Jacob said, “Must be spooky kine weather make people funny kine.”

  The weather looked anything but spooky. Clear and hot with a sapphire sky. Cameron took the ribbing and moved her on to someone else he had grown up with, and then someone he knew from surfing, and someone with whom he’d gone deep-sea diving. It seemed as though everyone at the party was related somehow, but there were too many aunties, honorary aunties, cousins, and removed cousins to make sense of it.

  With everyone, the gracious aloha drew her in. She’d expected to spend time with Nica, but got her brother instead. By the glances and nods, there seemed a gleeful conspiracy to make more of that than there was. Cameron appeared oblivious, but then, it wasn’t easy to tell his thoughts. He’d be a complicated leading man to play beside.

  With the tantalizing aromas demanding attention, they approached the tables. Cameron identified the foods as they passed platter after platter; char siu, kim chee, lomilomi salmon, laulau, chicken adobo, chicken katsu, huli-huli chicken, and of course the smoky roasted pig that had shredded and fallen from the bones. Who could possibly eat it all?

  Her plate dangerously heaped, she sat down on a bench under a papaya tree where she could swear she smelled the fruit ripening. To her right grew an avocado tree that held thick-skinned orbs in various hues of green to black, a pepper bush, and poled tomatoes. To her left, guavas. Such natural abundance. Heart swelling, she offered a blessing for the food, the day, and the company. No elaboration.

  Cameron added, “Amama.”

  “Amen?”

  He cocked his head. “Literally that the prayer is free, or flown. We send it out, then it’s up to God to catch it or not.”

  That explanation fit his lack of expectation, but she got the image of prayers trapped inside until she gave them wing. Prayers being freed, flying far and wide; grace aloft. Amama.

  She bit into the slow-roasted kalua pork and sighed.

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “Break da mout.” She laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s good.” He shrugged. “Breaks the mouth.” He dipped her fork into the dab of purplish gray goo on her plate and held it up. “Poi.”

  If he hadn’t globbed some onto her plate, it wouldn’t be there. But since he held the fork to her mouth, she tasted it. The slightly tangy paste did not inspire praise.

  But as he handed back her fork, he explained, “Alternating poi between the strong flavors lets you go from mahimahi to kim chee to smoky pork to squid luau. It’s like bread to the French. A pause for the palate.”

  “Ah.” Something bland between strong, varied flavors. Now she got it.

  He dipped a finger into his own. “Usually eaten like this.” He sucked it off. “But you have to be careful.” He pointed. “See the dog in Auntie Hanah’s lap? Poi.”

  “That’s its name?”

  “Its diet.”

  Gentry looked from the obese dog to her plate. “You fed me dog food?”

  He laughed. “Just warning you it’s hard on the figure.”

  They’d managed to ignore, for the moment, the business hanging between them. But mentioning her figure brought the photos front and center. She flushed. Had he handled it as he’d promised?

  Before she could ask, the band in the yard began to play. The drummer struck the rhythm with the guitar hitting the strong counter-beat she recognized from other island music. Then the ukulele came in with two tenors whose high, sweet voices didn’t match the thickness of their necks. She sat back against the bench.

  Little girls gathered and danced impromptu hula, their hands
and arms already graceful. She nibbled the red spare ribs, salt butterfish, and cold diced salmon with tomatoes and onion. People wandered by and chatted, maybe to say they’d spoken to Gentry Fox, maybe just being friendly. Through it all, she sensed Cameron’s impatience—felt her own.

  He dumped their finished plates into the big plastic can at the end of the table, and huddled with TJ. From the look on Cameron’s face they weren’t reminiscing.

  Nica caught her by the arm. “You won’t want to miss this.”

  A hush came over the gathering, as Janie positioned Okelani in front of the band. The drum and one of the singers accompanied her with more of a chant than a song. Though Gentry didn’t understand the words, when Okelani raised her arms and danced, tears stung.

  Nica murmured, “Every movement has meaning, significance in each expression, each position of her hands. She’s dancing an ancient creation story now. When she imitates the water or a shark or a palm or a stone, she becomes that thing.”

  Gentry nodded. Getting into character was something she understood, but she’d never tried to become a stone.

  “Hula is also a prayer. It opens the spirit. Okelani is a great kumu. She teaches not only the motions, but also the discipline to direct this prayer to the Father.” Respect rang in Nica’s voice.

  “Did she teach you?”

  “Yes. And now I assist her with the keikis—the little ones. It’s very strict. But by showing the way through dance to the Father’s heart, Okelani changes lives.”

  The rapt expressions of the students showed how deeply she had done so.

  “Like you, Okelani shines light into the darkness. She dances now to bless the baby. Then we’ll have cake.” Nica smiled as though it were completely natural to transition from something deeply spiritual to something delicious. And maybe it was.

  Janie and three others cut the mango, coconut, and banana cake and gave the baby the first bite. Then slices were passed around and more cakes brought out. It tasted as good as it looked, but Cameron’s warning had struck home. She couldn’t afford the calories, not if she intended to play alongside Alec Warner. TJ accepted the remainder of her slice and downed it in three bites.

  Cameron caught her elbow. “Let’s go talk.” He hadn’t interrupted Okelani’s dance, but his mood had shifted. The intensity he’d carried into the party had earlier drained off him like rain, but in the way of the islands, the clouds had returned. He took out his keys.

  She glanced over her shoulder, unsure if she’d satisfied aloha. “The party isn’t over.”

  “It’ll go all night, maybe tomorrow too. We’ll take a drive and come back if you want.” He led her around the house and down the street to his truck.

  The last time, she’d sat there gripping dread in an envelope, but now she imagined grace aloft. Hadn’t God turned the hearts and minds of the reporters? There’d been no more talk of aliens or lovers, in spite of Darla’s doomsday attitude. Without a juicier scandal, Gentry Fox might not warrant a second week’s attention. But she believed her prayers had not flown off to an inattentive God. “So what did you—”

  “Hold on a minute.” Cameron checked his side mirror and pulled out. “Been up the canyon?”

  “Um, no, but …”

  “We’ll do that, then.”

  “Cameron, did you—”

  “Wait.” He lifted his fingers from the wheel. “Just a minute.”

  She stayed silent while he took a roundabout way from the neighborhood through the small town of Waimea, and stopped at the intersection of highways 50 and 550. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “We’ve got a tail.”

  “Oh.” The photographer who’d followed her to Choy’s? At least he hadn’t hassled her at the party, though a telephoto could have captured plenty. “Hope he enjoys the drive.”

  “It’s not a he. It’s Bette Walden.”

  She sucked a breath and almost turned around. “Are you sure?”

  He slid her a glance.

  “What is with that woman?”

  “She’s obviously been hired to follow you.”

  Gentry frowned. “Why? And by whom?” Bette was a bloodsucking gnat. Through everything with Troy, she’d been there, insinuating, trying to force a confession, watching, waiting to catch her in the act. Only there wasn’t an act to catch. She must not have heard.

  “I don’t know.” Cameron started up the canyon. Whatever he did know would obviously wait.

  Gentry stared out at the semi-arid landscape—pale grasses and scrubby bushes on scrabbled, red-and-gray slopes broken by crumbly shelves of rock. Why was Bette Walden after her? Did she think the new pictures proved Troy’s old lies? If she’d bought into it, the whole thing could blow up again. Her stomach churned.

  Cameron glanced over. “What do you want to do?”

  “About Bette?”

  He nodded.

  “What are the choices?” They couldn’t exactly outrun her on the single highway creeping up Waimea Canyon.

  “Let her follow us to the top and see what she wants, or take one of the trail roads off the highway. My truck’ll handle it. Her compact, maybe not.”

  She hadn’t seen anything but scenic turnouts, but he would know. As they climbed, the landscape had changed from hardscrabble hills to scraggly forest. Did she want to confront or avoid Bette? She clenched her jaw, resenting the intrusion. “I’d rather choose my time, my place. I’m tired of her ambushing me.”

  “Okay.” He sped up. “Hold on.”

  Gentry gripped the armrest and reconsidered her answer. Avoiding Bette on the tortuous road wouldn’t matter if they rolled off the side. Thrust against the door, she wished she’d chosen Plan A.

  The trees grew taller, denser, and greener as they climbed, closing them in. The temperature dropped noticeably. With a screech, Cameron swerved to the left and dove down a dirt road that had opened with almost no warning. She stifled a cry as they rumbled down, then jerked to the right onto nothing more than ruts between the trees. Jostled and bumped, she clung to the seat until he came to a stop at a small turnout on the edge of a plummeting precipice. The colorful canyon gaped below.

  She clutched her stomach and expelled her breath. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “Nah.” He put the truck in gear and set the brake. “Dat would be, da kine, murky water at high surf.”

  She dropped her head back.

  Cameron opened the windows and turned off the engine. The scent of eucalyptus wafted in from the trees overshadowing them. Cool, shady air filled the cab. He turned and rested one arm on the steering wheel and the other on the seat back, pulling his T-shirt tight across his chest. He drew his knee up and sat like the surfer dude he’d sounded; murky water at high surf.

  Her heart was only starting to still. “Does Bette—”

  “We’ll talk about that after. First tell me about the dragon man.”

  She frowned. “What about him?”

  “What happened at Choy’s?”

  She sent her thoughts back to that night. “Nothing. After I called you, he left.”

  “I thought he’d just come in.”

  “He had. I took his picture right when he sat down. Then he cornered me in the hall—”

  “Cornered you?” The intensity in his voice warned her off careless phrasing.

  “He was so big, maybe he just took up the space.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth.”

  She released a slow breath. “He didn’t move when I tried to get by. He looked … determined.”

  “Threatening?”

  She pictured his face. Oh yeah. “If I wasn’t used to it, I’d wonder why some stranger took my picture.”

  “Stop evading, Gentry. Did you feel endangered by this guy?”

  No use finding a positive spin. “Until TJ came. Then, like I said, the man left.”

  “Well, at the luau TJ filled me in on his record. Grover Malakua isn’t someone to mess with. Like the cousin TJ arrested for beating up his wife, h
e’s got a history of violence.”

  She swallowed.

  “I want you to think. Before Choy’s, had you seen him?” She’d recognized his tattoo, but …

  “Close your eyes.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know him. I thought about it all night. I can’t remember seeing him anywhere else.”

  He clutched her shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

  A deep reluctance seized her. Her mouth went dry. What on earth?

  “Gentry.” His grip softened. “Try.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  What TJ had told him was that Grover Malakua had a record of assault and battery, drug trafficking, and vehicular manslaughter. There’d been suspicion of intent in the accident, but it couldn’t be proved. TJ had emphasized that nothing remotely connected him to Gentry. But she’d recognized the dragon. They had to have interacted at some point, and inside she knew it. He’d heard it in her voice. It was that phone call, not Davy’s baby luau, that had brought him back to the island.

  As she closed her eyes, her shoulder tightened with tension. She hadn’t reacted that way the last time he led her through this exercise; she’d gone with it, picking out fragments of thought that had proved accurate. That’s what he wanted again, but he’d hit a wall. Fear?

  “You knew the dragon when you saw it. You remembered it before. It’s in there, Gentry.”

  Her throat worked.

  “Where else did you see it? When?”

  Her arms jerked. Her eyes flew open, and she drew hard, clipped breaths. “Falling. I felt like I was falling.”

  “Long and slow or hard and sudden?”

  “The second. There was a jolt, and I tried to catch myself.”

  “A jolt? You were pushed?”

  She turned, confused. “Was I?”

  “I don’t know.” The first time he’d seen her, she’d been too wary to accept his ride even when he’d shown his relationship to Nica. She’d scrutinized him as though trying to recognize a threat. “Was someone else with you and your uncle?”