Diving In (17 page)

“I’m not buying a building right across from the beach that doesn’t face the ocean.”

“It’s not for tourists,” Brand said. “It’s for accountants, lawyers, small business types.”

“Who need the view even more. And who live in Maui for a reason.”

“It costs too much,” Brand said. “Just to have a few windows that glimpse some water they see every day anyway.”

Ansel slipped lower under the sheets, closed his eyes. He could still fall asleep again if he hung up now. “Mmm,” he said, his thumb rubbing the screen to make the unhappy man go away.

“I’ve already emailed Jenny and explained the mistake.”

Damn it.
Ansel fumbled with his phone. He’d locked the screen somehow and Brand was still talking. “There was no mistake.”

“We’d have to charge twice the rent.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Drifting back into his dream, Ansel tried to remember his password to unlock his phone and make the loud man go away.

“I’ve run the numbers,” Brand continued. “We’d never find tenants in this economy at the higher rents.”

Finally, Ansel saw the glowing red button that would solve his immediate problem. “You worry too much,” he said as he tapped it, already half-asleep.

Silence. A belated birthday present.

Ah, that was better.

But he’d forgotten to mute it, and the wind chimes he used as a ringtone knocked him awake again. In his stupor, he’d left the phone wedged between the pillow and his ear.

“Jenny will meet you there at nine,” Brand said. “At the right one.”

“Actually, it’s on the left,” Ansel muttered. And then, “Fine,” just to make him be quiet.

He slept until Brand called him a third time. Now the sun was up, making Ansel squint around him at the white sheets, pale walls, golden dawn sky. It was like waking up in heaven. “I told you I’d meet her at nine,” Ansel said, pulling a pillow over his face.

“It’s 8:12,” Brand said. “Better get moving.”

“Crap.”

“You wanted to be a businessman.”

“Yeah,” Ansel said. “Not your minion.”

“Listen,
partner
. Jenny Kapule is probably already there waiting for you. She’s been really patient with us so far, don’t punish her.”

Ansel thought about the flash of joy in the real estate agent’s eyes when he’d told her they’d be making an offer on the expensive property instead of the discounted, hill-facing one. “I won’t,” Ansel said with a smile, rolling out of bed.

He cleaned up and rushed out of the condo without seeing his housemate, reaching Kihei with a minute to spare. In the parking lot between the two buildings, he reassured Jenny they were only going to look at the other structure to rule it out, and that, yes, they still wanted to proceed with the oceanfront one.

Jenny looked hopeful but unsure. Recently married with a baby on the way, she was as eager to close the deal as he was. “But Mr. Warren…”

“Needs to see a few good photos to clarify the situation.”

He returned to the condo two hours later with three dozen unflattering shots that would look even more convincing after he touched them up a little on his computer. Bad lighting, inopportune close-ups, slightly excessive percentage of shots taken of a water stain below a (since repaired) window.

Brand would have to agree with him now. Being a businessman could be fun after all.

He was opening the first photo on his computer when his mother called. He’d assigned an operatic ringtone to Melinda Jury that suited her tireless and powerful personality. It gave him a second to prepare before answering the phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You didn’t call me back. Don’t forget—your birthdays have more to do with me than you. And thirty! That’s a big deal.”

He moved the phone an inch further from his ear. “You said in your message not to call you back.”

“Did I?” She laughed. From the heart, like she did everything. “I didn’t mean it. Rachel knew not to believe me. Did she tell you she’s getting married?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“We all deal with mortality in our own ways,” his mother said.

Ansel groaned. “Even my mother thinks thirty is over the hill.”

“There’s always another hill to climb, no matter how many birthdays you have,” she replied.

“Sounds exhausting.” But he smiled. He loved his mom. Everyone did.

“She’s still in London, you know. Your sister.”

“I know,” he said.

“And where are you? In the old days, I wouldn’t have to ask that unless you were the one calling me, which apparently doesn’t happen anymore.”

“You told me not to call you back,” he repeated, smiling. “You know I’m the obedient one.”

“I didn’t mean never. You could’ve called me yesterday, for instance. From wherever you are. Which is where, kiddo?”

He stood and went out to the balcony. “Maui. Didn’t Rachel mention it?” He was still convinced she’d set him up.

Possibly successfully. He couldn’t get Nicki out of his head.

“Maybe she did, I don’t remember. I can’t keep up with you two,” his mother said. “Have you seen that friend of yours with the coconut business? That shampoo of his was wonderful.”

He’d almost forgotten about that. A few years ago, he’d introduced one of his friends to another, and Primal Pedro’s Products from Paradise was born. “Actually, I’m here on business of my own.”

“How wonderful. Your father would love to hear about that.”

Turning his back on the ocean, Ansel leaned against the balcony. The sun was hot on the back of his neck—too hot, like a dragon breathing on him.

She’d never hinted at the argument with his father; she never asked about his finances; he didn’t know if she knew he wasn’t taking money from the family coffers anymore.

If she really didn’t know—and he didn’t think she did, because she would’ve called a family meeting by now with a professional mediator that would’ve gone on until everyone was hugging each other—he wanted to keep it that way. Someday, perhaps as he handed her a new yacht (she could donate it to Greenpeace) he could casually mention he’d paid for it with his own millions.
 

He went back inside. “Brand and I are partnering up to buy some investment property. There’s an office building in Kihei, right on the ocean, pretty cool.”

“An office building on the beach?”

“A cube with a view,” he said.

She laughed. “I love it! Good for you. You’re always up to something interesting. If only I could hear about it from you instead of from Rachel. And no, I’m not going to get on the Internet and chase after you like a lovesick stranger. If I want pictures and stories about your life, I’ll make you give them to me directly.”

He sat at his desk, smiling at the photos of the building he had up on his screen. “Are you guys still in Costa Rica?” His mother was the founder of an environmental education foundation and personally escorted tours of low-income American city kids through the rainforest three times a year.

“Just flew back yesterday. We’re home.” They’d kept the small house in Menlo Park where he’d grown up—though the booming tech economy over the last three decades had made the three-bedroom, 1954 stucco box worth more than a two-hundred-acre thoroughbred horse farm anywhere else. “I’m actually calling for a reason,” his mother added, her voice dropping an octave.

Here it comes
, he thought, sitting taller. Dad
had
told her, and she was going to make it better.

But Ansel wasn’t going to let her. He was on his own, and though he wasn’t half the man his mother was—he admired her more than he could say—he wasn’t going to let her rescue him. He’d do all right. Eventually. “Yes?” he asked.

“That restaurant of Jordan’s,” she said brightly. “Where the heck is it? I can’t remember the name, and I’m determined to check it out. I know people. I can help.”

“Mom, he’s already doing pretty well on his own.” Against all the odds, he was.

“Then I’ll eat there because I’m hungry. Come on, spill.”

 
So he told her all about it until she was satisfied: the name of the restaurant, the address, the hours, the best items on the menu, where to find a parking spot, the color of the walls, Rachel’s mural.

“Email that to me and CC your father. He needs a distraction from his birthday coming up. Turning sixty has made him mental. This will be his project.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work. He doesn’t even remember Jordan.”

His mother let out a quick sigh. “Of course he does. He just doesn’t want to admit how much he cares about you. I’m getting him in therapy, I swear to God.” Then her voice returned to its usual boom. “I’m proud of you, Ansel. Have a rewarding time in Maui. Are you alone?”

The sudden topic shift knocked him off balance. But you couldn’t lie to Mel about anything. She’d know, she’d be hurt, she’d remind him to be a better person. “Rachel gave the condo to a friend of hers. I’m kind of butting in. The woman has been nice enough to let me stay.”

“Is she there with her family? Did you offer to take the sofa bed?” His mother believed in high-density housing.

“She’s alone, so I’m in one bedroom, she’s in the other.”

“Then nothing goes to waste,” his mother said.

“That’s what we figured. I didn’t tell Rachel, though, in case she got upset.”

“Why should she care? She’s in London. You’re putting the toilet seat down and washing your own dishes, right?”

“My mother raised me right.”

“She sure did. What’s the woman’s name?”

“Nicki.”

“Nicki what? This isn’t preschool, Ansel.”

“Nicki Fitch. Sorry, I don’t know her middle name.”

“And what does she do?”

“She teaches junior high in the East Bay somewhere. History, I think.” There was no point playing dumb. His reluctance to talk would be like blood in the water for her. “She was friends with Rachel in college.” He waited for the interrogation to resume. His father wasn’t the only one who tired of his serial monogamy, and surely Rachel had already mentioned to their mother about her plot to set him up? The two of them were always in cahoots with one scheme or another.

“Glad it worked out,” she said, sounding like she was yawning.

He waited. Really? That was it? No further cross-examination?

 
“I’ll say hello to Jordan for you,” she continued.

Ansel frowned at the blank wall. Maybe Rachel hadn’t set it up. Their mother had many talents, but being sneaky wasn’t one of them.

“Will I have to lie about liking the food?” she asked.

“No. Jordan’s a genius.”

“Good. That makes my life a lot easier.”

“Since when do you like it easy? If you liked it easy, you’d be sitting here in Maui with me.”

“Maybe you should’ve invited me.”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t’ve come. You’re too busy saving the world.”

“I’d find a way,” she said. “How about this. Next time, let’s talk because you called me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“I’m writing it on my calendar this second.”

“Well, I’m sure you will as soon as you hang up with me,” she said.

He laughed.
 
“I’ll talk to you before Dad’s birthday. Promise.” The big day was in July.

“You’ll talk to me
on
Dad’s birthday,” she said. “In person. I’m throwing him a surprise party.”

Ansel hung his head. “You just can’t believe him when he says he hated the last one?”

“I don’t care. Something needs to snap him out of this funk he’s in. You don’t really mind, do you? It’s a short flight from there to San Francisco.”

It was too soon. He wasn’t ready. Not just the money, but his whole life. He needed more time. Facing his father with everyone, his family and associates, gathered like that, on his birthday—he’d ask questions, want to be proud.

And he wouldn’t be.

“We’ll have to see, Mom.” He rubbed his neck, suddenly throbbing with tension. “I’ll let you know.”

Chapter 13

A
FTER
SKIPPING
THE
POOL
ON
Monday to ride a rented bike along the boardwalk, Nicki returned to tackle her water demons on Tuesday with a pair of new goggles she’d bought in the resort store.

Law was sitting bare-chested at the edge of the deep pool with his feet in the water. He smiled brightly when he saw her. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

“Here I am.” She kicked off her sandals under a deck chair. “I’m serious this time. I want to pay for the lessons and make it official. Do I sign up at the front desk?”

He climbed to his feet. “Sorry about the other day. I can write you up here. Bill it to the room?”

“Sure.” She followed him to his little hut, where he handed her a clipboard of forms to fill out.

She scanned the form. The prices noted on the lesson agreement were almost as disturbing as the fine print of the liability waiver.
Should
n’t it be his fault if she, you know,
did
sink to her doom while he was giving her a lesson? What else was she paying for but his expertise in the basic chore of keeping her alive?

She looked up at his face. He was watching her, the laugh lines around his blue eyes faintly engaged in their sexy creasing action.

Dropping her gaze to the sheet, she underlined the relevant passage. “It says you don’t care if I drown. See? Right here.”

He leaned forward to look where her ballpoint pen had scratched a trough into the paper. “It says that?”

“Haven’t you ever read this before?”

“You know how it is. It’s just so the resort doesn’t get sued. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“So you
do
care if I drown?”

“You’re not going to drown.” He walked out of his hut and stood next to her, leaning close. “Trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“So I heard,” she muttered.

“You did great the other day.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Beautiful job. Beautiful.” He looked into her eyes.

Just then, Ansel popped out from behind the eight-foot display of foam noodles, hooked an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek so hard she lost her balance.