Stranded in Paradise (6 page)

Twenty minutes later, the driver braked at the front entrance of the historical Pioneer Inn, overlooking beautiful Lahaina Harbor. The tissue man stepped out of the cab and paid his fare.

Now this was more like it, she thought as she gazed around. Boats bobbed in the harbor, steel guitar music floated from the music stand on the corner. With a final wave, he said good-by. Now she could get on with her vacation.

Forty minutes later, the cab wheeled back onto Wharf Street and deposited Tess at the Pioneer Inn. She had knocked and rung Beeg's doorbell for over ten minutes before a neighbor informed her that Ms. Harris was away.

Away.

What did he mean by “away”? Had she gone for a picnic at the other side of the island? The neighbor wasn't much help. “Just asked me to look after the place for a few days,” the smallish man said.

Biting her lower lip, she had asked the neighbor to call another cab. Reasoning that she could call Beeg's cell phone once her luggage arrived with her address book, she decided to try the Pioneer Inn. It looked like a nice place, and she kind of liked the carved wooden captain she'd seen through the lobby windows.

She paid the fare and hauled her purse and briefcase out of the backseat, glad to be minutes away from a long soak in a hot tub. Ibuprofen and relaxation—the thought left her feeling giddy.

Tess emerged from the Pioneer Inn minutes later and lifted her hand for a cab. So much for lighted harbors in a beautiful historic setting. Unfortunately the driver was the one she'd left five minutes earlier. He smiled. “Back so soon?”

She heaved her purse and briefcase into the backseat and said simply, “No rooms.”

The clerk called ahead to a place called the Mynah Nest. It was only six blocks away, and from the looks of it, it was rated down near the one-star range. Shutters hung askew from the windows, whose paint had peeled long before. The sign had a faded mynah bird painted on its top—the creature looked so worn it could've dropped from exhaustion alone. “Only one problem,” the driver said over his shoulder.

She shut her eyes. “What?”

“The staff went out on strike two weeks ago.”

She got out and paid her fare, mumbling an “I might call you back—we'll see,” before shutting the door.

The place had a definite odor—and it wasn't Plumeria. It had more of a rotten-egg quality. The carpet was a good decade past its last shampooing. The orange, rust, and brown design was dizzying, especially blurred by her inability to see it clearly. She walked up to the front desk, where she was met by a squeaky-voiced boy with hair that stood up at spiked angles. She wasn't sure if it was an intended 'do or not.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I heard your staff was on strike,” she said.

“Yes, Ma'am. I'm the manager here.”

She raised a curious brow. “I guess I'd like a room . . .”

“I can assure you that, despite the inconvenience of no staff, we will extend every effort to make your stay as comfortable as possible.”

She nodded, squinting her eyes. He spoke like a professional. “Is there an optometrist close by?”

“Oh, yes, Ma'am.” She wished he'd stop calling her that. “There's all kinds of optical places in Maui.” He wrote down an address for her.

“I'll need ice right away.” She pointed toward her ankle. “And can you please phone the airport and inform them that I'm staying here? I have a couple of missing bags. I'd like them brought directly to my room the moment they arrive.”

“Certainly, Ms. Nelson. Your room is 465. We hope you'll enjoy your stay.”

The young manager handed her the key with a flourish, managing only to drop it at her feet. She bent painfully to retrieve it. At this point she didn't care if they put her on a sofa in the lobby, just so her foot was elevated and she had an ice pack and some aspirin.

“Where are the elevators?”

“Oh, sorry, Ma'am.” The freckle-faced boy flashed an embarrassed grin. “That's another tiny difficulty we're experiencing. The elevators are out of order right now— but we've called a repairman. He's due any minute. I'm sure he'll have those puppies up and running in a jif.” His youthful features turned serious. “If you want to hang out in the lobby it's okay. There are house mints— they're free. You can have all you want.”

She lifted a finger to her pounding temple.
Hang out in the lobby and eat house mints?
“No, thanks.” Straightening, she reached for her purse and briefcase. “I'll take the stairs.”

At least she didn't have two heavy pieces of luggage to tote.

She limped up four rickety flights, briefcase under one arm and her purse under the other. By the time she reached the fourth floor, she was wishing she'd joined a gym years earlier. Sagging against the plaster with sections of lathe peeking out from the peeled walls, she gasped to catch her breath. Her heartbeat had to be at least two hundred sixty-five.

Working her way down the dimly lit hall, she followed the line of closed doors, squinting at the numbers. 465 was the room farthest from the stairway.

She unlocked the door, flicked on the lamp, and fell across the bed in exhaustion. Her ankle throbbed with every beat of her heart.

She lay on her back and studied the room. It sure wasn't fancy. The same rust, brown, and orange carpet lined the floors, and the bed had a padded vinyl “pillow” across its middle. She looked over toward the TV and noticed a pair of cowboy boots on the floor to the side. She wondered if the room had been cleaned. She shivered at the thought. Right now she didn't have the energy to deal with another crisis. By tomorrow she would connect with Beeg and this nightmare would be over.

She wondered how Len was managing without her. Would he realize how much she'd contributed to
Connor.com
and want her back? She recalled Len's smug expression as he told her she was being replaced like an outdated pair of jeans. And what had she done? She'd limped away to lick her wounds like an injured pup.

Her mother would say she had gotten what she deserved. She had placed her trust in someone other than herself and that was never wise.

She'd been dismissed as if she hadn't sacrificed both private and work life to
Connor.com
these past five years.

The sun was sinking behind the strand of palms outside her window before she was able to convince herself to get up to check on what had happened to the ice bag the clerk had promised to deliver. “I've been washing sheets and I forgot,” he said, then he apologized profusely and said he'd be up in a little while. She rolled off the side of the bed and limped into the bathroom. Minutes later, balanced on her good foot, steam floating around her, she anticipated the heavenly tub of hot water.

Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the door.

She groaned. “Just a minute.”

The knock sounded again. “Keep your shirt on!” she called as she turned off the water and hobbled toward the door.

“Yes?” She stood and listened.

Silence.

She waited a few moments then slid the security chain free and cautiously eased the door open. Sitting there were four pieces of scuffed black Samsonite with a bag of ice draped across the top.

“I can't believe this.”

She had only two pieces of luggage missing. Not four. She stepped into the hall, hoping to catch the manager, but he was long gone.

She consulted the tag on the first and second bags and confirmed that the luggage was hers. The other two belonged to a Carter McConnell, whoever that was. Probably the guy from the airport, she surmised.

She sighed and dragged all four pieces into the room, then dropped the bag of ice into the sink and hobbled back to the bathroom. After her soak and a few minutes with ice on her ankle, she'd call the front desk and inform the clerk about the mix-up.

As far as she was concerned, if Mr. McConnell had been without his luggage this long, another hour wouldn't make any difference.

3

Tess slowly turned off the hot water with her big toe and lay back in a tub of hot salts as she let the steamy fragrance assuage her weary senses.

She hadn't thought that last week could be topped, but today had been worse. Beeg was missing; surely they were crisscrossing each other's path. Early tomorrow morning she would call Beeg's house, and if that effort failed to reach her, she would go to The Lopsided Easel, the small Front Street gallery where Beeg worked. They would share a cup of Kona coffee and have a good laugh about the whole thing—if she could remember how to laugh. She wiggled deeper into the hot suds.

As far as
Connor.com
—she'd let Len stew in his own juices for a few days. It wouldn't take a genius to discover that Tess Nelson contributed more to the company than Len ever dreamed. He would be calling her, begging her to come back; she'd bet the farm on that. She just needed to decide what her answer would be. Did she want to work for a man who could dismiss her with a wave of the hand? Didn't she have more self-respect than that?

Settling deeper into gardenia-scented water, she decided to wait a day or two before she checked her home messages. Then she would return to
Connor.com
on her own terms.

The delicious thought warmed her and made the last twenty-four hours tolerable.

Her fingers and toes had pruned and the water had cooled to chilly before she summoned enough energy to dry off and rub some fragrant cream on her skin. It felt so good to have her personal articles back. She'd recovered her glasses, cell phone, and address book, so she felt a measure of comfort.

Tightening her robe sash, she sat on the bed with her leg elevated on a pillow and the cool of the now-melting ice on her ankle. She stared at the two extra pieces of luggage beside the bed. Carter what's-his-name would probably appreciate having his items as much as she did. She needed to report the mistake.

The teenybopper manning the front desk answered her call in a piping little voice that harbored an adolescent crack.

“Yeah, what is it!”

“This is Tess Nelson in room 465. Two pieces of luggage have been delivered to my room by mistake.”

“No joke?”

She rolled her eyes. “No joke. Would you please send up someone to get them?”

“Sure thing, Lady. Do the bags have a name on 'em?”

“The tags say Carter McConnell.”

“McConnell, McConnell—” The young man repeated the name under his breath. Tess could hear him frantically rummaging through some papers.

“Yeah, here ya go—Carter McConnell. He just checked in—he's in room 464. Just down the hall from you. Uh, sorry 'bout the mix-up there, Lady. Tell ya what I'm gonna do. Soon as I can get a few minutes I'll hop on up there to get 'em.”

Good grief.
She looked at her melted bag of ice and thought of the hour she'd already wasted and knew Mr. McConnell would want to have his personal effects as soon as possible.

“If it isn't against hotel policy, perhaps I could just set Mr. McConnell's luggage outside his door?”

“If you don't think it's too much hassle . . . hop to it.”

“Okay, I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks a wad, Lady,” he said, then hung up.

She gingerly placed her weight on her injured ankle. She was pleased to note it didn't hurt as much as before although it had taken on numbness. Adding a fraction more bulk, she flinched and nearly fell.

She scooted the pieces of luggage to the door. Talk about weight! The man must have packed bricks in one of the bags.

Shoving the bags into the hall, she wondered if knocking and leaving them in front of the door of room 464 would be sufficient. That was the way the bags had been delivered to her. But, she reasoned, if the man weren't there the bags might be stolen before he returned to his room.

She tapped lightly on the door, then allowed ample time for the man to respond. When there was no response, she knocked, louder this time.