When I Fall in Love (Christiansen Family) (10 page)

“By the end of the week, I’ll have you up on a surfboard.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you have big plans for little me.”

“It’s time to live a little.” He winked. She expected him to move away, but he stood there as the wind shifted, rippled his Hawaiian shirt, revealing those hockey biceps. She noticed a hint of the sun’s lipstick on his nose. Those beautiful brown eyes with emerald centers held a twinkle of mischief.

Hawaii is an easy place to fall in love.

And then he sank the hook. “C’mon, 9B, haven’t you figured it out yet? For this trip, I’m your swim buddy.”

M
AX
S
HARPE HAD A SPLIT PERSONALITY.

The carefree surfer who tooled Grace around Hawaii, who dared her to touch a sea turtle and showed up barefoot, in black linen pants and yet another Hawaiian shirt, for the first night’s luau, turned into Maximoto, ninja chef, when he got near a kitchen.

She almost hadn’t recognized him in his chef’s whites the next morning
 
—a floppy hat, pants, apron, and a full double-breasted chef’s jacket, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows as if girded for battle. He had the demeanor of a samurai
 
—all business, no games.

Apparently Max considered the kitchen a serious, even dangerous, place, one he needed to conquer. Although he saved her a seat on one of the stainless steel stools, he shushed her the second class started. She tried cracking a joke about their instructor, Keoni, who looked like he should be saying, “Let’s hang ten,
dude!” instead of giving them a talk on the history of Hawaiian cuisine. Max had once more shut her down with a harsh “Shh!”

Admittedly, she hadn’t quite expected this level of teaching on a culinary vacation. She thought it might be a cadre of Hawaiian-shirted tourists standing around tasting wine as a chef prepared lunch, allowing them to chop a vegetable or two.

No. Hawaiian Culinary Adventures turned out top-notch chefs. She’d never seen such an expertly equipped kitchen, from the commercial-grade prep counters, each with its own range, and the six large ovens, one for each two-person group, to the expansive dry storage pantry, the racks and racks of equipment, and even a bakery and patisserie area.

Yes, she might learn to cook. Really cook, not just throw together fridge leftovers. For the first time since Eden proposed it, Grace considered that she might be able to pull off catering their wedding.

Maybe she should adopt Max’s posture.

They’d spent most of the first day of class reviewing culinary fundamentals: safety and sanitation in the kitchen, proper storage of foods, care and use of equipment. Max had listened with the attention of a soldier learning his AK-47. They’d ended the morning with a quick lesson on poi, which he executed perfectly.

Grace’s resembled the texture of wallpaper paste, but she choked it down, chewing on a few gummy chunks, wishing for something
 
—salt or honey or brown sugar or even pineapple
 
—to add to the water-and-taro-plant porridge. She’d quietly made the suggestion to Max, who looked at her as if she’d suggested taking crayon to the
Mona Lisa
.

When the class let out at noon, 9A had appeared.

Max had arrived in the lobby attired in shorts and a crisp white T-shirt, wearing hiking sandals, his aviators clipped to his neck,
grinning, not a hint of samurai chef in his demeanor. He kept his promise to take her to the top of Diamond Head and held her hand as she walked out onto one of the platforms overlooking the crater below. Grace stood there for nearly an hour, just drinking in the vast beauty of the island.

Yesterday, after their second day of class, they’d walked barefoot down the shoreline, all the way to Waikiki Beach, where he took her to a restaurant and ordered fish tacos with mango. Her taste buds were living dangerously.

But this morning she felt sure they weren’t quite adventurous enough to gulp down the bright-orange lomi-lomi salmon Keoni had them preparing.

“The color has a ritual significance to luaus. The ancient Hawaiians offered kumu, another type of reddish-colored fish, to their god, so the salmon is our modern-day substitute. Be sure to get in there with your fingers and massage the tomatoes, ice, and green onions together. After all, that’s what
lomi
means in Hawaiian. ‘Massage.’” Keoni demonstrated by kneading his mixture together in a glass bowl on the counter.

Next to Grace, Max massaged his fish mixture with the care of a professional therapist, working the flavors together.

Where was a wooden spoon when she needed one?

“What’s the matter?” Max said quietly, glancing at her.

“It’s . . . cold. Really cold.”

“That’s the crushed ice.”

“And did I mention slimy? I mean
 
—I get it, but I’m not a fan.”

He stared at her. “You’re a chef. This is gourmet fish, not gopher guts. Stick your fingers in there and start massaging.”

“You know, Samurai Jack, just ease up there. It’s food, not a nuclear bomb. The world won’t end if I use a spoon.”

His mouth opened, and for a second she had the sense of being in second grade, her classmate threatening to tell on her for writing in her textbook.

“Fine. Chill. I’m massaging; I’m massaging.” Except her massage spilled salmon onto the counter, froze her fingertips, and left her hands dripping.

She glanced behind her. Marnee Miller had the masseuse techniques of a master, while her husband mangled his fish. He looked as if he might have taken this adventure for the tasting portion of the class.

Over at table three, the two socialites with perfect hair were giggling; Grace didn’t want to surmise what they might be saying. Especially as they kept shooting looks Max’s direction. Yeah, well, she didn’t blame them. The man could make even a floppy chef’s hat look dangerously adorable.

She picked her spilled lomi off the counter and threw it back into her bowl. “I hope this is served with crackers or toasted bread.”

“Seriously, Grace. This is sacred food.”

She affected a monkish hum as she massaged.

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

She glanced at him again and caught the hint of a smirk. So maybe, deep inside, Mr. Adventure still lurked. She’d just have to figure out how to lure him out, past the indomitable samurai chef.

“Well done, Max,” Keoni said as he walked by their table. He eyed Grace’s lomi.

“I think my lomi is going to leave me a big tip.” She smiled at Keoni.

He pursed his lips and walked by.

“I did mention that he’s one of the top chefs in the world, right?” Max said quietly. “We usually just say, ‘Yes, chef.’”

“Oh.” She cut her voice low. “But can he fry fish on the side of a lake? Or make flapjacks that can make a grown man cry?”

Again the smile. It was enough to make her at least try the lomi.

She refused to admit to Max that maybe she wouldn’t die. It was better than the poi.

Once again, after class he emerged without a trace of the
Iron Chef
persona, dressed in swim trunks and a T-shirt. “Ready to snorkel?”

She’d changed, per his suggestion, into a one-piece swimsuit and pulled a long T-shirt over as a cover-up. “I should warn you. Underneath this shirt I resemble the underside of a whale.”

He tossed her a bottle. “SPF 80. Layer it.”

They climbed into the convertible and headed east out of Honolulu, along the Kalanianaole Highway. “Where are we going?”

“Hanauma Bay. It’s the top of a volcanic cone, and it’s one of the most beautiful places to snorkel on the island, at least for beginners. You’ll love it.”

“What if I get water in my snorkeling tube?”

“Then you blow it out. I promise
 
—I’ll be right there. I won’t let you drown.”

Swim buddy, right. “I am a good swimmer, by the way. I grew up on a lake.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“And I’m a good cook too. I just . . . Okay, I don’t follow the rules. If it tastes good, that’s enough for me.”

He said nothing.

“You, however, approach cooking like it’s a competition.”

“I just want to get it right,” he said quietly. “I don’t have time for mistakes.”

He offered nothing more and she stared at the scenery, puzzling out his words.

The bay stretched out below them in a perfect arc, the water so blue it belonged on a postcard. They parked in the lot and stopped by the rental center for equipment. Max bought an extra sanitizer packet and sat on the bench, cleaning his gear.

Ho-kay.

They watched a short film about the ecology and sea life of the bay, then headed down the hill, towels tucked under their arms.

“Why is the color so patchy
 
—dark in some areas, turquoise in others?”

“That’s the coral depth. See, to the left, it’s dark because the coral is near the surface. But in the middle, the sea is sandy. Over to the right, it’s patchy. That’s where we’ll find our sea turtles.” He looked at her, stuck out his tongue. “Remember, they don’t bite.”

They picked a spot on the shore, dropped their gear, and Grace donned her flippers, mask, and snorkel. She kicked up sand as she walked to the ocean and nearly tripped on the edge of the flipper.

Max had walked into the cool water, then sat to fit his flippers on. His mask he’d strapped onto his head, pushing it up to his forehead. “Let’s get into the water. I’ll show you how to clean your mask, and we’ll practice breathing.”

He’d stripped off his shirt, revealing his wide, sculpted shoulders, still a little on the pale side thanks to his indoor profession. He had a toned chest, probably from his hours in the gym, and a tight six-pack stomach.

Yeah, she
 
—and the rest of the female beach population
 
—might need to practice breathing.

“Right,” Grace said and duckwalked into the water. Cool, refreshing. She sank into it, floated out until she was chest-deep.

Max joined her, taking off his mask. “You want to make sure you have a nice snug seal on your mask and that the snorkel fits
easily into your mouth.” He demonstrated, then came over to adjust her mask.

The world became pinched, and she had the sense of looking through a window. She fitted the tube into her mouth and stuck her head in the water.

Magic. She didn’t know how else to describe the abruptness of peeking under the surface and seeing the sea vibrant and bright, suddenly alive. She spotted an orange sea urchin nestled into the rocky sand and a small school of black- and white-striped tangs swimming by.

“Wow,” she said and managed to gulp in water. She popped up, coughing.

Max lifted his face from the water and removed his snorkel. “You can’t talk. I know that’s going to be a bit of a challenge, but if you need to say something, just tap me. We’ll surface. Now, blow out your snorkel.”

She blew hard and found it cleared. “I think I can do this.”

“Of course you can. Here’s a hint
 
—keep your face straight down, and let yourself glide on the water.” He pointed toward the reef. “Let’s head out there.”

She nodded, fitted in her snorkel, and followed him as he paddled out. Keeping her face down, she watched the sea world scuttle beneath her. They floated over formations of coral, hard cones and divots of rock in which fish rooted for food. She spotted a few from the ecology movie
 
—triggerfish, with their long orange mouths; a blue bullethead parrot fish; a school of yellow butterfly fish. Even a sinister-eyed moray eel slid by.

Grace didn’t even yelp.

In fact, she experienced a surreal sense of power as if she were flying, fearless. She looked around, saw Max swimming nearby,
and watched as he inspected hiding places, studied fish. She met his eyes once and saw the smile in them.

I just want to get it right. . . . I don’t have time for mistakes.

She didn’t understand the reason for his words, but yeah, she could embrace them. Even send up a prayer.
Please, God, don’t let me be making a mistake here. Don’t let me dive in only to have me land hard.

Except what exactly might she be diving into?

She felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Max pointing down a crevice in the rocks. She moved closer for a better view. Her hand found Max’s shoulder.

A sea turtle slept deep in the mottled shadows of the coral, its shell sparkling with gold in a shaft of sunlight.

She treaded water, watching. Suddenly the turtle began to move. It swam away from her, out of the coral enclave and toward deeper water.

Grace couldn’t help it
 
—she began to swim after it, just to see the ballet of its motion in water. It swam farther and she followed, the water becoming cooler; below her, the coral dropped away. Still, like the hypnotic lure of a mermaid, the turtle coaxed her deeper.

She could feel Max behind her now and again, tapping her as if trying to keep up.

Then the turtle shot off and disappeared. She rose to the surface to talk to Max.

Max surfaced five feet away. Something about his expression set a fist in her stomach. “Come back!” he shouted.

She treaded water but had the sense of moving, and that’s when she saw the sign, the buoys. She’d swum beyond the boundaries, into the channel of the riptide.

“Swim back!”

Grace dug down into the water, but even as she kicked, she felt a grab, a tug at her body as the tide yanked her into the dark channel of the sea.