Primitive Secrets (19 page)

Chapter 27

They were still chuckling when Hamlin led her into a cozy downtown tavern. The aroma of grilled meats and vegetables made Storm's mouth water. Her head swiveled to watch a waiter with a heaping plate of nachos, smothered in guacamole and cheese, while Hamlin steered her to a large corner table

“I just realized that I'm starving.”

“I called ahead for a reservation for four.”

“Four?” Storm's smile faded. She dropped into the deeply cushioned booth. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I did.” Hamlin sat at right angles to her in the booth.

“Sooner, I mean. I might have composed myself faster.”

Hamlin grinned. “I got distracted.”

“Right.” Storm looked up at the waiter who had appeared for their drink order. “Cabernet, please.”

Hamlin spoke up. “I'll have one, too. Just bring a bottle of the Clos du Bois.”

When the man left, Storm leaned toward Hamlin. “How hard was it to persuade them to come?”

“I let Chris pick the restaurant. My treat.”

Storm narrowed her eyes at him. “Does Martin know I'm going to be here?”

“Chris will tell him.”

Storm drooped in her seat. “Are you sure?” She regarded him glumly while the waiter appeared, opened the wine, and offered a taste to Hamlin. Hamlin nodded to the fellow, who poured wine in Storm's glass, then Hamlin's.

Hamlin bobbed his head in greeting at the first of two figures following the maitre d' around the corner. DeLario walked single file in front of Martin, who looked up to negotiate his way around a table. His face froze in shock at the sight of Storm. He pivoted to flee, but DeLario grabbed his arm.

“Wait, please. We need to talk to her.”

“Why didn't you tell me? Can't anyone tell me anything straight anymore?” Martin spoke through clenched teeth. Heads turned toward him.

Storm clutched the stem of her wineglass. DeLario kept his hand on Martin's arm. His low, comforting voice reached her in unintelligible phrases.

She looked up at Hamlin with flashing dark eyes. “I didn't want to bushwhack him!”

“It's not what I expected, either,” Hamlin said.

Storm stood up. “I'm leaving.” She looked at Martin. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you, either time. Call me when you want to talk.”

“Wait.” Martin walked away from the table with her. He stopped and wiped a shaking hand over his face. “I've been having a hard time, lately.”

Storm became aware of a table of four people who were fastidiously studying their sashimi. “Martin, let's sit down,” she whispered. “Or should we go someplace alone, where we can talk?”

Her eyes flicked over to where DeLario and Hamlin sat. Hamlin was addressing DeLario, his face serious. DeLario grasped a wineglass with long, delicate fingers and moved it around in small circles while he listened. His hands were incongruous with the tanned ruggedness of his face and the frayed jeans he wore. He must wear gloves to work with the bronzes he sculpted. She was struck by his height and looks. From their glances, she could tell other people were impressed, too.

DeLario was oblivious to the attention of the other diners. His head bobbed in tiny, begrudging movements to whatever Hamlin was telling him.

“I could use a drink,” Martin said. He looked at DeLario. “We might as well stay here.”

When they got to the table, DeLario stood up and took Storm's hand. His fingers were damp and cool. “My apologies for the surprise.” He stopped just short of kissing her hand in an old-fashioned, European manner. His dark, steady gaze settled on Martin. “My friend, I am so sorry. I thought this meeting would help all of us understand each other.”

Martin nodded without a word and took a seat next to DeLario and facing Hamlin. Storm sat next to Hamlin. For a long second, the silence had a palpable density. Martin studied the weave in the tablecloth and DeLario's expression was as frozen as one of his statues'. Storm thought she could feel an electrical current pass between the two men. She and Hamlin were invisible to them at that moment. She glanced toward Martin and saw that his downcast eyes were hooded with anger.

DeLario's face was craggy and intense. His dark wavy hair, streaked with gray and pulled into a ponytail, contrasted with Martin's jet-black, short razor cut. DeLario's eyes appeared aged ahead of his years, though the lines around his expressive mouth added to his looks. The hand that held the stem of his wineglass trembled.

Storm looked at Martin and her heart squeezed with emotion for him. All signs of last week's sunburn had faded except for a few freckles that stood out against the white of his nose. It was he who loved more deeply. She knew how that felt.

“I'm glad to see you, Martin,” she said softly, to break the spell. She felt Hamlin's feet shift beneath the table, probably with relief.

Martin tried to smile. “I'm glad to see you, too. I was planning on phoning you tomorrow.”

Storm wasn't sure if that was true after his behavior ten minutes ago, but it was no time to argue. “I guess you were worried about my reaction?”

Martin's eyes dulled. “Of course. I thought you were checking up on what Dad told you.”

“He didn't tell me anything. Come on, we had lunch last week. Don't you think I would have said something if I'd known?” Storm asked.

“I wasn't sure.” Martin flushed. “You were so close to him.” He took a drink from the glass of wine Hamlin had poured.

“I know.” Storm picked at a thread on the tablecloth. “And I'm not even his real daughter.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“It's okay. I promise Uncle Miles didn't breathe a word about you and Chris. He wouldn't, you know. It was private,” Storm said. “How did he find out? Did you tell him?”

“I wish I had.” Martin took another belt of wine and glanced toward DeLario. Storm followed his look just in time to see the sculptor shake his head, then look away.

“He called a couple of weeks ago and Chris answered the phone.” Martin didn't bother to disguise the pain in his eyes when he looked at her this time. “When I got on the line, he asked me if ‘that man' was my lover.”

“And you told him?” Storm asked.

“I…I didn't know how.” Martin examined the base of his nearly empty wineglass. “No one said anything for what seemed like a long time, then he changed the subject to stocks, asked my advice about some purchases. I told him about Unimed and asked him if he'd release part of my trust fund or at least invest it for me. He hemmed and hawed around for a minute. You know how tight he could be. He said he'd check some things and call me back.”

Storm frowned. Though Hamasaki hadn't handed out money without a reason, he hadn't seemed tight. Of course, she'd had different expectations than his own kids. When she thought of where she was headed with her old high school gang, she was grateful for the opportunities he offered her. Better not bring up that bag of worms.

“What happened when he called you back?” she asked.

“He didn't.”

Martin's eyes flicked to DeLario again. Storm looked at him, too. The artist's gaze was on her and his eyes were filled with a darkness that she didn't understand.

Hamlin was taking in the whole exchange, his expression as blank as a poker player's.

“What else did he say?” she asked, then wished she hadn't. She could feel DeLario's glare burn her face.

“It was his voice, the sarcasm in it,” Martin said. Storm thought she saw DeLario nod briefly in her peripheral vision, but Martin continued without looking in his direction. “When he said he'd get back to me, I knew he was really talking about my lifestyle and what he would do about it.”

“Martin, could he have been upset about something which had nothing to do with you? Maybe he was upset about David. Or me, for that matter,” Storm said.

“Storm, you don't understand.” Martin's lip curled at her. He emptied the wine bottle into his glass, then held the bottle up to catch the attention of a passing waiter.

DeLario brushed Martin's hand with his fingertips. “Martin, we have to tell her.” He spoke to Storm. “A couple of days after Hamasaki called Martin, I returned to Honolulu. Right after I got back, he phoned me and told me to stay away from his son.” DeLario's eyes flattened with anger. “He called me…names.”

“Oh, no.” Storm whispered.

Hamlin spoke up. “Chris, he was reacting out of shock, trying to protect his son. He might have understood if he'd ever had the chance to meet you.”

“Come on, Ian. You know better than that,” DeLario said. Martin kept his eyes down and twirled his wineglass with trembling fingers.

At that moment, a waiter appeared and waved a white napkin at them. “Hello folks, would you like to hear about our specials?” Without a pause, he launched into a long list of complicated dishes. Then he announced that he would give them a few more minutes to decide and sashayed away.

“What'd that guy say?” Martin gaped after the departing waiter.

Storm's front teeth clanked on the edge of her wineglass and she sputtered. She and Hamlin snorted at the same time. Martin sat stunned for another moment, then began to laugh.

“What the hell is so funny?” DeLario asked.

Martin patted his arm. “We're laughing at that bozo. And the unpredictability, the randomness,” he waved his hands around in the air, “of life. God, Chris, we've got to laugh. What else can we do?”

DeLario looked around the table, took a swallow of wine, then nodded. Slowly, the angry gleam faded from his eyes and he chuckled, his voice uncertain.

“Okay,” he said. He raised a glass. “To spontaneity, everyone.”

The four of them clinked glasses. Storm let a smile of relief cross her face. Indeed, spontaneity was harmless. No sharp edges, right?

The waiter returned and Martin looked up at him. “What are the specials again?”

They all burst out laughing. The waiter raised a haughty eyebrow, then recounted the long list once more. “I'll give you a few more minutes.” He turned on his heel.

They choked back their laughter and buried their faces in the menu. When he came back, each person ordered the same fresh catch, though they got a few different side dishes. The waiter just shook his head. He kept his chin tilted so high that they could have counted nose hairs, if they'd wanted. They didn't.

The evening became more lighthearted, filled with the sharing of past experiences. Hamlin and DeLario talked about how, as freshmen, they'd had rooms across the hall in a dormitory at the University of Michigan. One of DeLario's best friends was a soprano that Hamlin had briefly lusted after. DeLario had an art scholarship and Hamlin a track one, though DeLario was on the wrestling team until his studio time demanded too much of him. “Come on, Hamlin. Those guys were afraid I'd grope ‘em.” He laughed while Hamlin shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“That's not why you won, Chris.”

DeLario announced that on that note, he'd better visit the men's room. When he returned, he jumped back in the conversation to tell a funny story about how the elastic in Hamlin's shorts had been through the dryer too many times and fell lower and lower during a track meet. DeLario had finally sent Neil back to the room for another pair.

“Who's Neil? Another roommate?” Storm asked.

“No, my brother,” Hamlin answered. “That wasn't my best meet, Chris.”

“Not that day, but the next day, you set a new NCAA record for the two hundred meter,” DeLario said. He watched his friend's eyes. “You should have seen him fly.”

“This guy is known for artistic hyperbole, you know.” Though his tone was jocular, the skin around Hamlin's eyes was tight. Storm watched Hamlin and wondered why she'd never heard him speak of his brother. Hamlin forged ahead with his anecdote. “He was dashing over to my races between his wrestling events. He was the only guy I ever knew who wrestled on a full art scholarship.”

Hamlin grinned and Storm saw relief pass through DeLario. The sculptor beamed and twirled his side of linguine with pesto around his fork. “What we both had to learn was how to interact with people who didn't put their faces down in their pasta and inhale.”

Hamlin laughed and flagged down the waiter for another bottle of wine. He directed his comments to Martin. “See, we both came from inner city Detroit and had simple, immigrant parents. They spoke a little broken English outside the home, but even the neighborhoods were ethnic so they could get away with not speaking English for a week or two.”

DeLario chuckled. “All of a sudden, we were in classes with these guys who took off their army surplus jackets and put on monogrammed shirts when their parents drove the Mercedes in from Grosse Point. Hamlin and I took the bus back to the old neighborhood together.” DeLario's eyes became wistful. “And dug through the barrels of olives at the open market,” he said.

Hamlin laughed. “Remember the time you got thrown out of that stall for dipping too many? We couldn't speak a word of Greek, but we knew the meaning of every gesture that guy made.” All four of them laughed.

Martin and Storm shared how, while in college on the mainland, both of them had been asked by other students if Hawaiians had electricity in their grass shacks. “They thought we surfed to school,” Martin laughed. “I never did admit that I couldn't swim until Mom put me in a class at the YMCA when I was twelve.” He poured more wine into his glass.

“That's about the time I got my first pair of closed shoes,” Storm added.

“For a Big Island girl, that's early.” Martin tossed a piece of bread at her from across the table.

Storm stuck out her tongue, then popped the bread into her mouth. “Yeah, still is, I bet.” Her voice was thoughtful.

When the four finished the last bottle of wine and stood to leave the restaurant, Hamlin draped his arm over Storm's shoulders. Martin and DeLario bumped hips, the turbulence of their earlier troubles dissipated. DeLario steadied Martin's passage through the maze of tables.