The Green Room (7 page)

“And get invitations to other big surf meets?”

Stephanie chewed a hangnail. Her manicured nails of three days ago were chipped and broken. “It's the answer to his dreams. His whole life, he listened to Marty talk about it.”

Storm regarded the misery in Stephanie's eyes. “When did Marty get into town?”

“Last week, I guess. I'm not sure, but he saw Ben compete on Sunday.” Stephanie's eyes were filling up again.

“What worries you most?” Storm asked softly.

“That Ben will get hurt.” Stephanie heaved a sigh. “And of course, I hate it that Marty is able to offer an opportunity I can't. But I can't say no to him, either.” She used the napkin to wipe away a tear.

Stephanie looked at Storm with red-rimmed eyes. “You see, Marty never stopped longing for the days when he was a competitive surfer. Those were his glory days, and he wished he'd accomplished more. I think he's still trying to prove he can be a champion. And I can't be the one to take that chance away from Ben. To crush his dreams.”

“Has Ben always admired his dad?”

Stephanie shrugged. “What boy gives up on his dad? When we moved out two years ago, he resented Marty's threats and bullying.” She took a drink of water. “But he also missed him. There are things he admires about Marty. As he should.”

“Marty was a champion surfer?”

“He was a finalist in the '86 Gerry Lopez Pipeline Masters. Got beat out by an Australian.”

“Why didn't he try again?”

Stephanie moved the silverware around on the table. “I was pregnant. He was twenty-one and surfing didn't pay much in those days.” She laughed, without humor. “I didn't know how expensive this decision would be in the long run.”

“You asked him to quit?”

“His parents did, too,” she added quickly. “They didn't like his lifestyle, the drugs, the whole scene. They didn't like me much, either—the brown-skinned wife. But it was finally something we agreed on.”

“What happened after Ben was born?”

“I tried to convince him to go back to surfing.” She smiled sadly. “But he'd started the real estate business and developed his first, successful shopping center. He was making real money.” Her hands dropped to the table. “You know the rest.”

Storm reached out and touched one of Stephanie's hands. “Getting a divorce isn't going to stop Ben from entering this contest.”

“I know.” Both women sat without speaking, and Storm watched the emotions play across Stephanie's face.

After a few moments, Stephanie spoke quietly. “The divorce is for me. I've been living in limbo, and I can't go on this way. I'm sick and tired of it.”

“How does Ben feel about the divorce?” Storm asked. She thought back to Ben's ambivalent behavior in her office, how much more subdued he'd been there than on the beach.

“He'll go along with it,” Stephanie said.

Storm figured Stephanie knew best, but she also had the feeling that Stephanie was leaving out details of her relationship with Ben and his father. So be it, as long as they were personal, and not issues that would affect the divorce agreement.

Chapter Eleven

Stephanie's gaze followed a troupe of sandy beach-goers who had traipsed into the restaurant and stood blinking as their eyes adjusted to the cool, subdued dining room. “I've got to get back to work,” she said. “My hostess is on lunch break.”

“Okay,” Storm said, and realized that during Stephanie's explanation of Marty's and Ben's relationship, she'd made a decision of her own. She was going to take advantage of the beach cottage again for at least tonight. That way, she could talk to Ben and track down Nahoa. She jotted the phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to Stephanie. “This is where I'll be if you need me tonight. You've got my cell number, too.”

Outdoors, the mid-afternoon sun seemed even hotter than when Storm had entered the restaurant. The ocean breezes, when they wafted across the blacktopped main street, carried heat and the aromas of suntan oil and car exhaust. Suddenly, Storm wanted to get out of the congested little beach town and closer to the water. In the distance, she could see Waialua Bay through a scrim of crowded shops and dusty palm trees, beckoning like a silver platter.

The car seat was so hot that she yelped when the back of her legs hit the vinyl. Her damp cotton shift conducted the heat to her sweating back. Fortunately, no one had bothered her surf board, probably because it had some obvious fiberglass patches, but the wax had melted in the sun and dripped in greasy blobs onto the passenger seat. It was time to get out of town.

By the time Storm was on Kamehameha Highway, she'd decided she'd change into a bathing suit, re-wax her board, and head for the water. Even if she didn't find Ben or Nahoa at Laniakea, she'd reenergize so that she could track them down later. There would be other surfers in the water, and she could ask questions as to Nahoa's whereabouts. Maybe some gossip would give her the lowdown on his love life.

The key to the beach house was still where Storm had hidden it when they'd left on Sunday, and the first thing she did after opening the louvered windows to the trade winds was to call the owners and ask permission to stay a few more days. Aunt Maile's friends were delighted to have her “looking after the place.” Storm thanked them for their hospitality and promised herself that she'd send a thank you note later in the week.

The next phone call Storm made was to Leila and Robbie, to ask them to look in on Fang. No problem there, either. In fact, to Robbie's delight, Leila said she'd pick up the cat that afternoon and bring her to stay with them for a few days. Hamlin wasn't in the office, but Grace told Storm she'd tell him to call her that evening, then teased Storm about recruiting clients from the surf crowd.

Storm dropped onto the sofa with a happy sigh and put her feet up on the coffee table. Grace might be onto something there.

Ten minutes later, Storm was paddling toward a cluster of surfers on modest waves just down the beach from the cottage. It looked so appealing she couldn't resist. The waves weren't scary, and the people on them looked even less experienced than she.

Once she got to the break, she found that the small cluster of surfers was actually a class made up of high school-aged students. Their conscientious and serious instructor was Goober, who waved a greeting at Storm, then went back to holding a big, wide board steady for a chunky, laughing kid.

Storm went out a little farther, so as not to distract Goober or his students, and stood up easily on the first wave she tried to catch. After a half hour or so of working on technique, she caught the second wave of an incoming set. Three of the students had caught the first wave, which was what she'd anticipated, and Goober sat on his board, watching their progress. When she went by, she attempted a cutback. Though she blew it and fell off, she was where she wanted to be and popped out of the water not far from Goober.

“I didn't know you taught surfing,” she said.

He looked a bit sheepish and cast his eyes around to see if anyone was within hearing distance. “The guys hate it.”

“Your surfing buddies? Why?”

“We tie up breaks, which pisses 'em off. Plus, no one in this group can turn, so they can be a little dangerous sometimes. Watch out, okay?”

“These waves are a bit small for your friends, aren't they?”

“Yeah, but there've been some clashes.”

“Everyone's got to start sometime. And you're helping these kids have fun.”

“Helps me pay the bills.”

Goober waved his students over and Storm let herself drift to the other end of the break. Soon after, Goober led his students to the beach. Storm was the only person on the water, and she let herself take a few more risks. The waves were perfect for attempting to shift her weight from rail to rail of the board and for practicing turns on the face of the wave. After three or four short, experimental tries, she got a long ride on a perfect, glassy wave. When the wave closed out into white water, she was still standing on the board, and was within a hundred yards of shore. She knew she could hardly end on a better ride than that, and dropped to her stomach to paddle the rest of the way in.

Goober was collecting his fees and seeing the last of his students off.

“Wait up,” Storm called to him.

He turned to her. “Yeah?”

“You going to meet your friends at a bigger break?”

He pushed sand around with his feet. “No, I've gotta meet some people.”

“Have you seen Nahoa?” she asked.

Goober shook his head. “Ben was asking about him, too. Haven't seen him for a coupla days.”

“He's got a girlfriend, now, doesn't he?”

She could see a dead tooth in Goober's sly half smile. “Which one?”

“Ben mentioned someone named Sunny. Who else is there?”

“How would I know?”

“Come on, my aunt wants me to find him. I don't care who he's seeing, and I won't tell anyone.”

Goober exhaled noisily. “I don't know her name. Just some old squeeze who started calling him again.”

“You know Sunny, right?”

“Everyone knows Sunny. She's a babe and a good surfer.”

“Did you know Ken Matsumoto?”

Goober answered with deliberate nonchalance. “Enough to say hello.” With a little smirk, he shrugged and walked away.

Storm watched him amble off. She'd hoped to find out if Matsumoto had received a package, but Goober wasn't giving up information, and whether the reason was social awkwardness or some other problem, she sensed that the young man had closed down to questions.

His figure grew smaller against the backdrop of trees. Although being in the ocean makes a person feel clean, purified even, Goober gave Storm the impression he hadn't used soap for a long time. Though he knew she still stood where he'd left her, he walked over the sand embankment toward the highway without looking back.

Chapter Twelve

Steve O'Reilly woke up Wednesday with a dagger of sunlight slashing through the gap in his bedroom drapes directly into his throbbing eyeballs. He rolled over with a groan, then sat up suddenly with an onslaught of beer-induced borborygmi that sent him scuttling to the toilet, glad he'd awakened alone.

By the time he got to Waimea Bay Beach Park, where he'd told Barstow he'd meet him and the two guys who wanted to discuss the permits for the upcoming meet, he was a half hour late. He found that Barstow had arrived an hour earlier than the meeting after jogging from his Sunset Beach cottage. Then, O'Reilly discovered, Barstow had borrowed someone's board and gone out to test the incoming swell. Asshole acted like he'd gone to bed with the birds.

O'Reilly burped a coffee-tinged, burning eruption. Of course, he'd stayed up for a few after Barstow had left. And this morning he'd used a couple lines he'd scored from one of the surfers to help him out the door. Now he felt like something the ocean would abandon on the sand when the tide went out.

O'Reilly looked around at the beach, which was pretty damned pristine, and felt a chill. No, the ocean didn't waste much. Uncle Whitey would take care of any drifting dead stuff, wouldn't he? Sometimes it wasn't even dead.

“Huh?” Barstow had been talking to him and O'Reilly hadn't heard a word.

“Steve, this is Garret Tasake and Bob Waterson. Garret works for the State of Hawaii Department of Land and Natural Resources. He'll get our permit for the use of the near-shore waters. Bob's with the Honolulu Department of Parks and Recreation, so he can guide us through the red tape for the beach permit.”

“Hey.” O'Reilly pumped both of their hands and ignored Barstow's second glance. “Thanks for helping us out.”

Tasake spoke up. “You're okay with beach permits, but you know that any member of a tow-in team has to take a six-hour course at an accredited institution? And tow-in surfers are only allowed to go out when the National Weather Service has declared a high-surf day.”

Barstow spoke up. “What are you saying? That means anyone not already accredited would have to be here a day before the contest begins.”

“At least.”

“Shit.” Barstow hit one fist into his palm, then squinted at Tasake. “Okay, then. That'll only be a couple of people, but could I count on you to get them set up with the class they need?”

“I'll give you the name of the guy, and he'll tell you what the fee is,” Tasake said.

“I figured. Hope he goes for a group rate.”

Tasake shrugged. That part was out of his hands.

The two men left after setting up a couple more meetings, and Barstow turned to O'Reilly. “You awake yet?” The cords stood out in his neck and he bit off the words.

O'Reilly stood up straighter. “I heard 'em. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning, Sunset Elementary School.” He looked down on Barstow and hoped the guy didn't piss him off. They were too far into this.

Barstow narrowed his eyes. “Good. I want this meet to happen without any fuck-ups.”

“Hey, me too. But there are always fuck-ups, buddy. It's how we deal with them that counts.”

Barstow looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Right.”

O'Reilly put his arm on Barstow's shoulder. “What's driving you in this?”

Barstow moved away, so that O'Reilly's arm dropped off. “What do you mean?”

“You know, your motivation. What's pushing you?” O'Reilly squinted at him. “You know my story. I need the money—hell, I need a job. It's public knowledge I got canned from KZXM. What about you?”

Barstow shrugged. “I'm going through a divorce.”

“Yeah?” O'Reilly kept his eyes on the side of Barstow's face.

Finally Barstow spoke up. “It feels good to be back on the surf scene.”

“Any chance you wanted to be near Ben?”

Barstow kept his eyes on the waves breaking at the mouth of the bay. “Swell's building.”

O'Reilly didn't answer, and a few moments elapsed.

“Yeah, okay. I want to be near Ben. So?”

“It's normal, man. I'd want to be near my kid, too.” O'Reilly nodded. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

Barstow turned to face O'Reilly. “I want Ben to be in the lineup for the Intrepid. If he wants to, that is.”

Now they were getting down to it. People always had an agenda. O'Reilly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don't know, man. We got guys all over the world wanna be in this tow-in. And we've got room for fifteen teams, thirty people. How we gonna fit in another guy, especially a kid who hasn't won a major event yet?”

“He was second last week.”

“True, and he's an up-and-coming competitor, for sure. But that was his first major meet.”

Several long moments elapsed.

“Fine,” Barstow said. “Just don't close your mind to the idea. You know some of the guys we invited will miss their planes or get injured. We'll have a couple of last minute holes to fill.”

“Okay. I'll keep an open mind.” O'Reilly knew it was time to change the subject. “You had a chance to touch base with that guy Gabe Watson about getting the guys we need to help out with the logistics of a tow-in?”

“Yeah.” Barstow rolled his eyes. “He's a real water stud. You know—lifeguard, runs a surf school concession, related to half the families in Haleiwa. And guess what? He's the guy who runs the course for jet-ski accreditation, too.”

“Your favorite type, eh? You think he's a member of the Blue Shorts?”

“Let's just say he offered to keep the beach clear of surfers during the holding period.”

“Anything else?”

Barstow's lip curled in a half-smile. “Yeah, he wants to be in the line-up.”

“Shit. Was he on your list?”

“No, but I think I'll give him a shot at it if he'll partner up with Nahoa Pi‛ilani.”

“Did you tell him that?”

Barstow shook his head. “Not yet. Let him knock himself out first.” And Barstow grinned. It reminded O'Reilly of a tiger shark.