Not Always Happenstance (Power of the Matchmaker) Read online

  “What? Wait up.” Easton jogged to catch up and fell into step beside her. “Why are we going now if it started hours ago?”

  “It’s been going on all day, but I have something called a job that I couldn’t leave until now.” She cursed her wayward heart for skipping a beat every time his shoulder brushed against hers. The gravel path was wide. Why did he have to walk so close? Why did he have to smell like ivory soap mixed with a tantalizing, sporty-scented aftershave?

  She turned her head into the breeze and took a long whiff of the white hibiscus, trying to clear her senses.

  When they arrived at her grandmother’s once-red 1988 Chevy LUV, Easton said, “We can take my rental if you want.”

  “Ahe’s family won’t recognize your car, so it’ll be easier to take this. Parking is going to be a little crazy.”

  Easton nodded, waited for her to climb inside, then closed her door and jogged around to the other side. She already had her window rolled down by the time he’d hopped in beside her.

  She turned the key, and the powerful engine roared to life. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Not sure yet. Any suggestions?”

  “That all depends on what you and your laptop do together.”

  He chuckled. “I type. It responds. We repeat.”

  “What do you type?” She raised her voice to be heard above the car. “Numbers? Letters? Characters?”

  “Mostly letters and words. Sentences. Paragraphs. That sort of thing.”

  At least he was sort of answering her questions today, Lani thought as she reversed the truck. “So you’re a writer.”

  “Yes.”

  She shot him a quick sideways look before turning onto the highway. “That wasn’t so hard to say, was it?”

  “Actually, it was. I had to force the words out in a painful, torturous way. Please don’t ask me anything else or my mouth might not be able to handle it.”

  She ignored him, keeping her eyes on the road. “What sort of writer? Oh wait, let me guess. You’re a novelist. You have a deadline to meet by the end of the summer and you’ve chosen Hāna as the place to inspire that future New York Times bestselling tale. Am I right?”

  He’d rolled down his window, and his arm hung outside, his hand rising and dipping in the wind. “You’ll take away all my fun if you make me admit it out loud.”

  Lani shot him another look, trying to read his expression. “You’re really a novelist?” It made sense. Why would anyone choose to spend their entire summer in such an out-of-the-way place as Hāna unless they wanted a location that was quiet and remote? “Or maybe you’re on the run from some sort of law enforcement agency,” Lani said. “Hāna is a good place to hide if you don’t want to be found.”

  “Personally, I think you should be the novelist. You’ve obviously got a great imagination.”

  “Seriously,” she said. “You’re really a writer?”

  “I really am. And, believe it or not, I do have an important end-of-summer deadline looming.” His words sounded genuine, and his tone held a hint of stress, as though the deadline was coming faster than he wanted it to come.

  “What sort of stories do you write?” she asked. “Fantasy? Sci-Fi? Suspense? Horror? No wait—you write romance, don’t you? That would explain why you’re so secretive about it.”

  He chuckled. “You figured me out. I am a closet romance novelist.”

  “No really. What do you write?” Lani was genuinely interested. The only other writer she’d ever met was a little woman from Iowa who had come to Hāna to work on a memoir. She’d been much more open than Easton, and her life had been fascinating.

  “A little of this, a little of that.” His hand was back inside the car, playing with the handles of the plastic sack he carried.

  “What would happen if I googled the name ‘Easton Allard’?”

  “You’d find nada, which I’m sure you already know.”

  Lani rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. I haven’t googled your name, nor will I.”

  “Ouch. Your honesty, while refreshing, is doing very cruel things to my ego.” His twitching lips showed that he hadn’t taken it too hard.

  She forged on, “Well, if Google doesn’t know about you, then you must not have a social media presence, which I can’t believe. So that means you probably write under a different name.”

  “Ding, ding, ding.” Easton grinned. “You nailed it again. I’m an infamous, closet-romance-writing, fraud. Whew. I’m glad that’s out of the way. Can we still be friends?”

  She lifted an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “Is he well known?”

  “Who?”

  “Your pen name.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged, returning his attention to the view of the coast out his window. “He. She. Does it matter? Will you only be my friend if my alter-ego is famous?”

  The wind whipped Lani’s hair into her face. She pushed it aside and glanced at Easton’s profile, trying to figure out how much of what he’d said was fact or fiction. Was he really a novelist? Somehow, the profession fit, so Lani decided to take his cryptic word for it. Writers travelled. Writers migrated toward remote locations. Writers—or at least bestselling writers—made decent money, didn’t they? That’s why he could afford to travel so much?

  She really had no idea.

  Regardless, it made sense like nothing else had since she’d met him.

  “What’s your pen name?” she asked.

  A moment of silence met her question before he answered. “Only a handful of people will ever know that—my mom, dad, siblings, and future bride. Since you’ve made it clear you’re already taken, well… sorry.”

  Lani swiped away the hair that had blown into her mouth and smiled. “I’m glad you finally understand that. I was worried you never would.”

  She could feel his gaze on her profile, watching, assessing, and thinking. And then he said, “So where is this Derek guy, and why hasn’t he hopped on that plane you mentioned and put a ring on your finger? What’s he waiting for?”

  Lani glanced at the fourth finger on her left hand, the one Derek’s ring would soon circle. It suddenly felt as though it was already there, but way too tight and cutting off her circulation. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel one after another, like she was playing a simple tune on the piano, then clenched together and released.

  What was wrong with her? Most girls dreamed of the day a handsome man would slip a beautiful diamond ring on their finger. Why couldn’t Lani feel the giddiness, the excitement, the joy? Why wasn’t she ordering bridal magazines, making wedding plans, and thinking of flowers and bridesmaids and cake?

  “Well?” Easton said, reminding her that she’d left him hanging.

  She drew in a breath. “He was here. Last week. That’s when he proposed, and I agreed to move back to California at the end of the summer. We’ll make it official once I get there.”

  “So when you said the ring was coming by plane, what you really meant was you’re the one who will be traveling by plane.”

  “Ding, ding, ding,” she mimicked.

  His attention returned to the passing trees that hid Hāna Bay from sight. “Know what else you said?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re not officially engaged.” Even though she couldn’t see his face, she heard the all’s-fair-until-it’s-official smile in his voice, and the sound of it felt more constricting and unsettling than the imagined ring on her finger.

  “Who’s the haole?” asked a large, Polynesian man from his perch on the log next to a fire pit, directing the question at Lani. With black, curly hair that hung below his ears and shoulders the size of a linebacker’s, he didn’t have to stand for Easton to know he was tall. The ukulele he held looked more like a child’s toy than a legitimate instrument, and the wary expression on his face told Easton that he’d taken an instant dislike to the newcomer. On either side of him sat three other men, one wider, one narrower, and one completely bald.

 
; Behind the group was a swarm of Polynesians, and next to several tables coated in food, two men were digging up what Easton assumed was a kalua—an underground oven. He watched with interest while breathing in the tantalizing smell of barbeque.

  “Which haole are you talking about, Ahe?” said Lani. “Him or me?”

  That brought a smile to Ahe’s face. He set down the instrument and stood, clasping Lani’s shoulders and giving her a peck on the cheek. “Aznuts, Lani. You know you my sistah. What took you so long?”

  “I had to work, which you already know.” She gestured toward Easton. “This is Easton Allard. He’ll be staying at the Halemahina Pumehana for the summer, so I invited him to come along. Easton, this is Ahe, our host, along with Rab, Lajos, and Paavo.”

  “Good to meet you.” Easton held out his hand to be polite, but wasn’t surprised when Ahe ignored it and offered him a head-nod instead. Easton let his hand fall back to his side, wondering how long it had taken Lani to earn the title of sistah. From the way Ahe looked at her with something more than admiration, probably not too long. The woman apparently had more than a few admirers.

  “Where do you want this?” Lani held up the bowl she carried.

  Ahe waved at the tables already packed with food before returning to take a seat next to his friends. Lani left to find a place for her bowl, leaving Easton alone.

  A heavy-set woman in a flowing purple muumuu walked his way, carrying a large bowl of rice. She slowed when she got to Easton. “Aloha. You come with Lani?”

  “I did,” Easton answered. “Can I help you with that?”

  “No, no. I’m okay. What’s that you got there?”

  Easton followed her gaze to the bag he’d almost forgotten he brought.

  He pulled the packages out and smiled. “The cashier at the store mentioned they were a local favorite.”

  “Ah, Starbursts!” The woman smiled in return, revealing a mouthful of white, crooked teeth. Changing her mind about wanting his help, she handed Easton the bowl of rice and clutched the treat to her ample chest. “My favorite. Mahalo.”

  “Mahalo for having me.” Easton figured there would be more than enough food to go around, so he’d brought a few large bags of candy instead. He followed her to a table and waited while she rearranged a few plates and bowls to make room for the rice. As soon as he set it down, she waved him away. “Now go find Lani, eat much, and have fun.”

  Easton shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the throng. Ahe and his friends had left the log and were now carving meat from the roasted pig. Lani stood not far away, chatting with a few women. She gestured for him to join her, which he did, and was soon introduced to more people. Most offered him a friendly “Aloha,” then seemed to forget all about him. Easton wasn’t surprised. It was a tight-knit community built around years, even generations, of connections. He was an outsider.

  Eventually, he and Lani were handed plates and shooed in the direction of the food. After the two months he’d spent in Arcaju, Brazil, without gaining a taste for taro, he knew to stay away from the lau lau and poi, and instead loaded up on rice, kalua pig, Lani’s fruit salad, and malasada—the sugar donut equivalent.

  When his plate could hold no more, Lani led him to a table filled with women, and they sat on the end. She did most of the talking while Easton was content to listen and eat. Halfway through the meal, the woman next to Lani leaned toward him and said, “Where you come from, Easton?”

  He swallowed the food in his mouth before answering. “Boston area.”

  “Boston? Fo real?” Before he could answer, she pointed to another woman and said, “Ho, remember when Taavatti wen go stay Boston and get a rat bite?”

  Laughter erupted up and down the table, and even Lani giggled. Her shoulder touched his as she leaned in to whisper, “A ‘rat bite’ is a really awful haircut. And it was awful. Trust me.”

  It didn’t escape Easton’s notice that Lani had voluntarily touched him. Usually, she shied away, stepped away, or backed away, but not this time. Easton had been aware of everything about Lani since he’d met her. Even now, he couldn’t stop looking at her from the corner of his eyes and appreciating what he saw. The way her dark hair splayed across her collarbone, the way her shoulders trembled when she laughed, and the way her nose turned up a tad at the end. It fit her the way her skirt fit her hips.

  More to test the waters than make conversation, Easton let his shoulder touch hers, “How long did it take you to learn Hawaiian Creole?”

  She looked at him in surprise, not shying away from his touch at all. He held back a smile. Was she actually warming up to him?

  “Here they call it Pidgin.”

  “But it’s not a pidgin, at least not anymore. It started off that way, but over time it’s evolved into more of a creole language.”

  She shifted positions so her shoulder wasn’t touching his anymore. “You’ve obviously done your research.” The way she said it made it sound a bit like censure.

  “I always do my research.” And he did. His e-reader was filled with dozens of books about Hawaii—everything from travel guides to history books to culture. That’s how he’d known he should bring something to contribute to the potluck tonight—preferably something that came from the mainland.

  “Then you should also know that the aloha spirit is very real here. These people are wonderful and good and welcoming. They don’t need—or deserve—a linguistics lesson.”

  Despite the rebuff, Easton’s opinion of Lani rose. He admired her loyalty and how she wasn’t afraid to stand up for her friends. That said, she’d obviously misunderstood his intention.

  “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” said Easton. “I was just trying to impress you with my knowledge.”

  She looked as though she might not believe him. “Kindness impresses me more than intelligence.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Not that you should care about impressing me,” she amended.

  “Oh, but I do, Lokelani,” Easton said in all honesty, unable to resist sweeping back a stray lock of hair from in front of her eye. “I haven’t figured out exactly why yet, but I do.”

  A faint blush appeared on her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, inching another few inches to her right.

  So much for progress.

  Easton forked another pile of kalua pig into his mouth, wondering what it was about Lani that intrigued him. He’d known plenty of beautiful, spirited, and intelligent women, but none had drawn his interest or notice more than her.

  Why? He couldn’t figure it out.

  Eventually someone threw several logs in the pit and started a small fire. In the distance, the sky above Haleakalā was a rich and textured array of blues, purples, yellows, reds, and oranges.

  “Lani, over here!” Ahe’s voice called a few minutes later. He sat with his back facing the sunset, apparently more interested in the beauty in front of him than behind. “You need to sing for us.”

  “I’m eating,” Lani said, picking up the plastic fork that had been resting on her plate for a while.

  Easton felt the need to point that out. “If you’re worried about leaving those last few crumbs, don’t. I’ll take care of them for you.” If Lani could sing, he wanted to hear it.

  “I don’t want to sing.”

  “Oh, sure you do.” He took the fork from her and put it back on her plate, which he then stacked on top of his. “I know how much you love to do things for Ahe. Isn’t that why you wore that skirt? Or was it really for me? Because if that’s the case, I’d rather you stay right here and not sing.”

  Her glare flashed to him before her chin rose and a look of determination crossed her face. She handed him her used napkin and stood, saying nothing as she walked to Ahe’s side and took a seat next to him on the log.

  They exchanged a few words, and Ahe grinned, nodding in approval at her choice of song. Then he began strumming his ukulele. As the first few chords lifted into the air, the men began cheerin
g and the women laughed. Apparently everyone recognized the song but Easton.

  Lani’s eyes connected with his in silent challenge as she began to sing, her voice light and airy.

  Green eyes and light hair can’t woo me

  ’Cause I’m too crazy about the local boys

  You can try, but my heart is steady

  ’Cause the local boys are all killahz.

  Easton chuckled as she sang, liking her spunk and the way the light from the flames danced in her eyes and highlighted her hair. The song wasn’t long—just a few verses—and when it ended the crowd whistled and clapped, then begged for more. Lani tried to stand, but Ahe’s hand captured her wrist, keeping her at his side.

  She conceded. “One more, and that’s it.”

  This time Ahe chose the song, and it was one Easton recognized. “Island Style” by John Cruz. He sat back and folded his arms, his gaze still on Lani. The sunset was nearly gone, pushed away by the dusk settling in and paving the way for darkness to claim the skies. The airiness in Lani’s voice became denser and more beautiful. It swept up and around, quieting voices and commanding attention. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her body swayed as she sang. Others joined in, and a feeling of serenity and camaraderie settled around Easton. It occurred to him that this was the true aloha spirit of Hawaii. He’d read about it, thought he knew what it meant, but now he felt it. The love, the acceptance, the soul-touching joy. It embraced him and everyone else, bonding them together.

  Wanting to capture the moment, Easton pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of Lani.

  When the song ended, the large woman wearing the purple muumuu grasped his shoulders and leaned over him.

  “How you get Lani to sing? She never sings for a crowd.”

  “It was Ahe who got her to sing. Not me.”

  “No. Ahe always teases, and she always says no. But today, you wen say somet’ing, and she sings so pretty. For dat, you always welcome at my table.” She gave his shoulder a solid pat and bustled away.