Hooked Up: Book 2 (53 page)

She had a point.
“That, mademoiselle, is a very uncalled for and rude accusation!”

She put the plates on the table. “I know more about men than you think.” She blew air out of her lips—pouting while she spoke.

“Elodie, I thought you were meant to be going to art college this fall, anyway, not traveling about and wasting your time.” I served up our omelets and sat down.

“Next year.”

“Don’t procrastinate.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“And cool it with the cocky attitude, okay?”

She gave me a salute. “Okay, sir!”

Elodie was right. I had the bastard gene in my DNA. What was I playing at? All this,
Let Pearl come to me,
was bullshit. I loved Pearl. Damn it, I couldn’t be happy without her. I was going to go and find her, whether she was ready or not. I was so in love with Pearl Robinson, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

We belonged together, and I didn’t want to spend one more day without her. I’d already wasted enough time.

S
O HERE I WAS at my father’s, in his romantic house made of bamboo, away from the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, away from the aftermath of my messed-up life. “At least you’re still
alive,
” Anthony reminded me. “And not, as you feared,” he said, “some victim of Sophie’s.” Perhaps he had a point.

I thought about Sophie a lot. Mulled over everything. Maybe Alexandre was right . . . I was paranoid, being unfair. I’d watched too much
Dexter
and
CSI
on TV. Whatever, I’d made my bed and had to lie in it now. He didn’t want me back. I could hear it in his voice when we had spoken. Businesslike. Polite, but cold. Unemotional. How it killed me to hear him talk to me that way.

Now I spent the days looking at the ocean, watching the waves rise and fall, listening to the surf and sound of birds. I had penned several letters to Alexandre. Not emails, but real letters on paper. But they ended up in the trash, crumpled up—like my thoughts, confused, shocked, as if the last five months had been one long dream, as if this phantom Frenchman never existed at all, that he was just a figment of my imagination.

Speaking of dreams, I was possessed. Not by needle-dick and company. No. That seemed to be over. I was possessed, obsessed by Alexandre. Not only did he occupy my thoughts in the waking hours, but when I closed my eyes too. Constantly there. He was in my subconscious, my conscious, flowing through my veins, beating in my heart. He was everywhere. I saw his peridot-green eyes sparkling with happiness, looking down on me while I slept. But when I opened my lids, there was emptiness; my soul like a void of black, a deep, dark cavern of misery. Misery I had brought upon myself.

I had been trying to reach Laura all this time. I even asked Elodie if she could get her number for me, I was that desperate. She gave it to me. I left Laura a message but she still hadn’t called back. I needed answers. Was Alexandre just in denial? Denial about how crazy Sophie was, or was he speaking the truth? Whatever, I realized that I was no match for his beloved sister. As Anthony had pointed out, I was the water and she was the blood. Ironic that.
Blood is
thicker than water
didn’t exist in French, yet Alexandre was taking every word of that to heart, polishing each letter of that phrase like a soldier polishing his boots. Until it gleamed and shone like a mirror.
Blood is thicker than water.

“What’s up, Pearl?” I nearly jumped out of my skin, but it was only my dad coming up behind me. He laid his warm hands on my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. “You’ve been very silent lately, sweetie, very introvert—that’s not like you at all.”

I turned around, holding one of his hands on my now bony shoulder—I could hardly eat lately. “I’m sorry Dad, sorry I’m being so dull and boring.”

I regarded his handsome, rugged face. His sand-blond hair fell limp about his high cheekbones, his crow’s feet etched in hard lines about his dark blue eyes that revealed a man who had lived life. Suffered and pushed himself to the limits. His face was a map. He had a reckless air about him, mixed with a soft vulnerability that made him hard to resist. I thought about Natalie and saw how she must have fallen head over heels in love with him, but ran because she needed to protect herself. Running . . . that’s what I was good at too. Dad could break a heart because you wanted more from him, and he wasn’t able to give more. He was a self-absorbed person, yet kind and caring. Self-absorbed, because it was hard to penetrate his shell.
What is he thinking?
she must have wondered,
why can’t he open up?

“It’s time you learned how to surf,” he said in his deep voice.

God he was handsome. I supposed I wasn’t meant to notice things like that because he was my father, but I wasn’t blind. Natalie must have been crazy about him, however much she was in denial.

“What happened between you and Natalie?” I asked, ignoring the surf request. He had been pushing that one on me for as long as I could remember.

“I tried, sweetie, I tried.”

“Why did she come running back to New York so soon, then? What did you do?”

He let out a sigh. “The way I see it? She was scared. Scared by her strong feelings for me. Natalie is a woman who has always been in control of situations. She’s a tough businesswoman, a negotiator. She wanted to negotiate me, didn’t want to lose herself in me.”

I was doing the same to Alexandre. Negotiating. Negotiating about Sophie. It was interesting to hear a man’s point of you on how some women behaved.

“So you were hard on her?” I asked.

“Not at all. I felt that she was trying to manipulate me into being somebody I wasn’t.”

“She’s so beautiful,” I said.

“She’s that, alright.”

I frowned. “Poor thing. Hurricane Sandy has really knocked the wind out of her. I was going to go back to New York to help her in any way I could, but she wants just to be with her family.”

My dad answered sadly, “I’ve called her several times to try and comfort her, but I guess she’s just not willing to talk about it. She still won’t return my calls.”

I sat there pensively, his hands still cupping my shoulders. The view of Hanalei Bay was spectacular: a hilly carpet of emerald green stretching to the deep blue of the ocean ahead. Coconut palms swayed like ballet dancers in the gentle breeze, and a cockerel crowed for the fourth time in a row. An early morning mist was rising almost like smoke it was so thick, dissipating into the air as it ascended into the cobalt blue of ice-clear sky. It was just after dawn. As usual, I couldn’t sleep and my father had gotten up early so he could get in some surf time.

“Come with me, honey. Come and surf. Surfing will clear your mind, it’s the zen of life. Surf and all your troubles will melt away.”

“It’s your addiction, isn’t it?”

“It’s my sanity, Pearl.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

And then he did something that he had never done before with me. His voice deepened into a commanding, strict tone. He suddenly sounded like an old-fashioned father from the Victorian age who might spank his children or put them to bed with no supper. “No, Pearl. I’ve had enough of you moping around like some lovesick, surly teenager. You are
coming surfing
and that’s the bottom line.” He clutched my hand and pulled me up out of my chair with a strong jerk.

I stood there stupefied.

He barked, “You are my
daughter
and I’m going to make you a surfer, once and for all. When you next see that French boyfriend of yours you can show him just how good you are. Give him something to be impressed about. You think he’d like to see you as you’ve been all week, hunched over in that chair staring at waves all day long? Or making work calls? No, honey, he was attracted to an active girl full of
joie de vivre
when he met you, a woman who went rock-climbing on that first date. Show him what you’re made of.”

“It’s no good, Dad. It’s over between us. He doesn’t want me now. He’s not going to give me another chance.”

“Nonsense. You’re coming surfing, young lady. Soon you won’t even be brooding about him anymore anyway, you’ll have better things to occupy your mind.”

I pulled back but he kept yanking me toward him. “Besides, have you seen the talent out there?” he went on. “Have you set eyes on the bodies along that beach?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, still surprised by his sudden air of authority.

“There are, like, at least ten dudes on that beach who are good enough to compete around the world. You think your French guy is handsome and can surf? Wait until you set your eyes on this bunch of kids.”

“Kids?”

“There are some good-looking young men out there, some in their late twenties, early thirties—perfect for you if you’re attracted to younger guys—a few of them interesting too. Everybody thinks surfers are dumb, but we’re not, we have the key to the secret treasure box, the potion to the essence of life.”

I’d heard all this before, but I listened anyway. I watched him as he continued his spiel.

“Meanwhile, most other people out there are too busy running about in a rat-race in some concrete jungle somewhere, so preoccupied with ‘ambition’ and getting ahead that they can’t appreciate what real living is all about. We surfers know: we have the wisdom.” He told me this with an ironic smile, although what he said he truly believed from the bottom of his heart.

“Surfers with brains?” I teased, although my dad was extremely smart. He could tell you anything about philosophy or astronomy and was an ace at mathematics. You wouldn’t have known it, though. At first sight he was so startlingly ‘cool’ and so buffed-up, you’d take him for . . . for what? An old hippie? No, he was too in shape for that, his eyes too focused. An ex-bodyguard? No, he was too graceful, too ethereal. Who was he? I wondered to myself. I observed the flexing of his biceps as he turned his surfboard upside down. His fifty-nine year-old body could have passed for thirty-five. A thirty-five year-old in great shape, no less.

I reflected on what Alexandre had said about living in a tree house and wondered,
Is that what my dad is doing, basically
? Not that his bamboo house was a shack, no—it was pretty state-of-the-art and modern; he had designed and built it himself. But living the simple life, no frills, no “needs.” He didn’t care about the car he drove, or impressing anyone. He was who he was and he made no excuses for himself.

He squinted his eyes as he gazed at my left hand. My engagement ring was making reflections, twinkling in the morning light. “But take that rock off your finger, first,” he told me, “or it could get washed away with the pull of the surf. I have a safe deposit box in the house, you can put it in there.” I was still wearing the ring even though it was officially over between Alexandre and me, as if the ring was a symbol of hope that somehow everything would work itself out. He’d refused to take it back. So I carried it about on my finger like a wish.

My dad and I left the porch to its spectacular view and went inside. My father taking me in hand the way he was doing was almost a relief. I didn’t have to think anymore; he could do my thinking for me. Isn’t that what parents are for sometimes? To ease the pain? To shake you out of a stupor?

“Change into a whole piece swimsuit or you could scratch your belly on the board,” he advised me, waxing up his surfboard.

“All I have is that bright red Baywatch-type thing from years ago.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

I raised my eyebrows. “I’ll look like a Pamela Anderson wannabe. I’ll attract attention.”

“You’ll attract attention no matter what, honey. They all want to meet you.”

“
What?”

“You think it’s normal that you live by the ocean and you’ve been tucked up in hiding in this house for nearly ten days? Every morning when I go down, the boys are asking where you are. They’re curious. Curious to meet my only daughter. Besides, I need your help at the shop today. We’ll surf all morning, have lunch, and then you can help me organize my bookkeeping. Your lady of leisure days are over, Pearl. From now on, it’s hang out in my shop, surf, or swim. No more moping about. Is that a deal?”

“Okay, it’s a deal,” I agreed, and then my mouth broke into a huge grin.

“That’s better. That’s what I want to see. I want to see that big, beautiful smile of yours.”

T
HE SURFER GUYS were really friendly and greeted me with a warm welcome, as if the top of the hill where my father lived were on a different planet. Their dedication to the surf was as forceful as the Pacific waves, unrelenting—they didn’t venture far from the bay during the day.

My surf lesson began on the sand itself, and then once in the ocean, I found out that “paddle” was the magic word. With my torso pressed on the board, I paddled with my arms, feverishly out to sea, and was then spun around by my father at the right moment to catch the wave and ride it to the shore. The idea was to stand up on the board as soon as possible. Easy on land, but next to impossible with a fast-moving, crashing wave. I did several tries, toppling over immediately into the water, each try more exhausting than the last, especially after the paddling; my arms and shoulders felt as if they were about to snap off, but in the end, after a long morning, I got there and managed to ride the wave upright on my shaky legs all the way to the beach.

“Not bad for your first try,” my father said approvingly. “Not bad at all.”

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this, Dad,” I said, looking off to the green mountains in the distance and then back at him. “It’s really hard, all that paddling, I’m wiped out. No wonder you surfers have such big pecs and biceps.”

“It’s just a question of building up your stamina, honey, that’s all. What do you make of the kids here? Anyone that takes your fancy?” he asked, gesticulating at the guys expertly riding the waves.

“Where are all the girls? The women surfers?” I replied.

“They’re about, just not today. Shame Zac’s not here, he’s a great teacher. Sometimes it’s best when someone who isn’t next of kin shows you the ropes,” he told me with a playful grin.