Aloha, Candy Hearts (3 page)

Or at least the last seventy-two hours of it.

The telephone call had been unexpected. There are no sweeter six words than: come to Hawaii for the weekend. With the possible exception of: Your ticket is paid for, Russell. That’s when the cyclone first hit. After that, it was such a whirlwind, I hadn’t even been aware that I was being swept off my feet—until those final six words: Russell Quant, will you marry me?

We were staying on Waikiki beach in Oahu, at the plush Halekulani Hotel. Halekulani means “House Befitting Heaven.”

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And from what I’d seen so far, I was so becoming an angel. Our days began with boogie boarding or kayaking in the mornings.

Afterwards we’d grab a bite at House Without a Key, the hotel’s outdoor gathering place immortalized by the Charlie Chan novel of the same name. Then it was time for lazing on the beach or around the pool with its stunning orchid mosaic. In the early evening, after cleaning up, we’d return to House Without a Key, wearing our tropical whites and shirts that billowed in the perfect breeze and find a spot under the kiawe shade tree. From that glorious place, we’d sip on surprisingly strong Mai Tais (regular ice, not crushed), watch the sunset, and enjoy the hula of a former Miss Hawaii. This wasn’t the hip-rattle-roll stuff you get at the tourist luaus either. This was graceful hula, accompanied by ukulele, steel guitar, slack key, and the lilting falsetto vocals unique to traditional Hawaiian music. Later we’d have dinner at popular eating spots like Keo’s or Alan Wong’s. But tonight, the eating experience had been ratcheted up a notch or two.

We were dining at La Mer, on the second floor of the hotel. The menu featured “neo-classic French” cuisine. I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked it all the same. I liked it a lot. It might have been the champagne they served us before our butts were even in our chairs. Or the unimpeded view of Waikiki beach, the Pacific Ocean, and Diamond Head. Or the fact that they brought a little stool just to set my camera on. Or maybe it was the fillet of opaka-paka baked in rosemary salt crust. And still, despite it all, I was completely oblivious to the portentousness of all this luxury and excess. I thought he was just really happy to see me.

Then came THE QUESTION.

Even though I never took my green eyes off his cocoa brown ones, I was acutely aware of our waiter, Raymond, standing not far off. He’d obviously been in on the whole thing. I could feel his ear-to-ear grin even though I couldn’t see it. And I was pretty sure a few neighbouring diners were also monitoring the drama at our table. How could they resist? Two well-dressed men seated at the best table in the house, a tropical paradise as our backdrop, the sul-try haziness of too much, too-expensive wine that begs close acquaintance from perfect strangers, romantic island music, one of DD6AA2AB8

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Anthony Bidulka

us with a ring in his hand and hopeful look on his face, the other with a wide open mouth and shock on his (that would be me).

For a second I looked away. At Raymond. He gave me an encouraging nod. My eyes fell back on Alex Canyon. I gave him my answer.

“Yes.”

I had a couple of hours to kill at the Honolulu International Airport after seeing Alex off on his flight to Australia before my own flight home to Canada. Alex is a private and corporate security specialist and had been working a job in Melbourne for the past couple of months. Hawaii had been playing the role of handy halfway point for our not-regular-enough liaisons. It was going to be weeks before we saw each other again. That seemed like a good enough reason to head for the nearest bar to drown my sorrows.

The place had a name, I’m sure, but I decided to call it Hawaiian Kitsch. It was stuffed to the rafters with everything Hawaiian, from surfboards to drinks served in fake coconuts. It was also stuffed with haole (non-Hawaiian) customers. It seemed everyone was desperate to get one last hit of island flavour before they returned to their real lives, sadly lacking in plumeria leis, grass skirts, and kalua pig burgers. There wasn’t even an empty stool at the bar to be had. My eyes jumped from table to table assessing whether anyone was about to leave. It didn’t look that way, so I decided to forgo the drink and simply find a comfy spot near my gate and dig into the Josh Lanyon book I’d been saving for the plane.

This far ahead of departure, I had plenty of choice spots to pick from, and selected one with a good view of the tarmac. Even tarmacs in Hawaii somehow manage to look tranquil and tropical. I settled in with a bottle of water (poor replacement for a double gin and tonic) and a bag of the licorice I always keep in my carry-on.

Half an hour later, having difficulty concentrating on my book with my head full of this and that, I heard loud voices. Someone wasn’t happy. I looked around to find the source, half-thinking I wanted to shoot them an irritated look for interrupting my non-DD6AA2AB8

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reading. What I found were three guys, about a hundred metres off: two Hawaiians and a haole.

One Hawaiian was much smaller than the other two guys, short and wiry, with a tortoise-like face, and looking extremely jumpy. He was the one doing all the caterwauling. The other two were showing him something—ID maybe? Weapons?—and I guessed they were either some kind of airport security or the Hawaiian version of mafia hit men. From my experience as a once-upon-a-time-cop, and something about the stance of the two big guys, I was betting on the former. Either way, things did not look so good for the tortoise.

And just like that, the jittery-looking guy took advantage of a passing parade of Japanese tourists, and, using them as a shield, made a dash for it, heading my way.

I heard a muffled “Stop! Police!” come from one of the pursuers, temporarily waylaid by the tourists. I instinctually leapt to action. Things were happening so fast, I didn’t have much time to make plans, other than to decide I had to do what I could to stop the fleeing man. He was barrelling (not very tortoise-like) toward me at breakneck speed. I was either going to have to get into a footrace with him through the airport terminal, or find a way to stop him.

I never made the high school football team. It wouldn’t have been difficult, though, growing up in Howell, Saskatchewan. Most graduating classes numbered under a dozen, and were half female, a statistic that practically guaranteed a spot for anyone who wanted to suit up. But despite being built as sturdy as a tree by grade nine, it just wasn’t for me, so I never tried out. But, from my days at the police academy, I do know a thing or two about tackling goons.

My airport runaway was moving too fast to assure a quick takedown from behind. Instead, I needed to break his momentum.

That’s the thing about speed—the faster you’re moving forward, the faster you go down when you meet with an obstacle. I decided to be that obstacle.

Timing myself as carefully as I could, with bowed head and hunched back, I propelled myself into tortoise’s path.

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He never saw me coming. I felt the man’s body fold over mine as I rolled over the floor, and looked up just in time to see two legs flailing in the air. Success!

I’d barely come to a stop before the two cops were on the guy like icing on cake. For big fellows they moved like cheetahs. In one slick move, the haole had the smaller guy up and in cuffs, while his partner pushed his nose into the tortoise face and said some words that probably weren’t very nice.

I stood up and was brushing myself off when I saw the Hawaiian cop coming over.

“Hey,” he said as he approached, his dark eyes covering every inch of me.

He was tall, well-built, and casually dressed for a cop, in nice fitting jeans and a worn, surfer ’s T-shirt, the kind The Gap sold to kids who’d probably never been on a board. But something told me this guy was one-hundred-percent authentic. And he certainly wasn’t a kid. The face was handsome, and on closer inspection didn’t look all Hawaiian after all; there was some other influence in his exotic features. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Nice lips. I only noticed the lips because I thought I detected a slight grin there.

“I’m sorry,” I said, palms out. “I know I shouldn’t have interfered. It’s just that I used to be a cop.”

The guy cocked an eyebrow. “Instinct, right?”

I nodded. “Yup. Never goes away, I guess.”

Surprising me, he reached out and took my left hand in his. Aw crap. Was I gonna get a set of stainless steel bracelets for all my trouble? Was I about to share a cell with tortoise man?

Instead, the cop turned my hand palm up and inspected a scrape I must have gotten from my tumble.

“You need some medical attention.”

“Nah, nah,” I said looking at the wound. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just clean it up in the bathroom.”

“Uh, if you’re done chit-chatting over there,” the other cop called over with a funny look in his eye, “maybe you could pay some attention to the perp we got over here?”

The Hawaiian released my hand and shot his partner a well-DD6AA2AB8

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practiced look of annoyance just as the other officer ’s radio bleeped for his attention.

“You’ll have to excuse Ray,” the Hawaiian said. “He’s not real good in public.”

I smiled. He smiled back. I felt an odd tingle in some odd spots and inwardly chastised myself. I really needed that drink.

“Thanks for giving us a hand with Huei. He must have forgotten that the Honolulu police frown on people leaving the island when we have an arrest warrant with their name on it.”

“Maybe his memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“That must be it.”

“Hey, Kimo,” the other cop said as he dragged a sullen-looking Huei closer. “That was the chief. One of us gotta hang out here to unruffle the feathers of some airport guys who wanna know why we’re disturbing their passengers. They say they’ll be right down.

Which probably means half an hour. You wanna do that while I take in our friend here?”

Kimo winced at the idea, but nodded. “But I’m only waiting ten minutes. After that I’m heading for the surf.”

Ray grunted agreement and led his charge away.

“Looks like I’ve got a few minutes to wait,” Kimo said. “Can I buy you a coffee to thank you for your heroics?”

I could tell he wasn’t exactly serious about the “heroics” part, but who was I to turn down coffee with a handsome surfer dude cop?

After scoring a couple of drinks from a nearby vendor, we returned to where I’d left my stuff and took spots next to one another.

“Let me see,” Kimo began in serious earnestness, “you’re at the airport, you have a carry-on, I see a ticket in your pocket; my supe-rior detecting skills tell me you’re heading home.”

I laughed. “Yeah. I can see you must be one of Hawaii’s best and brightest.”

He smiled easily. “Where’s home for you?” he asked.

“Saskatchewan.”

He tried to repeat the name of the province. He blundered badly, but with a pleasing boyish smirk that made up for it.

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“It’s a tough one,” I allowed.

“I can relate,” he said. “With a name like Kimo Kanapa’aka.”

I felt obliged to try it out. It came out something like: Kimokalawakala. I grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Just Kimo is okay.”

“I’m Russell. Russell Quant.”

We each took a sip of our coffees while regarding the other with inquiring eyes. That done, we put our cups on our laps and tried out matching silly grins. We were strangers cast together unexpectedly but somehow drawn to one another. The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I didn’t care. There was something immediately likeable about this guy.

“I’m glad to see you smile,” he finally said. “I was thinking you looked a little miserable when I first saw you. I hate to see anyone leaving Hawaii without a big, fat grin on his face.”

“Could have been because I was on the ground after tackling your bad guy.”

“Nah, brah, it was before that. I noticed you when we were staking out the terminal looking for Huei.”

Had Mr. Hawaiian surfer dude, he-man cop been checking me out? “Oh really?”

“We were about to apprehend a criminal,” he explained, possibly having read my mind. “As a former policeman, I’m sure you know that in a situation like that, a good cop is always fully aware of his surroundings and exactly who and what is around him.”

“Oh,” I said, a little disappointed. “Of course.”

“So why were you sitting here looking so miserable? Bad book?”

He really had been fully aware of me and what I’d been doing.

I was impressed. “I wasn’t miserable, really.” I told him. “Just a little bummed out. I won’t see my…fiancé…” The word felt weird coming from my mouth, as if I‘d just made it up. “…for a few weeks. So I guess I’m a little sad about that.”

Kimo bobbed his head in an empathetic gesture. “That’s too bad. How come? Your ku’uipo from here then? That why you won’t see her, she lives here?”

“She’s a he,” I told him, followed by a sip of coffee.

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The man’s eyebrows rose over his eyes.

I shrugged and grinned. “Yeah, that’s right,” I said, “I’m Canadian.”

After a beat, he grinned back and said, “Me too.”

I realized what he was really telling me. He was a gay Hawaiian surfer dude, he-man cop. Very cool. We clinked coffee cups and drank a toast.

“Where’s the wedding gonna be?” he asked. “Here on the island maybe?”