Chapter 3
“Beauregard Makani.” I hear Lani’s reprimand before she appears in the doorway beside her son. “You were supposed to check on Ophelia, not yell at her.”
I drop the document face down on the console table, sending mental telepathy to Beau to keep his mouth shut. I already regret telling him; I don’t need to increase the pity tally.
Lani off-loads a stack of Tupperware containers into Beau’s arms and leads him back inside with her hand on his elbow. He could easily slip out of her grasp, but Beau is nothing if not an obedient child, even as a grown-ass man in his thirties.
Lani hasn’t aged much in the last several years, other than her long hair that’s grayed to a vibrant silver and pops against her tan skin. Her face is still soft and round, and her smile lines barely hint at the generosity with which she shares her broad grin.
“I wasn’t yelling at her,” Beau grumbles.
Now that they’re both inside, I see Beau’s visit for what it was—a preplanned sneak attack. I’m not proud that I’ve been dodging their daily wellness checks. I appreciate Lani’s care and tenacity, but I haven’t been fit for human contact.
She sighs and looks back and forth between us, her kind face pinched in concern.
“You two. I don’t understand what happened between you, but I should have made you work it out years ago.
” She grabs my hand, connecting the three of us in an awkward triad angled between moving boxes, bags of recycling, and the evidence of my earlier excavation.
I’m worried we’re about to have an intervention in my dad’s dimly lit entryway.
“And you need each other, especially now, with Henry’s death and Beau’s—”
“We’re fine.” Beau cuts her off, giving her a murder signal with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes. “Right, Phe?”
“Right.” I play along, even though Beau just implied I’m a parasite.
I would love to ask him exactly what he meant by that little barb, but I’m even more curious about how Lani was planning to finish her sentence.
Why would Beau possibly need me? His life is a fairy tale.
And years ago, he made it painfully clear he didn’t need me. Didn’t want me.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Lani gestures to the containers stacked high in Beau’s broad arms. “Could you please put those in the fridge?”
Beau gives his mother a sidelong glance before heading toward the kitchen.
Lani wraps me in a hug. “Phe, my love.” She pulls back and takes my face in her hands to kiss both cheeks. “You know, I like your pink hair. It suits you and is so much better than that Cookie Monster blue you had last Thanksgiving.”
Lani shares her opinions as readily as her love, but it’s hard to take offense. She studies me. “But you’re too thin. You need to eat. I brought Spam musubi, shoyu chicken , and mac salad.”
“All my favorites.” My stomach growls at the mention of the Hawaiian dishes she raised us on, and my heart warms that she remembered.
But she’s not done with me. “And you look tired.”
“It’s been a long few weeks.” I probably look like the undead with undereye bags as blue as my eyes. Concealer is a necessary part of my beauty routine, but it wouldn’t help now, even if I cared enough to apply it.
She tsks. “You’re working too hard. What’s the rush?”
“I have a business to run. And the more time it takes to clear the house, the longer I’ll have to float the mortgage.
” Dad had refinanced twice, and there’s still another decade of payments.
He never mentioned money problems, but since his death, I’ve learned his financial situation was precarious.
I need to sell to settle his debts. The house is small, simple, and hasn’t been upgraded since it was built in the ’70s, but the beach is so close that Beau and I could ride our bikes there as kids.
So it’ll sell quickly with a few cosmetic touches.
I turn at the sound of footsteps as Beau returns from his assigned task, positioning himself by the front door for a quick exit.
“Well then, it’s settled. You need help. Beau will do your heavy lifting.”
Beau turns and looks just as surprised by the suggestion as I am—almost horrified. I shake my head and laugh. “I think Beau has more important things to do besides being my personal 1-800 junk hauler.”
“He’s off for the summer. And he’s perfect for manual labor. Look at him.” Lani saunters over to her son and grabs his broad shoulders, displaying his brawn as if he’s onstage at a bachelor auction.
Beau wriggles free. “I think Ophelia means she’d rather not have my help.”
He’s right about that—his help comes with a side of scorn. Beau and I prove that resentment doesn’t fade—it compounds. And we’ve been generating interest on old offenses for decades.
“Nonsense,” Lani says. “You’re perfect for this job.
You’re big, strong, and you could reorganize a landfill.
” I think she’s comparing Dad’s house to the county dump, which I can’t dispute.
When I started cleaning it out, his house was about two degrees shy of a hoarder’s compound.
I’ve made a ton of progress on the wreckage in two weeks, but I don’t blame them for not recognizing it.
Lani steps to the door, resting her hand on the knob as she casts a warning glance between us. “Beau, you help Phe with whatever she needs. Phe, make sure you eat.” She steps onto the porch. “And be kind to each other, my keiki.”
The front door clicks in her wake, and Beau and I stare at each other in twin expressions of dismay.
The silence is thicker than the stale air, and the tension hovers alongside the dust motes. “You don’t have to stay,” I offer, hoping to sound polite rather than petulant.
“And you think my mom won’t drag me back over by my ear?” I catch a twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a flicker of a smile. Miracles do exist.
And it’s contagious; I grin at the visual. Lani would need stilts to reach him. She’s shorter than I am, which is a feat.
“I’m sorry about—”
But he holds up a hand. “It’s fine.” It doesn’t sound fine, but I’ll take him at his word. “Are you feeling better?” He’s looking at me clinically, as if he’s a medical doctor instead of a PhD. He’d probably check my forehead if we were on touching terms.
I nod. “Can we start over?”
Beau leans against the sidelight, arms crossed. “I think it’s a little late for that. A lifetime of baggage is hard to unpack in an afternoon.”
I sigh, already regretting my peace offering.
“I mean, can we start over from today?” It feels like the longest day of my life, and the sun hasn’t had the decency to set yet.
The afternoon light is relentless and barrels in through the dusty windows.
It’s probably hotter in here than outside.
June is typically overcast and gloomy in San Diego before it burns off for the summer, but the weather has it in for me, bathing me in sunshine with no regard for my foul mood.
Beau stares at the ground as if considering the merits of my offer, and I get the sense he’s contemplating the pros and cons of being stuck here with me versus admitting to Lani he’d abandoned me in my hour of need.
He looks up abruptly and nods. “Of course. Why don’t you start with food so you don’t faint, trip, or injure yourself again.”
I open my mouth to react. Is this his version of playing nice? But he speaks again before I can call off our truce. “I left the Spam musubi on the counter. I know it’s your favorite.”
He’s said the perfect thing to disarm me. My comfort food will forever be a plate lunch with kalua pig , because Lani wanted us to understand and appreciate her Hawaiian heritage.
“Do you want some?” I call as I head to the kitchen.
“No, I’m good.”
When we were kids, we’d perch on the stools in Beau’s kitchen like we were baby birds at our mama’s beak, devouring Lani’s snacks before she could finish making them.
I thought Beau was the luckiest kid alive—for many reasons.
But homemade food was undoubtedly one of them.
If Lani wasn’t frying up fresh malasadas for breakfast, his dad, Arthur, was making savory crepes or croissants filled with Brie and ham.
Beau had the best of both worlds, spoiled by the culinary traditions of his Hawaiian and French heritage.
Meanwhile, Dad had two meals he could make that didn’t come from a box.
Later, Lani taught me to cook her specialties.
To this day, I feel most at ease while experimenting in the kitchen.
Lani gave me that gift. And to a lesser extent, my mom.
But who knows if my memories of baking with my mother are even real.
I don’t trust anything about my earliest recollections now.
I shove one of the Spam-and-seaweed rolls in my mouth and load two more on a napkin. I find Beau in the doorway to the office, surveying the damage as I swallow a bite. The salt and fat fortify me. I hate to admit it, but he was right. I needed some food.
“Where do we start?” he asks. “I assume we need to clear out the room and look for additional clues?”
“If there are any.” The way Dad kept that document—hidden away in a coupon mailer in an unmarked folder—makes me suspect there’s nothing else.
Perhaps he kept the court order as an insurance policy in case Mom turned up here and he needed to prove sole custody or something.
But I imagine the rest of the document—pages 2 through 10—held information he didn’t want to keep.
“I don’t think I can face the office quite yet.
Let’s start with an easy win. I’ve almost finished clearing his bedroom.
” I went through it yesterday but couldn’t bear to go through his clothes.
I left that for later, thinking it would be the most emotional job. How naive I was then.
Beau waves me forward in resignation. I sense him calculating how much longer his sentence might be. It makes me want to mess with him.
“Be warned, though,” I say. “Henry had some weird kinks.”