“Son of a bitch. ” He went back to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards until he found a flashlight. Then he set off in search of his daughter.
The beach was mostly empty. Here and there he saw couples walking hand in hand along the silvery foam line left by the waves or coiled up together on beach towels. He didn’t hesitate to bathe anyone he saw in the bright beam from the flashlight.
At the old concrete pier that jutted out into the surf, he paused, listening. He could hear laughter and smell smoke. There was a bonfire up ahead.
And he smelled marijuana.
He walked up onto the grass and around the start of the pier and headed into the big trees that grew in the area locals called Black Pot Beach.
There was a bonfire out on the point of land that separated Hanalei Bay from the Hanalei River. Even from here, he could hear the music—Usher, he was pretty sure—grinding out through cheap plastic speakers. Several cars had their headlights on.
He could see some kids dancing around a bonfire and more were gathered around a string of Styrofoam ice chests.
Marah was dancing with a long-haired, shirtless, cargo-shorted young man. She was downing the last of a beer as she moved her hips, swaying to the music. She was wearing a jeans skirt so small it could double as a cocktail napkin, and a tank top that she’d cut off to show her flat stomach.
No one even noticed him as he strode through the party. When he grabbed Marah by the wrist, she laughed at first and then gasped in recognition.
“Whoa, old guy,” her dance partner said, frowning deeply, as if trying to focus.
“She’s sixteen years old,” Johnny said, thinking that he should get some kind of medal for not coldcocking the kid.
“Really?” The young man straightened and backed away, his hands lifted in the air. “Dude…”
“What is that supposed to mean? Is it a question or a statement or an admission of wrongdoing?”
The kid blinked in confusion. “Whoa. Huh?”
Johnny dragged Marah away from the party. At first she was complaining, but she went quiet just before she puked all over his flip-flops. Halfway down the beach, after she’d vomited twice more (with him holding her hair back), he put an arm around her to steady her.
In front of their cottage, he led her to a chair on the lanai.
“I feel like crap,” she moaned as she slumped into the seat.
He sat down beside her. “Do you have any idea how much trouble a girl can get into in a situation like that? You could have been really hurt. ”
“Go ahead and yell at me. I don’t care. ” She turned to him. There was a sorrow in her eyes that broke his heart, a new understanding of grief and unfairness. The loss of her mother would mold her life now.
He was in the weeds here. He knew what she needed: reassurance. She needed him to lie to her, to say that she could still be happy with her mom gone. But it wasn’t true. No one would ever know Marah so well again, and they both knew it. He was a poor substitute.
“Whatever,” Marah said, getting to her feet. “Don’t worry, Dad. This won’t happen again. ”
“Marah. I’m trying. Give me a—”
Ignoring him, she stomped back into the house. The door banged shut behind her.
He went back to his room, but there was no peace waiting for him in bed. He lay there, listening to the thwopping and clicking of the ceiling fan, trying to imagine life as it would be from tomorrow on.
He couldn’t.
Neither could he imagine going home, standing in Kate’s kitchen, sleeping on one side of the bed, waiting for her kiss to waken him every morning.
No way.
He needed a fresh start. They all did. It was the only way. And not a one-week vacation.
At seven A. M. Kauai time, he made a call. “Bill,” he said when his friend answered. “Are you still looking for an executive producer for Good Morning Los Angeles?”
September 3, 2010