Burned

“What do you think about?” Ned asked as he kept count of his sit-ups.

“Like whether I should move on from Hudville.”

“Move out of Hudville?”

“Yeah. Too much rain and not enough people willing to pony up the money for a massage. I’m thinking of moving to Sweden. I hear people like massages there.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “They must have plenty of masseurs. Maybe you should move to Hawaii. That’s what I did. I moved here when I separated from my wife last year, and I feel much better.”

“I don’t know,” Artie said as he clenched and unclenched his hands. “I feel restless. I feel as if there are new things out there that I should be doing.”

“Those relaxation tapes aren’t helping you much,” Ned noted.

“Don’t make fun of my tapes.”

“I’m not. Why don’t we go for a run?”

“Now?”

“Why not? You have too much tension built up inside. Run it off, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

“I’ll sleep like a baby right now if we just turned out the light.”

“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Done!” Ned jumped up from the floor. “I’ll take a quick shower, then lights out.”

I can’t take it, Artie thought. I just can’t take it. Down the hall, the Wiltons were lying in bed. They were discussing their chapter of the book on how to keep a relationship exciting.

Bob thought Betsy got a little too jealous at times. He liked to kid around with the ladies. No harm intended. But Betsy didn’t like it one bit. That brought excitement to their relationship, but it wasn’t the right kind. Some couples liked to fight so they could have fun making up. Not Betsy Wilton.

“Now, for instance,” Bob said as he folded his hands across his chest, “when that lady who drowned was taking pictures of us last night and I told her how good she smelled, you gave me the evil eye. Then you left in a huff and went back to the room.”

“The reason you knew how good she smelled was because you put your arm around her and gave her a big hug. Just because she took our picture. That wasn’t necessary.”

Bob considered this. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“She’s dead.”

“That she is.”

“I came back to the room, and you were fast asleep.”

“I took a little piece of a sleeping pill.”

“No wonder you were out like a light.” Bob smiled mischievously. “You know, Dorinda Dawes was wearing a shell lei when she died. I think they’re sexy. I’ll see if I can buy you one tomorrow. Good night, dear.”

“Good night,” Betsy said as she stared up at the ceiling. Writing about bringing out the excitement in a relationship is bringing out the worst in him, she thought. It’s getting downright scary.

Two single women sharing a room when they were thirty years apart in age presented challenges all its own. But thankfully Francie and Joy were both slobs. On that score they were a match made in heaven. The bathroom counter was littered with makeup, creams, suntan lotions, and hair care products of every variety. Towels and clothes were piled in heaps everywhere.

They probably could have been good friends if Joy were a little older. But Joy was still sowing her wild oats and had no interest in anyone who was north of twenty-five. It was nearly three in the morning when she tiptoed into the room. She had managed to hook up with a group of young people who worked at the hotel. They had gone to Duke’s and then partied on a stretch of beach in front of the restaurant. Zeke, the lifeguard she had a crush on, was there, and he’d spent the night talking to her. He didn’t walk her back to her room because the staff wasn’t supposed to socialize with the hotel guests, but he’d told her to meet him the next night at the bar at the Sheraton Moana. Joy was thrilled. It would make her day with the Mixed Bag Tour group bearable.

Joy tried to be quiet as she slipped into the bathroom and undressed. She picked the T-shirt she slept in off the floor and pulled it over her head. Too tired to take off her makeup, she did manage to give her teeth the once-over with a tattered toothbrush.

Holding her breath, she turned out the bathroom light and slowly opened the door. Five seconds later she was under the covers. That’s a relief, she thought as she felt herself relax. Across the table, Francie’s voice rang out: “How was your night? You must tell me all about it!”

Oh, my God, Joy thought. I can’t cope!

Gert and Ev had a suite with a sitting room and a bedroom that was larger than all the others in the group. That’s because they were in charge. They tried to book the same rooms for every trip, but of course it wasn’t always possible. But they always managed to get rooms next to one another with adjoining terraces overlooking the water. Sometimes the Lucky Seven stood out on their terraces and chatted back and forth. There was no escaping each other.

Having lived together all their lives, Gert and Ev were as in synch as two people could be. They possessed a sixth sense often shared by twins. They still wore the same clothes, used the same products, and now shared many of the same aches and pains. Ev had more of an edge than Gert. She didn’t always take to the people they had to drag on the trips.

“Those Wiltons are so a

“No sunshine from them,” Gert agreed.

“I’m glad we have the day off tomorrow. We’ll have our own fun.”

“I can’t wait.”

Ev threw the floss in the trash, washed her hands again, rinsed her mouth, and went in and flopped on her bed. “Do you think we’ll find us some good deals tomorrow?”

Gert smiled at her twin. “You betcha. We’ll make ourselves some real good deals.”

The twins high-fived each other, said a prayer for their deceased parents, an extra-special prayer for Sal Hawkins, and went to sleep.

Friday, January 14

13

S till on Los Angeles time Regan had awakened early, dressed, and left a note for Kit who was sleeping soundly when she left the room. By 7 A.M. Regan had already gone for a walk on the beach. Not wanting to deal with the big buffet in the main dining room, she went into one of the smaller cafés for breakfast.

It felt good being up so early. The air was fresh, and the beach was quiet and calm. Whenever Regan dragged herself out of bed at the crack of dawn, she told herself she had to do it more often. But her resolve never lasted. Rising with the roosters only worked when she went to sleep early or when her body was on a different time zone from where she happened to be.

In the Pineapple Café, Regan took a seat at the counter. The Waikiki Waters wanted to cater to all types of people, so they had all kinds of restaurants. This particular café felt like a coffee shop in New York except that it had wallpaper depicting pineapple fields. Regan reached for the stack of local newspapers on the counter that were shared by the customers. She pulled over the newspaper on the top of the heap as the waitress approached her.

“Coffee?” she asked and started to pour before Regan responded. I guess she doesn’t get too many negative responses to that question, Regan thought.

“Yes, thanks,” Regan answered u

“Shame, isn’t it?” the waitress remarked.

Regan looked at the woman who appeared to be in her late sixties-quite a bit older than the typical employee at the Waikiki Waters. She had a tight pageboy hairdo, a dark tan, and a wry smile. A pineapple-shaped name tag that said Wi