Chapter1
Caryn knew she wouldn’t need to stay very long in this tropical paradise. It was a beautiful bungalow, surrounded by plumeria, jasmine, and carnation flowers, as well as ferns and coconut trees. This was going to suffocate her soon enough, no matter how welcoming it was, no matter the view.
This would do for now, right? She adjusted as always, no matter what country or state, or city or town, or back alley she lived in, as long as she was far away from New York. She kept few personal belongings, enjoying instead what the current home for rent had to offer. All she had was a single large suitcase, and a backpack, packing that was seemingly good enough for a month-long vacation to Europe.
Caryn looked for a broom closet, and she found an old, bulky vacuum cleaner, much to her surprise. The ad did say the bungalow was rustic. Still, it would help with the cleanup faster, she thought. She had arrived at night, renting a cheap stick shift jeep from the city’s small airport. She knew she would spend most of her time cleaning up, despite the long flight from Dallas. Insomnia was her best friend and worst enemy, and cleaning up her newly rented home was a supposed temporary remedy for it.
She set about lugging her bags to the single bedroom, placing them in a corner. It was dusty, but not too dusty that it would have taken more than two nights’ work. The place was small, and perfect for her. In fact, this might just be one of the nicest homes she had ever rented in all those years of transferring. Can you count how many houses you’ve lived in before you turn 30, she asked herself? She knew just how many, and there was no stopping her. This was how she lived, this was how she survived and she had done this for the past 6 years, finishing her degree online just for the sake of fulfilling a promise made long ago to someone she held dear to her.
Did it really matter that much now? She had made a living as a writer. It didn’t pay as much as the glamour magazines, but she was paid, and it kept a roof over her head. She was a struggling author in her own right, a starving artist figuratively. She was here for a purpose, and she hoped to accomplish that purpose, given the nature of her current situation.
Caryn saw herself in a full-length mirror as she bent down clean the floor. There was a wild-eyed woman staring back at her, a mess of tangled, curly hair, with a crumpled shirt on, and a pallor her mother wouldn’t have approved of -- that was of course, if she was still alive. Her mother had died early on, and Caryn knew her mother was lucky enough to have done so. Her mother had experienced enough strife to last her for a lifetime. Suicide was out of the question for Caryn. A part of her wanted vengeance for what they had done to her and her mother. But that would wait for now. Work came first.
She took a deep breath, tying her hair up in a messy bun, and then she set off to work. She wanted the wooden floors to gleam brightly as soon as she was done with it. It reminded her of a childhood she had been deprived of, the moment she saw that house… she shook her head. The past should be buried with the dead, she knew. From across the small window, she saw a house that seemingly loomed over the tiny bungalow. There were strategically placed lights all over it, and it was dense with vegetation, good enough to be considered a small rainforest, perhaps?
The house -- no, the mansion, wasn’t completely out of place in an island such as this. It could have been set in Malibu, even. The home had every intention to be humble. It had a large, cantilevered balcony that hung over a cliff, almost precariously, surrounded by vegetation. From afar, it almost looked like the entire thing floated. She stood up, attracted by the soft glow coming from the house’s lights. It seemed that nobody was there, and for a moment, she wanted to believe in that.
Being an introvert was a strange thing, she thought. She was perfectly content being alone, and she had never felt lonely, but there were moments when the silence screamed inside her, and she longed for intelligent, good conversation -- something rarely given to her. Everyone liked small talk, it was part of society’s norms, it was something she abhorred, but she found that rebelling against that fact would only lead to her downward spiral.
People aren’t islands, she thought, but it doesn’t mean I can’t seclude myself in one.
The medications had stopped years ago, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t come back. Her mother had taken them, and she swore off of the drugs that had ultimately killed her mother in the end. They haven’t gotten to me, and they won’t, she swore as she began to smell of floor wax.
By the time she had finished cleaning up most of the house, Caryn began to feel sleep creep into her system. It was a welcome feeling, and she planned to sleep until one in the afternoon. She quickly took a bath, grateful that the water didn’t smell of rust, and that it wasn’t frigid. The place didn’t have a hairdryer, and she shook her head and wrapped it in a towel, intent on sleeping with wet hair.
She couldn’t resist peeking out into the small balcony the house had, though. From across the horizon, she saw the beginnings of the rising sun. The sky turned into various shades of pink and orange. It was one of her favorite things, being a night owl, watching the sun make its way into the world, a symbol of sorts, that she had not given up, despite her mostly negative outlook on life.
Caryn fell into a dreamless sleep the moment her head landed on the pillow, just like how she wanted sleep to always be.
*
She woke up thirty minutes past twelve, and she scowled, seeing the time. She needed the extra thirty minutes, but she knew it was her body adjusting to her new environment. New places always made sleep a bit messed up. It would take her days to adjust, and she hoped the island’s climate would treat her well.
Her hair was still wet, and she sighed, taking off the towel and placing it on a rack beside the window. A cool breeze filtered in through the screens. She had been almost careless with her safety, but who would want her dead here? No one knew she was here, except for her editor and two other people in the newspaper. She had essentially dropped out of the radar, with no internet connection; just her mobile, a laptop, blank notebooks and a few of her favorite 0.5 writing pens.
It wasn’t the time to write, not just yet. Exploring had to be done, no matter how remote. The nearest police outpost was seven miles away. The landlord did provide her with a telephone that had begun to lose its vibrant green color, “just in case,” as he had mentioned.
Caryn didn’t feel hungry just yet. Her appetite was weird, her editor-in-chief had told her she needed to eat, with what little body fat she had left. This little island in Maui County called Lānaʻi had more pineapples than it had people. She had done her research, and the place didn’t even have a state college, nor did it have traffic lights.
There was only one community hospital. Illness was out of the question, lest she jeopardize her plans. She did have a history of asthma, an affliction she didn’t enjoy as a child. Back then, her father had paid for everything. Back then…
She heard the ocean crash on the cliffs, and although tempted to venture out, she decided not to. The house needed further cleaning, which was on the top of her to-do list. The property was sizeable at around 4,000 square feet, and she wondered why the neighbor next door didn’t even consider buying it. She was pleased to see a couple of fruit trees behind the house, along with a laundry line, and an outdoor grilling area.
The owner lived in the mainland, and had decided to rent the place a little over ten years ago, when all his children had left for college. The house needed some repainting and some repairs, but all in all, Caryn knew it was a relaxed place to live in. There was a comfy hammock on the porch, and she smiled, knowing a nap would be in order soon.
A breeze flipped through her hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the coolness, until she heard a noise come from somewhere down the beach. People were shouting, not in distress, but with laughter. This piqued her curiosity, and she quickly made her way down a carved stone staircase, which led to a small cliff. Beneath the cliff, there was a small patch of sand, with enough space for a volleyball game, or for an intimate picnic.
Caryn saw a man from across, riding on a jet ski. A few miles away from the shoreline. There was a small gathering on a beach just below her neighbor’s home- if the man was indeed her neighbor. His Jet Ski moved in closer, and he expertly careened it towards shore.
Caryn almost held in her breath, seeing his face this time. His muscles strained as he held onto the Jet Ski’s handles, and water dripped from his dark brown hair. He was pale, only just beginning to show signs of a tan. His overall appeal was nerdy, yet imposing, she noticed. She realized her mouth was half open as he slowed down, coming close to shore. He looked at her for a second, and then he revved his engine and left a wave in his wake.
She took a deep breath in, knowing she looked like an idiot for just a moment.
Someone shouted his name, and he headed for the private beach, where five other people waited. Caryn saw there was a mini bar installed on the beach, apart from a professional grilling station. There was an elevated platform, where throw pillows and a tent were.
There were two older people, and three other young adults, two female and another young man. The scene gave off that family vibe, and she sensed he was related to them, her mysterious neighbor…
Caryn began to walk back up the stairs, intent on making herself a good, “healthy” meal. It was time for a little trip to town, to get groceries and assimilate. She didn’t plan to be friendly, but if someone approached her, she knew she had to be. People talked, and a small community such as this meant she could be branded as a bitch early on.
She didn’t bother locking the doors as she left. This was an island with barely any crime, save for a couple’s squabble, or a few drunken people, or some kids vandalizing. She hopped into her car and drove, soaking in the sights, the plantations, and the lonely roads without traffic lights and barely any people. Her car was a 1980s refurbished military jeep, the rent was cheap, and gasoline prices were so-so. I only have to be here for a couple of months, two months at most, she told herself, and I have to get this story done.
She was no expert in the world of technology, let alone technology that included government work. She was in the right place, and she hoped it was the right time. The sun beat down on her, but she didn’t mind. The breeze made up for the heat, and she enjoyed a change in temperature. This was a far cry from the extremes on the mainland, a mainland she had nearly circulated in its entirety, just like the nomad that she was.
She arrived in town around thirty minutes later, after getting a bit lost, and she saw that the grocery place was jam packed with tourists and locals alike. She took a deep breath and turned left, disliking the crowd, but resigning herself to the fact that this wasn’t going to be permanent. Plus, a girl needed to eat. The tropical breeze made her feel hungrier, and she didn’t know if that was a good thing.
A billionaire had bought about 90% of the island, but that wasn’t where her interests lay. It was in someone else, someone she had yet to meet. She held her breath in, readying herself to enter the grocery.
One of the town’s only grocery stores was filled with people, and she heard a multitude of accents. She wanted this over and done with, and she realized that it was a Saturday, a bad time to do groceries, when tourists from the bigger islands swarmed into Lānaʻi. Ducking from a group of older women surrounding a souvenir stand, she headed for the produce section. She nearly laughed seeing pineapples. She grabbed one. Why not, right? She told herself she was going to eat more vegetables and fruits, instead of the usual instant noodles or fast food. There was no fast food here, anyway. It would be good for her.
She had overheard people talking about the house a few miles from the city that had been rented, and she knew they were talking about her current residence. She lined up at the counter, avoiding eye contact with anyone, until the cashier greeted her. She gave a quick smile.
“You staying here for long?” the cashier asked. He had a name tag on that said: Kepa.
“Not too long. Nice name. What does it mean?” she asked, engaging in small talk, even if she disliked it.
“Embrace,” the bearded cashier replied sheepishly. “I’ll see you around, then.”
“Thanks,” she said, relieved that it was over. She quickly made her way to her car, while looking around the city. This was already considered a city. A city that had less than four thousand people in it. How cute was that? New York was stressful, messy, colorful, busy- and this place was a complete opposite, apart from the colors she rarely saw in the big cities.
This wasn’t the time to think about New York, she told herself. She didn’t want to regress into that bottomless pit of despair. She was here to work, and here to heal in quiet. The houses were quaint, the majority of them were built like beach huts with galvanized tin roofs, along with porches and wooden fences. It was a far cry from what she had grown up in…
Caryn placed the groceries on the floor on the passenger’s side. She had learned to drive stick-shift in high school, when she was still within her father’s family’s good graces. The water in the house was filtered, at least she could save on bottled water. A once a week trip to the city would do her well, she thought, regretting that she hadn’t grabbed a few bottles of pineapple wine as an afterthought.
She drove leisurely back home, intent on making a good dinner, and then maybe starting her research. In all honesty, she wanted to lounge around, but she wasn’t too comfortable with the place yet. It made her think about the man on the Jet Ski. She knew who he was, and it was probably safe to assume that he was her neighbor.
David James Pierce… how can I meet you?