Chapter Seven
“The runway was built on an 1801 lava flow from Hua—” Patrick tilts his head. “Hualālai. Did I pronounce that right?”
“Beats me.” Will grins, standing by the sculpture of three beautiful hula dancers in the middle of the open-air, tropical-style airport. Their two bags each are at their feet, and they’re waiting on the rental car guy. Will takes the time to admire the sun, the blue skies, the palm trees, and his husband.
Patrick’s wearing shades, and he’s rolled up the short sleeves of his foam-green shirt to show off even more of his freckled arms. His leg hair gleams reddish in the sunlight, exposed by his khaki shorts. He’s also wearing flip-flops, which has Will’s stomach doing all kinds of strange things he doesn’t understand.
Seeing the arch of Patrick’s foot in the tropical sunlight shouldn’t be so sexy, and yet it is. In Healing, his husband only wears boots, leather dress shoes, or running shoes. The flip-flops almost make him seem like a different person.
Until he talks.
“Hualālai is a shield volcano. Made almost entirely of lava flow.” He harrumphs and scrolls further down the page he’s reading on his cell phone.
“Is this information from an app?”
“Wikipedia,” Patrick says, frowning. “I’d never accept it as a source for anything of importance, but it’ll serve for tourism purposes.”
Will snorts softly as Patrick continues to explain the historical significance of the airport they’ve landed at. “Kona is the only entirely outdoor international airport in the world,” he says, looking up and adjusting his sunglasses. “Which would be more impressive if the only flights that made them ‘international’ weren’t flights from Canada. Oh, wait. Japan as well. I stand corrected.”
Beads of sweat pop up on Patrick’s forehead, and a breeze ruffles his curly, auburn hair, glowing coppery in the bright sun. He nods, and a smile loosens the edges of his mouth as he looks around. “I like it.”
“Me too.” Will hitches his murse higher on his shoulder and adjusts the flower lei over the collar of his pale-yellow shirt. Patrick had bought the flowers for him as soon as they reached the gift shop. His linen shorts are cool in the breeze, though they’re very crumpled from the long plane ride. So much for fashion.
“The flowers are good, right?” Patrick asks.
Apparently Jenny had told Patrick buying a lei when they disembarked would be romantic and Will would like it. For some reason Patrick takes Jenny’s advice on romance very seriously, and no amount of saying, “You don’t need to,” was going to dissuade him. So Will had followed, bemused, as Patrick had marched to the closest gift shop and chosen a white and purple lei for him and a yellow one for himself.
Will lifts the lei to his nose and takes a sniff. And heck if it isn’t romantic, and darn if he doesn’t like it. Sometimes Jenny is right. “It’s good,” he agrees, sniffing the spicy flowers again. “Thank you.”
Patrick’s chuffed expression makes his heart sing, and Will nudges him with his shoulder. “I like yours too.”
The yellow flowers of Patrick’s lei shiver in the breeze and pick up gold highlights in his hair. Mimicking Will, he sniffs it and shrugs. “It’s okay.” Then he goes back to reading from his phone, muttering facts under his breath and turning around as if placing the information in physical space.
Will takes in the busy, open airport. “I wonder what happens to the luggage when it rains.”
“It gets wet,” Patrick answers.
“Huh. I guess it must.”
“There he is.” Patrick nods toward a dark, squat man approaching them with a sign reading MCCLOUD. “By the way, this part was my idea. Not Jenny’s.” His grin is sharp and excited. Will follows at his heels, curious and eager to see what Patrick’s cooked up.
Will’s mouth falls open when the man leads them to a burgundy Porsche 911 Carrera with the top down. “Wow,” he breathes as the man hands Patrick the keys and says he’ll meet them here at the airport to pick the car up before they leave for Kauai.
After the man walks away, Will wheels around to Patrick, a big smile splitting his face. “You rented this?”
“I figured why not? We never get to drive anything like this in Healing. Snow tires and plenty of room for your siblings being the operative words there.” He breaks out a wry grin. “Surprised?”
“You can say that. It’s awesome.”
Patrick lifts his nose in the air haughtily. “Sometimes I think you forget that aside from being the most brilliant doctor in the country, I’m also the coolest man on the planet.”
“And the humblest,” Will says, putting their bags in the cache between the seats and the back. His heart feels like a balloon—rising, rising rising—and he grips the side of the car so he doesn’t float away.
“I’m driving.” Patrick hops in and adjusts the seat.
“Of course you are.” Will climbs in next to him and puts on his seat belt.
The Hawaiian sun is warm and bright, and it showers them with golden rays. Will waves his hand like royalty and orders, “Drive on, Dr. McCloud.”
Patrick likes the way the sun lights up the golden hair on Will’s exposed forearms and how the wind feels racing through his hair. He likes the purring of the Porsche as it whips down the road next to the ocean. Black lava fields extend toward the mountain in the distance. He even likes the way the air smells. Salty, fresh, and sun baked.
This giddy feeling of blood pumping through his body is called excitement. He’s experienced the sensation outside of the OR a few times since he’s been married to Will, and he likes it now too. All in all, he’s pleased.
A honeymoon is clearly a fantastic idea after all. Who knew?
“We should text everyone and let them all know we’ve landed safely,” Will says, reaching into his murse for his phone.
“No.” Patrick adjusts his sunglasses. “Absolutely not.”
Will hesitates with his phone in his hand. “But they’ll worry.”
“We’re on a total electronics and social media blackout, remember?”
It’s not like it’s easy for him either. He’s agreed to give up control of his patients for ten whole days without even being available for a consult. Plus he’s not going to look at The Hurting Times, and that’s a real sacrifice for his gossip-loving self.
But even one little slip on the texting front and they could have a Molinaro/Patterson crisis to contend with just when they’re supposed to be getting away.
“When they don’t hear on the news about a plane crashing into the Pacific, they’ll know we made it just fine.”
Putting his phone back in his murse without sending the reassuring texts, Will teases, “What will you do for entertainment without The Hurting Times? Read medical journals like you do at bedtime?”
“No. I bought a vampire romance Jenny told me about.” The sea breeze must have some magical properties, because Patrick swears his shoulders are relaxing with each breath. “It’s a series. If I like the first one, I’ll get the rest on my Kindle.”
Will cracks up, his head tilting back, exposing his handsome throat.
Patrick grins. “What? You think your husband doesn’t read fiction?”
“A vampire romance?” His brown eyes twinkle. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. I like trashy books to go with my trashy TV shows and trashy gossip.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Will gestures toward the bags in the back. “Well, I brought A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s supposed to be the next great gay novel.”
“Oh, death and misery.”
“Maybe, but I read online that a lot of gay men think it’s definitely not for a variety of reasons. So I’m going to read it and find out for myself.”
“Good plan.”
They fall into a comfortable silence as they whip past palm trees and approach a small, cramped-looking town. The black, hard miles of lava fields all around remind Patrick of the sometimes ruthless land of the reservation out beyond Healing. The resemblance doesn’t stop there, either.
The town itself has that “everyone must know everyone else” quality that is now all too familiar. Healing doesn’t have thick heat beneath a gentle breeze, though, or tropical foliage, or black lava rock, or swarms of tourists.
Tourists are something Healing will never have to worry about.
“Look,” Will says as they pass out of the town and onto the highway that leads to the resort. “Graffiti.”
Stark white rocks decorate the wide black lava fields, spelling out names, declaring loves and alliances.
Aloha!
Joe wuz here
Terry + Rhonda 4-Ever
“I wonder where they find the white rocks?” Will asks as the graffiti passes out of sight around a bend.
“The white sand beaches.” Patrick has read up about the various beaches in Hawaii, the dangers of riptides and sharks, and decided before he left Healing that the risks seemed negligible enough to relax and enjoy their trip.
Will’s eyes greedily suck in the horizon. For someone who’s wealthier than God, he’s traveled very little in his life. Not that Patrick’s been big on travel either. They’re both obsessed with their work and, in Will’s case, his family has demanded his attention over the years.
Maybe it really is a good thing they’re taking this break. It’s about time Will saw more than the plains of South Dakota.
“White sand beaches?” Will finally asks, snapping back from wherever he’s drifted, blissed out on the sunlight and new sights.
“There are three kinds of beaches here on the Big Island,” Patrick spouts. He read about this the prior night when he couldn’t sleep for thinking about all the upcoming hours spent high in the air in the jet. “Green sand, black sand, and white sand.”
“Green? How? Why?”
“A mineral, olivine, is part of the volcanic material around the beach. It’s denser than the other volcanic sand and so it isn’t swept out to sea. It leaves a green cast on the beach.”
“I want to see them all.”
Patrick nods. “We can do that.”
As they reach the resort area, the vegetation changes from thick but sporadic wads of green plants and colorful flowers to groomed and carefully chosen trees, bushes, and groundcover.
“This looks nice,” Will says, eyes going wide. He leans forward, the wind sweeping his hair back and ruffling his shirt.
“What did you expect? I’m not honeymooning with you in a roadside motel.” Patrick frowns and grips the wheel tighter.
“I know. But, look—” he points at the resort rising before them. The buildings are all freshly painted and the tower, where some of the nicer rooms reside, looks grand outlined against the blue sky. “It’s really nice.”
“It’s not the nicest place on the island, actually. I chose it because of the art collection more than the luxury. Though it is luxurious. Don’t worry.”
“What kind of art collection?” Will asks as they pull up to valet parking.
“Asian and Hawaiian art and antiquities. An impressive collection on permanent display. If we’re going to travel, we should get some culture. Two birds. One stone.”
Patrick shuts off the car and allows the valet to take the key. He’s tempted to threaten the guy with a lawsuit if he so much as breathes wrong on the car while parking it, but Will seems to sense what he’s about to say, grabs him by the arm, and pulls him toward the open-air lobby.
Apparently, in Hawaii they like everything to be outside.
“Wow.” Will’s hand relaxes on Patrick’s arm and he grins, peering around the place. The canopied ceiling is peach and so are the few walls. Otherwise, the breeze flows in from all directions along with the scent of the ocean.
Pergolas with flowering vines line the walkways leading off from the lobby area.
“It’s so big, and everything’s open. I can’t help but keep wondering what happens when it rains?”
“Same thing as at the airport. It gets wet.”
A deep voice from behind them interjects, “The rain usually comes at an angle that doesn’t penetrate the lobby deeply. And if it does, everything dries very quickly in the sun. Are you Dr. McCloud and Mr. Patterson? I’m Arvin Jones.”
The short man’s dark eyes twinkle in his rugged face. His peach Hawaiian-patterned shirt and beige slacks are loose and airy, like all the other employees Patrick can see, and the nametag on the left side of his chest declares him a personal concierge. “We’ve prepared your suite and I’m eager to escort you there whenever you’re ready.”
“Don’t we need to check in?” Will asks.
“It’s all been taken care of in advance,” Arvin says, motioning toward the opposite side of the lobby. Great, peach-colored steps lead down to where a mahogany boat that looks like it could carry eight people rests on a narrow man-made waterway. Patrick knows from looking at the website that the waterway winds throughout the resort as the main means of transportation aside from walking.
“Your ride awaits. Our boat will take you to your room and your bags will join you by underground conveyer. If that’s all right with you?”
“Sure,” Will agrees.
Patrick nearly declines, preferring to keep his bags close, but Will takes his arm and follows Arvin toward the boat. “Look,” he whispers. “Koi.”
Fat fish the size of cats, swim through the water—gold, red, orange, and white flashing by.
Patrick climbs into the boat, which is on a runner like a Disneyland ride, and sits. Arvin joins them, rattling off information about the resort while they motor slowly toward their room. Will listens avidly, twisting and turning in his seat as he peers around at all the resort has to offer.
Patrick watches Will instead. He’s seen the videos on YouTube and the photos online. He knows what everything looks like and what they can do here. All he cares about is Will’s reaction.
And it’s perfect.
His brown eyes shine happily, his beautiful mouth is spread wide in a smile, and his grip on Patrick’s hand is warm and vibrant.
“The sea-water lagoon is great for snorkeling. You can see many varieties of fish, sea turtles, and get some exercise at the same time. There are multiple pools across the resort. You’ll find those on the map. The spa is open for treatments from seven in the morning until seven at night. The various dolphin adventures are popular. You can swim with the dolphins in our pool or arrange to go out on one of our chartered boats to look at them at sea.” Arvin waves at numerous coral, peach, or pink buildings as they float by. “Oh, and I believe you’re booked for a day by the ocean in one of our meditation beds. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can see whales from there.”
“I can’t believe you,” Will says when the concierge finally breaks off to converse briefly with the tall, handsome boat driver about their destination.
“Why?”
“This place has everything. It’s amazing.”
You’re amazing, Patrick thinks, but he doesn’t say. He tries to keep some dignity in the face of his all-consuming love even now that they’re married. He’s not ashamed of his feelings, but he doesn’t think he needs to vomit them out constantly just because they exist.
Will glances to the concierge and boat driver for an instant, then lets out a huff of happiness before leaning in for a kiss. His tongue is slippery and soft, and his lips sweet and gentle. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough.
Patrick takes hold of his chin and thumbs the cleft. “So you’re happy?”
“Happy? I’m ecstatic.”
“Good.” He kisses Will’s mouth again. “Welcome to our honeymoon, puddin’-pop.”