Chapter 3 - The Oceanfront Suite
The journey across the Pacific was like stepping into another reality. My parents had never turned left when boarding an airplane in their lives. Dad spent the first two hours marvelling at the wide leather seats, running his thumb over the brushed steel trim and whispering to the flight attendant that the orange juice tasted freshly squeezed. Mom had her face pressed against the oval window, watching the endless blue of the ocean meet the sky.
When we landed at Kahului Airport, the humid island air hit us with the scent of plumeria and salt water. I had arranged for a private car service. A driver holding a sign that read FISHER met us at baggage claim, placing fresh purple orchid leis around my parents' necks.
For the first time in three days, Dad smiled. A real, deep smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You spent too much, Mallory," he murmured as the driver loaded our bags into a sleek black SUV. "You shouldn't have done this for an old man."
"Dad, you spent forty years putting roofs over people's heads," I replied, squeezing his arm. "Today, you're the VIP."
We arrived at the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua in the late afternoon. The property was breathtaking—sweeping green lawns, cascading waterfalls, and an unobstructed view of the sun melting into the ocean behind the neighboring island of Molokai. The resort staff greeted my parents by name, ushering them onto a private balcony overlooking the surf.
Meanwhile, fifteen miles down the coast at the Ashford Palms Resort, the pre-wedding rehearsal dinner was just getting underway.
I checked my phone. The family group chat had been strangely quiet ever since Karin’s cruel comment. Grant hadn't texted me once. He hadn't called Mom to see if she was okay. He was utterly consumed by the world of champagne flutes, linen suits, and billionaire handshakes.
Then, at seven in the evening, my phone finally rang. It was Grant.
I let it ring three times before sliding the bar to answer.
"Mallory!" Grant’s voice came through, loud and breathless, with the sound of live acoustic ukulele music playing in the background. "Where are you guys? Russell’s business partners are here, and the photographer is asking for Mom and Dad for the initial program intro. Why aren't you at the check-in desk?"
I stepped out onto our private lanai, listening to the crashing waves below. "Why would we be at the check-in desk, Grant?"
"What do you mean?" he snapped, his voice dropping into that familiar irritated tone he used whenever things didn't go smoothly. "Karin said she sent you the travel vouchers days ago! Did you miss the email again?"
"No, Grant," I said clearly. "Karin told us in front of twenty-six relatives to swim here if we wanted to attend. Didn't you see the message?"
There was a dead silence on the line. For five agonizing seconds, all I heard was the distant chatter of wealthy guests laughing over mai tais.
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"Look, Mal, that was just a joke," Grant said, though his defensive tone gave him away instantly. "Karin was stressed. She’s coordinating two hundred people! You can't take everything so personally. Where are you? Did you guys actually stay in Minnesota over a joke?"
"We’re in Maui, Grant."
