A loud wail woke Shane Briscoe out of a dead sleep. Exhausted, he bolted up, wiped his eyes, then clambered from the tangled sheets and raced in the direction of the cries.
Carson’s room was located down the hall from his own. In his hurry, Shane stubbed his toe on the doorjamb and let out a thundering—and very colorful—string of curse words before he remembered little ears were nearby. The upside? The powerful sound of his voice stopped the baby’s cries.
Shane flicked on the light and shielded his eyes from the brightness with his forearm placed across his face. He stumbled to the crib against the wall and stepped on a rattle that had been left on the floor from their playtime together the night before. “Fu…dge!” he yelled, pausing mid-word to alter what he’d intended to say.
Carson whimpered and Shane lifted him, bringing his warm little body against his own. Immediately, wetness seeped onto his arm.
Shane groaned and headed for the changing table where he expertly unsnapped the lower part of the onesie with one hand, took hold of Carson’s little ankles with the other and lifted him up. With a deft and swift maneuver, Shane released the tiny bottom from the soaked diaper and tossed the sopping thing in the nearby can, letting the lid drop with a thud. His hand reached for the shelf on the wall and pulled down a clean diaper from the stack. In the process, he toppled the entire bunch. Disposable diapers cascaded down on his baby’s head.
Shane waited for his son’s renewed wails. Hearing none, he looked down. Carson’s face broke into an adorable grin, as if his little boy thought his dad’s clumsy antics were funny.
Shane finished diapering Carson, then lifted him from the table. He nuzzled his nose against his baby’s neck, taking in the powdery, sweet smell. “You hungry, little man?”
He wandered with his son into the kitchen, the beautiful kitchen with white cabinetry and a spacious island topped with granite—the kitchen meant for Aimee. The moment she’d seen the double-door refrigerator, the gas stove with the fancy vent top…well, she’d gone nuts. She wouldn’t even look at another house.
“This is the one,” she’d exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of her chest like all her prayers had come true. Little had either of them known that Aimee would not cook a single meal in this new kitchen.
Instead, she’d left a note. A stupid note. An impersonal scrap of paper that had broken his heart and dashed his dreams of being a family. She didn’t even have the decency to tell him face-to-face that she was walking out on their engagement…and their son.
Shane didn’t know what he’d wrestled with more…anger or the deep hurt. Both, he supposed. It hadn’t gotten a whole lot better in the months since she’d hightailed it back to Los Angeles to follow her wacky dream of becoming a star.
“I want to be somebody,” she often claimed. Apparently, being a wife and a mother meant nothing to her.
Shane shook his head as he warmed Carson’s bottle. Fame must mean a lot if someone is willing to swap their soul to get it.
He wandered into the living room, carrying his baby son and the bottle. The room had a single sofa. That was it…oh, except for the television mounted to the wall. Despite his skinny finances, if he was going to spend nights rocking a baby, he was at least going to enjoy some screen time.
He plopped onto the plush cushions, pulled a sofa blanket over the two of them, and poised the bottle in front of his baby’s mouth. “You ready, buddy? Chow time.”
Carson latched onto the bottle and ate hungrily until the formula was nearly gone. Among lots of other things, Shane still had to remind himself to pull the nipple from that tiny mouth every so often and burp Carson to keep his little tummy from cramping up.
Seconds later, Carson rewarded the effort with a loud, infant-sized belch.
“Atta boy,” Shane said, pulling the baby back down to his lap. He repositioned the bottle into his son’s mouth.
Shane leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. He was nearly asleep when he felt something on his arm.
He slowly opened his eyes. Carson smiled back at him and stroked Shane with his tiny, dimpled hand.
Ava Briscoe pulled the belt on her robe a little tighter and wandered to her kitchen window. She peered out at the worker shanties in the distance. Christel claimed she was overprotective of her youngest, but she liked knowing Shane was only a few hundred yards from her own front door, especially when he was hurting. Now, he and her new grandson lived in Napili-Honokowai, north of the Kaanapali beach area.
The entire family was still reeling from Aimee’s decision to bail from her wedding to Shane. Worse? She’d deserted her son. How could a woman do that?
Ava shook her head in disgust. She would never understand how people could callously hurt the ones they said they loved.
As she moved to the cupboard for a teacup, something out the window caught her attention. She returned to the sink and leaned forward, trying to make out what she’d seen. In seconds, a figure stepped into the light cast from the yard pole.
Wimberly Ann Jenkins!
Ava’s breath caught. She watched as Mig took hold of Wimberly Ann’s elbow and guided her to her car. He opened the door.
Before Wimberly Ann climbed in, Mig pulled her close. He kissed her. The kiss was long, lasting far longer than Ava felt comfortable watching. Still, she couldn’t seem to look away.
It seemed her faithful operations manager had fallen for the new realtor, a gal who resembled Dolly Parton—a woman who had been married six times!
Miguel Nakamoto was a fixture here at Pali Maui, having worked at the pineapple plantation longer than anyone—nearly as long as Ava. His responsibilities included managing the fields and the packing operation, and supervising the employees. He was good at his job and highly respected. Ava was grateful to work alongside him, especially now that her husband had passed away.
Certainly, Mig had been alone for a long time. In a story that nearly duplicated Shane’s, Mig’s wife, who the entire family had nicknamed the “Plate Thrower,” left with another man when their daughter, Leilani, was only eleven.
After all these years, Ava had assumed Mig had determined he would remain a single man—a decision that was entirely understandable, given what he’d experienced.
Then Wimberly Ann arrived on the scene. In no time, Mig started acting like a smitten teenager. Ava noticed he wore cologne, even out in the fields. He urged Katie to take him shopping for some new clothes, and not just any clothes. According to their shared housekeeper, he’d tossed his work shirts and pants in the back of his closet. Mig was now wearing Rhoback polos and Tommy Bahama half-zip pullovers—in a shade of coral, no less!
At Wimberly Ann’s suggestion, he made an appointment with a stylist in Wailea and had his straight-cut jet-black hair fashioned into a side part with a quiff. Wimberly Ann claimed the cut played up his thick hair.
Ava shook her head. She wanted to tell him to be careful.
Love might be heaven, but could quickly turn to pure hell.