Read Online Here Today, Gone to Maui by Carol Snow - Free Book Online Page A

there if you want.” I am nothing if not flexible.
    “Nah.” He waved his hand. “This’ll be fun, and it’s closer. The water’s a little rougher up here, but that just means we’ll have to get there earlier, before the wind picks up.” He eyed the digital clock. “Shoot,” he murmured.
    “What?”
    “Well, I have to pick up my air tank. The dive shop is in the opposite direction, toward Lahaina, so I can’t just do it on the way. If we left right now, we’d be okay, but there were some calls I wanted to make for work . . .”
    The credit-card incident hung between us. He wanted to be a good provider, which meant working harder. And he wanted to give me a good vacation, which meant working less.
    “How about I pick up the air tanks while you stay here and make your calls?” I suggested.
    His face relaxed. “You wouldn’t mind?”
     
     
    The guy behind the counter at the dive shop wore a faded Chicago Cubs T-shirt, soft denim shorts, brown rubber flip-flops, and an expression of Zen-like relaxation. His sandy hair was wavy and damp. I wondered whether he had dropped out of college to come to Maui or if he had finished his education first. I wondered what his parents told the neighbors.
    Farther back in the store, another guy examined a flipper display before making notes on a clipboard.
    “I’m here to pick up an air tank,” I said to the young, sandy-haired guy. “For Jimmy James? He called earlier.”
    The briefest flicker of confusion crossed his face. “We don’t have anything for a Jimmy James.” He blinked, the tension erased. “We had a call from a Michael James.”
    “Oh, right—that’s his real name.”
    He disappeared into a back room and came back hauling a silver tank. “Just one?”
    I shrugged. “I guess. If that’s what he ordered.”
    He put the tank on the counter. “I’ll just need to see his PADI card.”
    “His . . . what?” I remembered something about PADI from my brief foray into diving.
    “His PADI card?” He held his hand up, his fingers in a C . “It’s about yay big? It shows that he’s a certified diver.”
    “I . . . don’t have it.” I glanced at my watch. If I went back to the condo to get the card, we’d be even later than we already were.
    “I can’t give you the tank without the card. Sorry.”
    The guy with the clipboard looked up. “You mean Michael James from Jimmies?”
    “Yes.” I blinked at him with surprise.
    He stuck the clipboard under his arm and sauntered over. “Nice guy. We used to buy wetsuits from him, but . . .”
    “What?”
    “They were a little unreliable—at least, the people in his office were. Said things had shipped when they hadn’t, sent the wrong stuff. He keeps trying to get us to give them another chance. I might take him up on it, one of these days. So you’re his . . .”
    “Girlfriend,” I said, feeling sixteen.
    He smiled and held out his hand. “Tom Paulson.”
    “Jane Shea,” I said.
    He was considerably older than the guy at the counter—about forty, I’d guess—but with the same easy, happy look. Clearly, he didn’t care what his parents told the neighbors.
    “Glad to see he’s finding time for something besides business and diving. He’s pretty driven.”
    I thought of Jimmy’s hours, his two jobs. “He has trouble slowing down,” I agreed.
    Tom tapped the counter. “You can give her the tank, Connor. Her boyfriend is certainly certified. Though I’m amazed he didn’t come himself. He doesn’t usually miss a sales opportunity.” He grinned at me.
    “He’ll probably call you at some point,” I said. “He stayed back to make some calls so we can hit the beach before it gets too late.”
    “You’re diving today?” Connor asked.
    “I’m just snorkeling. He’s the diver.”
    I’d taken scuba-diving lessons the year after moving to California. During my first open-water dive, in the cold waters off Dana Point, I got water up my nose while kneeling on the ocean floor,