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Chapter 13

Kent

The plush leather of the first-class seat cradles me as we taxi toward the runway. We're on our way to Kona, my mind swirling with images of my sister in a white dress, her feet bare in the sand, William looking at her like she's the sunrise. I still don't understand why they would ever get married. Even if they love each other, British Columbia has the best partner laws in Canada. It's just not necessary, and a lot less messy when something changes. But this is what Cordelia wants, so I'm excited for my sister. However, I'm even more excited to see some guests who are flying in.

Amelia's fingers grip mine, and I look down to find her knuckles white. "First time flying?" I ask, thumb brushing over her hand.

"No." She breathes out a chuckle. "Just the first time it feels like I'm running toward something instead of away."

I nod knowingly. I remember now that she told me she flew to Vancouver from Halifax when she left home for university. But this—us jetting over the water—is new ground. I place my other hand over hers and hold her steady as we speed down the runway. "Wait until you see the ocean from above," I tell her, excitement in my voice. It's not just about the wedding; it's about us being here together, sharing this.

As the plane lifts, so does my heart, buoyed by her curiosity and the way she leans into the ascent, eyes wide. When the plane pops above the gray clouds of Vancouver, it's bright and blue. She looks out the window, visibly relaxes, and smiles.

Hours unfurl like the clear blue sky outside our window, and we dive into movies, sinking into our own worlds within this shared journey. My choice—some History Channel documentary about World War II—reflects the gravity I can't often shake. And then there's Amelia's choice: Magic Mike's Last Dance. The screen next to mine bursts alive with color, music, and well-oiled bodies gyrating to a beat that feels alien to me.

"Really?" I nudge her playfully, but I can't tear my eyes away from the spectacle on her screen. "This is your pick?"

"Guilty pleasure," she says, but there's no guilt in her grin. It's all pleasure and playful challenge. "You're watching it too, aren't you?"

"Can't seem to look away," I admit. There's something liberating in her laughter, in the unabashed joy she takes from such brazen display.

"Promise me you'll reenact one dance when we get to the hotel," she teases, her eyes twinkling.

"Deal," I agree because how do I deny her anything? Inside, though, the thought twists, a mix of trepidation and thrill. I'm no Magic Mike. My moves are more emergency room than dance floor. Yet the idea of performing for her, of stepping outside my rigid lines, sends an unexpected rush through me.

Her laughter rings silver-clear, and I catch myself hoping Hawaii might be more than just about Cordelia's nuptials, that maybe it could be the start of something unforgettable for Amelia and me too. Where is that coming from?

The five-hour flight wings by, and when the wheels of the plane kiss the tarmac with a whisper, Amelia's hand relaxes within my own. We're here.

We passed through customs in Vancouver, so we disembark and head right to the luggage area.

"Everything is so open," she marvels as we move through the airport. "Doesn't it ever rain here?"

"Of course. But it's usually just a little rain every day."

We grab our bags a head toward a man with a sign that says Four Seasons. I introduce myself as we approach.

"Welcome to Kona," he says. "I'm your driver." He's dressed in khaki pants and a blue and white Hawaiian shirt. His companion, in a matching Hawaiian dress, drapes purple orchid leis around our necks, a tangible welcome to this island paradise. Amelia's eyes are wide with wonder.

"Kent, it's breathtaking," she says, taking in the volcanic mountains reaching toward the cloud-freckled sky.

"Wait until you see the hotel," I promise, leading her to the waiting car.

After a short drive, the Four Seasons Resort Hualalai rises before us, grand and inviting against the backdrop of the Pacific. The lobby is open air, the sea breeze flirting with the hems of sundresses and the fronds of lush palms. Amelia's gaze sweeps over the scene, her excitement palpable.

"Wow," she murmurs, her hand finding mine again.

"Kent, is that you?"

I turn at the voice, familiar and drenched in memories. My old governess, Rhonda, stands there, arms open, her smile as welcoming as any lei. I'm enveloped in her hug, the scent of her lilac perfume a flashback to scraped knees and bedtime stories.

"Rhonda," I say, warmth flooding through me.

She steps back, holding me at arm's length, her eyes scanning my face as if committing every change to memory. "Look at you! I've missed this handsome face so much," she clucks.

"Amelia, this is Rhonda Taylor and her husband, Spencer." I introduce them, watching the two women assess each other with genuine curiosity. "Rhonda was more than just our governess, and Spencer wasn't just behind the wheel. They were—are—family," I explain.

"Hello." Amelia extends her hand, but Rhonda bypasses it for another hug. I can tell from Amelia's returning embrace that she understands the depth of connection here.

"Any friend of Kent's is a friend of ours," Rhonda declares, releasing Amelia only to grip both of her hands tightly. "And we've heard so much about you."

"Nice to meet you both," Amelia replies.

"How was your flight?" I ask. It was seventeen hours of flight time for them, coming from England.

"It was a long day," Spencer says with a smile, but he still looks adoringly at Rhonda.

"I'm so glad you both could come," I say.

"We wouldn't miss it! Are you excited for the big event?" Rhonda's eyes sparkle with anticipation. I know she's been involved in the planning, a maternal figure when our own mother preferred to delegate such tasks.

"Can't wait," I assure her. The front desk attendant is looking over, waiting for us to move out of the way.

"We're on our way to find some last-minute things for Cordelia," Rhonda says. "Was your father on your flight?"

"No." I shake my head. "He's flying in tonight. He wanted to squeeze another few hours out of work."

Rhonda smiles. I know she's disappointed. She and Spencer were supposed to join my mother when she moved to Canada, but since she never came, that left them back in England, taking care of only our mother and the grounds of the estate.

"We'll catch up properly at the luau tonight?" I look at the bellman waiting with our luggage.

"Wouldn't miss it," Spencer speaks up, his voice deep and steady, calming as always.

"See you then." I nod as we part ways.

Amelia and I check in, and then we're quickly heading toward the promise of our room and a view that I hope will steal her breath away, as she has mine.

"Your friends seem lovely," Amelia comments as we walk, the sound of the ocean a distant murmur.

"More than friends, really," I confess. "I try to call them once a week. It's harder when I'm working nights." A strange tightness grips my chest as I think of my parents, how they've often felt like distant satellites in orbit around Cordelia and me, their gravity weak compared to the pull of Rhonda and Spencer's love. "They made sure we never felt alone."

"Sounds like you were lucky to have them," she says, squeezing my hand.

"More than I can say." I glance at her, grateful for this moment, for her presence here with me.

As we make our way to our room, I think about Rhonda and Spencer's relationship. I've always considered it perfect. It might be the only one I can think of that's stood the test of time. When I was a child, they were the opposite of my parents. They talked to one another regularly while my parents seemed only to co-exist. They trusted and respected one another while my mother was, and remains, ruthless in politics—at home and in parliament. Rhonda and Spencer have always supported each other. My mother encouraged my father to take the job in Canada, but I think she knew she was never going to join us. She wasn't being supportive of my father and his career so much as she was getting rid of us.

Rhonda and Spencer share the same values and goals. Professionally, they worked together, and they seemed to know our mother and father were missing a parenting gene. So, the Taylors stepped in when my parents proved uninterested in learning or trying.

Even now, I see Rhonda and Spencer holding hands and sharing glances. I don't even think my parents have spoken to one another in years. And before we moved, they didn't even share a bedroom.

I saw Rhonda and Spencer disagree when I was growing up, but they resolved their conflicts with communication. There would be the occasional door slamming, but they never froze each other out. They never asked Cordelia or me to take sides.

Most of all, Rhonda and Spencer have a strong commitment to each other and to their relationship. My parents probably never had a chance. My mother had a grand house and a title, but no money. My father's family was ridiculously wealthy but had no draw. Their marriage was arranged, and I don't think they ever loved each other.

When we arrive at our room, the keycard clicks, and the door swings open to reveal a panoramic expanse of the Pacific. Sunlight dances over the water's surface, casting glimmers like tiny stars. I step aside, letting Amelia pass, watching her face light up with pure wonder as she takes it all in.

"Look at that," she breathes, pressing her hands against the glass that separates us from the open air. "It's even more exquisite than I imagined."

Below us, the lagoon is a swirl of activity—swimmers, surfers, and kayaks cutting through the water with the grace of waterfowl. She follows them with her gaze, a longing edge in her voice. "I think… I want to try that."

"Let's do it," I say, already imagining her laughter echoing across the water. "We can check out all the amenities. Make this trip unforgettable."

She turns to me, excitement sparkling in her eyes. We quickly trade our clothes for shorts and T-shirts and step out into the warm, humid air. Soon, our flip-flops clap against the path that leads to the hotel's adventure hub—a bustling kiosk adorned with vibrant brochures promising adrenaline and awe. A tour guide greets us and waits patiently as we survey our options.

"Swimming with dolphins?" I pitch first, pointing to one of the glossy pamphlets. The idea of sharing the water with such intelligent creatures sends a thrill up my spine.

Her nod is eager, decisive. "Yes, absolutely." Her finger hovers over another option, a helicopter tour. "And this? Can we see the island from the sky?"

"Anything you want," I assure her with a grin.

"Kent, I have a credit card—" she starts.

But I cut her off with a gentle shake of my head. "Amelia, let me." It's not just about generosity; it's about showing her how much this time together means.

We plan and schedule around Cordelia's wedding events—a hike to witness the majesty of Hawaii's waterfalls, a helicopter tour of Volcano National Park, the fiery breath of Kilauea.

"Thank you, Kent," she says, squeezing my hand as we finish. Her gratitude is a warm glow. Given my history with women, we may only have this weekend, but I'm lucky to be here with her.

On the way back, a dress catches my eye in the gift shop, a wrap of light green with red hibiscus flowers all over it. Perfect for her. "Try this on?" I suggest, pointing it out. She agrees, and we venture inside.

In the dressing room mirror, the colors come alive against her skin, the fabric hugs her perfect curves, and I'm struck mute for a moment. "You look fantastic," I manage, the words feeling inadequate for the vision before me.

"Really?" Her smile is shy, hopeful, and it's all I can do not to pull her into my arms right then and there.

"More than really," I affirm. No fabric, no matter how exquisite, could ever compete with her natural beauty.

"Okay then," she says, the decision made, the dress now an addition to her wardrobe for the weekend. We return to our room to prepare for the evening, to meet Rhonda and Spencer under the setting sun.

A little while later, I stand before the mirror in the living area, adjusting the collar of my freshly pressed Hawaiian shirt. The reflection looking back at me is a man caught between two worlds—the formality of my family and the unruly whispers of island breezes tugging at my heartstrings. I can hear Amelia in the bedroom, the rustle of fabric as she slips into the dress we found earlier. The thought of her in that wrap of green and red sends a thrill through me.

"Kent, can you zip me up?" she calls, her voice tinged with excitement and vulnerability.

"Of course," I say, moving into the bedroom. Amelia stands with her back to me, her skin glowing against the light fabric. My fingers brush over her spine as I pull the zipper up, a shiver passing between us. It's an intimacy that still feels new and electric.

"Thank you." She turns to face me, her eyes searching mine for approval, which I give freely, wholeheartedly.

"Rhonda's going to love getting to know you," I tell her, my heart swelling.

"Was she really like a second mom to you?" Amelia asks.

"More than that," I admit, recalling countless afternoons spent with Rhonda in our otherwise silent house. "Cordelia and I were crushed when our mother insisted they stay behind with her in England. We were only teens, and we missed them. Our father hired another housekeeper, but it was never the same."

"They sound pretty spectacular."

"We were lucky in so many ways. Rhonda and Spencer showed us what love looks like—small touches, shared smiles… It felt real."

"Sounds wonderful," she murmurs, looping her arm through mine as we prepare to leave our room.

"Tonight's about family, about celebration," I tell her as we walk down the corridor. "It's about introducing you to the people who made me who I am."

"Then let's go make some memories," Amelia says.

I smile in agreement. Memories, after all, are the stories we choose to tell, the legacies we decide to share. And downstairs, as Rhonda's familiar figure comes into view, arms open wide, I find I'm excited to share Amelia with my family. I'm just not sure what that means.

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