The Green Room by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

in her search for Nahoa.
    â€œNaomi, is Sunny around?” Ben asked.
    Naomi’s smile diminished by a couple of watts, but she kept up her enthusiasm. “She’s off tonight, but she’ll be in at ten tomorrow morning.” Her eyes wandered to Storm.
    â€œI’m Storm Kayama.” Storm put out her hand. “I’m a friend of Ben’s and his mother’s.”
    Naomi’s smile amped back up a few notches. “You want a seat?” Her eyes flicked to a group of men on the other side of the room and she lowered her voice. “I can have a Kimo’s Parmesan Special ready in about ten minutes.”
    â€œNo thanks, but I’ll come back later,” Ben said.
    Outside, Storm grinned at him. “You better go back tomorrow.”
    Ben shuffled his feet. “Yeah, she’s really nice.”
    Storm got out her car keys. “You mind going with me to Sunny’s?”
    â€œSure, she lives in Pupukea. We can check out Nahoa’s at the same time.”
    â€œThey don’t live together?”
    â€œNot technically, but she’s there a lot. Sunny shares a house with two other women. It’s kind of run down, but it’s a cool place. Nahoa’s cottage is just down the beach.”
    Storm led Ben to her car, which she’d left in the Food Town parking lot. As she made her way through the traffic in Haleiwa town, she realized how little she knew about Nahoa’s lifestyle.
    â€œWhat does Nahoa do when he’s not surfing?” she asked.
    â€œHe’s a shaper at the Tubin’ Tanker. He and Mo‛o Lanipuni are well known for their surfboard designs.”
    â€œThat’s a good job, isn’t it?”
    â€œSure, Nahoa does okay. He’s been getting some endorsements, too. Clothing and stuff.”
    Storm realized that Ben was a bit in awe of her cousin, who was kind of a local celebrity. Not only did Nahoa have a reputation for being a ballsy, red-hot surfer, the six years in age that separated the two seemed to be more than chronological. Ben was till a teenager, living with his mother, while Nahoa was a confident young man.
    Sunny’s house was a big rambling frame affair that looked as if it had undergone renovations by at least two different builders. Not even the paint matched. It sat on stilts on a large lawn shaded by two sprawling mango trees and a fringe of banana plants. Typical of old plantation homes, the place lacked a garage and driveway, and three older-model cars were parked in the grass, which was mowed and otherwise uncluttered. It reminded Storm of a college fraternity, except with the single-wall redwood construction and traditional hip roof common to Hawai‛i. It had a certain scruffy charm.
    Ben went right in the screened front door and shouted a greeting. No one was in the living room, which was situated inside the entry. Delicious cooking aromas were coming from the back of the house, and Ben headed in that direction, calling out a few more hellos. Storm followed and noted the comfortable, but unmatched furnishings, batik drapes, and high-end stereo equipment.
    â€œJenna, Charlie,” Ben said. “Howzit?”
    A pretty, rotund woman whose pareu barely covered a figure that conservatively could be called Rubenesque looked up from where she sat. The toddler she fed gurgled and banged his fists on his high chair tray. Storm wasn’t sure if he wanted more of the pasty stuff she was feeding him or whether he was greeting Ben.
    Both Charlie and Jenna grinned when they saw him and Jenna got to her feet and gave Ben a big hug. She went over to the stove to stir a pot, while Charlie hammered harder on his tray, and everyone but Storm ignored him. Flecks of food flew with each whack.
    â€œWhat smells so good?” Ben asked. Storm thought he might be trying to ignore the big brown nipple that flashed where the flowing Tahitian garment gaped.
    â€œBeef stew and rice,” Jenna said. “What