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Books Coming Soon – Hidden in Oahu
Exhausted by the relentless demands of her New York City restaurant, chef Lily Thompson feels her life has lost its savor. One night, amidst the chaos of a double-booked dining room and failing kitchen equipment, an unexpected accident leaves her hospitalized with severe burns and a shaken spirit. Confronted with her own vulnerability, Lily accepts her brother Ethan’s invitation to recuperate in the enchanting islands of Hawaii.
Seeking solace at Auntie Mele’s idyllic inn, she is enveloped by breathtaking landscapes and the soothing presence of Hoku, a protective dog with a mysterious aura. As Lily begins to heal, she stumbles upon an ancient coin entwined with island legends and a centuries-old curse. Delving deeper into the island’s mystical secrets alongside Kai, a local fisherman with a compelling past, Lily finds herself at the crossroads of myth and reality.
Facing formidable adversaries and natural forces stirred by forgotten prophecies, she must make monumental choices that will not only transform her own life but also restore balance to the land she has grown to love. “Hidden in Oahu” is a captivating tale of romance, mystery, and self-discovery, where big fears are confronted, big changes unfold, and the transformative power of love and adventure awakens the spirit.
Hidden in Oahu
Chapter 1: Overcooked Emotions
Chapter 1: Overcooked Emotions
Scene 1: Street Confrontation
The crash of breaking glass cut through the fall morning, trailed by furious yells echoing off the skyscrapers of Manhattan. Her pulse jumped as her fingers clenched around the paper coffee cup she’d just purchased from the vendor, the hot liquid sloshing dangerously.
Countless hours of blade handling having built up her primary hand until even this casual motion revealed disciplined strength. Her muscles recognized the sound of trouble before her brain could catch up. She stopped dead in her tracks, desperately inhaling to steady herself despite the rush of fight-or-flight hormones.
Her cashmere sweater—a soft shade of sage that usually drew compliments from her staff—was still pristine, tucked perfectly into high-waisted designer jeans. The wool coat she’d splurged on last season hung elegantly over her shoulders, its gray fabric complementing her leather boots. She’d spent extra time that morning pinning her dark hair into a sleek chignon, armor against the chaos she could never quite escape in this city. Each careful detail was meant to project control, professionalism—everything she didn’t feel coursing through her veins right now.
Crisp leaves skittered across the sidewalk as she steadied herself, carried by a wind that held winter’s promise. The bitter edge in the air burned her lungs with each careful breath. Just ahead, a group of college students—marked by their university sweatshirts and overstuffed backpacks—were entangled in a heated confrontation outside a café. Their angry voices sent tiny tremors down her spine, each shout echoing off the concrete canyon walls like the ones that had haunted her teenage dreams.
Lily’s chef’s instincts—honed to detect the precision of diced vegetables or assess a cook’s blade control—registered every nuance of the growing altercation before her. Several university students were locked in a fierce dispute near the entrance of a coffee shop, their hostile shouts bouncing menacingly off the surrounding buildings.
She observed as the more imposing student repositioned himself, shifting his mass from rear to forward leg, his form tensing like a compressed coil. The motion triggered her professional sensibilities, reminding her of the practiced flow essential in her restaurant, where each action needed to blend naturally with the subsequent one.
The atmosphere grew more volatile when the strike was delivered, a masterfully aimed blow that struck her psyche with visceral force. She gripped her beverage container tighter, its residual warmth now feeling almost unbearable as shadows from her earlier years stirred uncomfortably in her mind.
The strike itself was flawlessly delivered. His primary fist—characteristic of any skilled combatant’s opening move—thrust outward, energy surging from his foundation, through his center, into his upper body before releasing through his extended limb. Lily identified the practiced grace, noting how time had polished the motion into something simultaneously elegant and destructive, much like her expertise with kitchen blades.
The impact resonated with a muted crack against the target’s face. The noise reverberated through Lily’s core, her insides twisting as buried recollections threatened to emerge. Onlookers inhaled sharply as the struck individual reeled into a street painter’s setup, scattering artwork across the ground. Bright pigments stained the concrete, their scattered pattern reflecting the sudden burst of aggression.
The scent of oil paints mingled with the morning’s blend of coffee and exhaust fumes, making her head swim. Her mind couldn’t help but draw parallels to another morning, years ago, when different colors had stained different pavement.
Lily’s pulse thundered in her ears, each heartbeat a war drum against her ribs. A loose strand of hair fell across her face, the first crack in her carefully constructed façade. The old instinct surged through her—to step in, to defuse, to control, just as she did every day in her high-pressure kitchen. But today was different. Today, her feet wouldn’t move. Her muscles remembered too well the cost of intervention, the weight of consequence that had changed everything when she was eighteen.
Her fingers cramped around the warm paper cup, its heat no longer comforting but searing against her suddenly cold palms. A gust of wind sent an empty cup rolling past her feet, its hollow sound a mocking echo of her own racing thoughts.
As one of the students reached into his jacket, the sun glinted off something metallic. Lily’s breath froze in her lungs, the world narrowing to a pinpoint of reflected light. Time stretched like pulled taffy, city sounds fading to a distant hum beneath the roar of blood in her ears. Every detail burned into her retinas with horrifying clarity—the student’s clenched jaw, the trembling hand disappearing into dark fabric, the way morning light caught the edge of whatever lay hidden. Her throat closed around the taste of old fear, sharp and acrid like grapefruit pith.
Before fear could fully claim her, she felt a man barrel past her, his shoulder colliding roughly with hers, snapping her back to the present chaos. He didn’t glance back, but she caught the sharp edge of his voice—“Watch it!”—only vaguely through the cacophony of honking horns and shouting.
The impact sent her stumbling, hot coffee sloshing dangerously. Her coffee cup slipped through her fingers, crashing to the pavement. Rich aroma filled her nose as several drops splattered onto her coat, dark spots blooming on the expensive wool like bruises. The loss of her rich liquid splattered across the sidewalk, a connection to her momentary peace lost amidst the chaos. Another pin slipped from her hair, the tiny metal clip hitting the pavement with a ping that seemed to echo her unraveling composure. Before she could steady herself, the man’s briefcase clipped her arm.
“Hey!” The word escaped her throat, tight with suppressed emotion. But he was already gone, slipping into a cab and leaving her amidst the swirling eddies of pedestrians. A woman waiting at the curb shot him a venomous look as he claimed her taxi, her designer heels clicking an angry rhythm as she resumed her wait.
Lily’s heart hammered against her ribs, each beat carrying a cocktail of adrenaline and mounting frustration through her veins. Her fingers trembled as she tried to brush the coffee from her coat, but the liquid had already begun to set, marking her like the day’s first battle scar. Another strand of hair slipped free, tickling her neck with maddening persistence. The cacophony of the city crashed back in full force—honking horns, multilingual conversations, the endless drone of urban life pressing against her eardrums like a physical weight.
She picked up her empty cup for the trash bin, drew in a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand against the tightness in her chest. Her grandmother’s voice whispered from memory, steady and sure: ground yourself, find your center. Five things she could see: the steam rising from her cup, a yellow taxi, red brake lights, fallen leaves, the coffee stain spreading across her sleeve. Four things she could touch: the rough paper cup, her soft wool coat, the cool morning air, the loose strand of hair against her neck…
Behind her, the shouts escalated. The student withdrew his hand, revealing—not a weapon—but a shiny cell phone, its metallic case catching the light. Relief flooded through Lily’s body like a wave, leaving her knees weak and her hands still trembling. The memory of steel retreated back to its locked compartment in her mind, though the key had been rattled.
“You’re all talk,” he sneered at his opponent, snapping a photo. “We’ll see how tough you are when this goes viral.”
The tension deflated around her like a punctured balloon, replaced by groans and eye-rolls from the crowd. The familiar scent of street cart coffee cut through her anxiety as a vendor seized his moment—”Hot coffee! Fresh bagels!”—his voice carrying over the diminishing chaos. Her own nearly-empty cup felt like a metaphor for her depleting reserves.
She exhaled slowly, willing her racing heart to steady. The artist knelt nearby, gathering his ruined pieces with trembling hands. Summer-themed watercolors lay scattered like broken dreams, scenes of Central Park’s foliage now streaked with dirt and footprints. The urge to help, to make something right in this morning of wrongs, pulled at her. But the weight of her own shaken nerves kept her feet moving forward, each step an exercise in forced normalcy.
The sidewalk narrowed between scaffolding and food carts, creating a human bottleneck that set her teeth on edge. Bodies pressed in from all sides, each contact sending tiny jolts of discomfort through her already frayed nerves. Her chignon continued its rebellion, bobby pins surrendering one by one to the jostling crowd. A delivery boy on a bicycle whizzed past, close enough for his wake to stir her coat and send another wave of anxiety through her chest.
“Move it!” The voice from behind carried the sharp edge of city impatience.
The crosswalk ahead blinked its warning—red hand flashing like a taunt—but the crowd surged forward anyway, a human tide pulling her along. A woman laden with shopping bags pushed past, one bag catching Lily’s coat with enough force to throw her off balance. The rough yank sent another pin flying, releasing a cascade of dark hair around her shoulders. Her carefully constructed image was unraveling as surely as her composure.
An impatient shove from behind sent her stumbling off the curb, her ankle twisting in her boot as she fought for balance. The momentum of the crowd carried her forward until she collided with the front fender of an idling delivery van. Cold metal bit into her hip, the impact jarring through her bones as the last of her coffee splashed onto the pavement. Her heart slammed against her ribs, fight-or-flight instincts screaming beneath her skin.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” The driver’s voice cut through her panic, thick with New York attitude. “I got deliveries to make! This ain’t a sidewalk!”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, embarrassment mixing with the lingering traces of fear. “I’m sorry,” she managed, the words tight in her throat. Her empty cup dangled from trembling fingers, a sad testament to the morning’s defeats. Sweat trickled down her spine despite the autumn chill, her sweater now hanging askew beneath her rumpled coat.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, retreating into his cab. The van’s engine rumbled through the pavement, vibrations traveling up through her twisted ankle like an accusation.
Just as she felt herself losing balance, a steady hand caught her elbow.
“Hey, Ma’am, need a hand?” The voice was familiar—the student from earlier, his anger transformed to concern. He appeared at her elbow, phone lowered, one strong arm already extended. “These crossings are brutal during rush hour.”
Lily hesitated, studying his face. The same hand that had thrown a punch now offered help, and something in his expression—regret, perhaps, or simple human kindness—resonated with her own complicated history of wrong moments turned right. Her grandmother’s voice whispered again: sometimes angels wear strange disguises.
With a small nod, she accepted his help. His steady arm guided her through the crowd, parting the human sea with his height and presence. The pain in her ankle throbbed in time with her pulse, but at least she was moving forward.
Up close, she could see his bruised knuckles, the slight swelling of his right hand—testament to that perfect punch. His university sweatshirt bore the logo of a local boxing club.
“That was quite a straight punch back there,” Lily said, noting how he automatically adjusted his stride to support her unstable gait. “Perfect form.”
He flexed his right hand, looking slightly embarrassed. “Boxing classes. Three years now.”
She paused at the curb, waiting expectantly.
“James,” he offered with a slight grin. “James Bond.”
“Of course you are,” Lily couldn’t help but smile.
“Hey, blame my parents. Dad’s a huge 007 fan.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “At least it comes in handy sometimes.”
“Least I can do after all that drama earlier,” he said, voice softening with shame. “My mom raised me better than to walk past someone needing help.”
Lily noticed how his stance shifted to support her weight, the same controlled precision she’d observed in his punch now channeled into steadying her steps. Her right hand gripped his arm, her own trained muscles recognizing the disciplined strength beneath the casual sweatshirt.
“Boxing teaches control,” he offered, seeming to read her thoughts. “It’s not just about throwing punches. The right hand might deliver the power, but it’s worthless without proper form.”
“Like cooking,” Lily found herself saying, her right hand unconsciously mimicking the grip of a chef’s knife. “Every movement has to have purpose. Power without precision…”
“…is just chaos,” they finished together, sharing a surprised laugh at the synchronicity.
Reaching the far side, he waited until she found her footing before withdrawing his support. “Are you steady now?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lily straightened, her professional demeanor settling back into place. “I appreciate it.”
James pulled out his phone, its metallic case catching the light—the same flash that had triggered her panic earlier. He caught her slight flinch and laughed softly, apologetic. “Guess I should rethink this case, huh?”
“Stay safe!” Raising his hand in farewell, he disappeared into the passing crowd of pedestrians.
Without his stabilizing presence, the ache in her ankle intensified. Pain shot through her leg with every movement, an insistent echo of the morning’s turmoil. Yet she found herself dwelling on their interaction—the disciplined power he’d demonstrated, that flawless strike—filing it away like a lesson she might someday need to recall.
Outside her favorite market, she caught her reflection in the storefront window and barely recognized herself. The sophisticated New Yorker who’d left her apartment thirty minutes ago had vanished, replaced by someone who looked like she’d fought the city and lost. Her dark hair hung in waves around her face, the cashmere sweater bore coffee stains like badges of the morning’s trials, and her eyes held the wild edge of someone reaching their breaking point.
Above her, a digital billboard cycled through its endless loop: luxury watch, Broadway show, and then—like a mirage in her moment of defeat—a Hawaiian resort. White sand beaches and turquoise waters beckoned, a stark contrast to the gray concrete pressing in around her. The image seemed to mock her disheveled state while simultaneously offering escape.
Her right hand still tingled from gripping James’s steady arm, muscle memory cataloging the controlled strength she’d witnessed—first in violence, then in kindness. That perfect straight punch stayed with her, like a recipe she might need to recall later: power from the ground up, through the hips, shoulders, and finally the dominant hand. Simple ingredients combined with precise technique.
She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears with shaking fingers, straightened her coat, and brushed futilely at the coffee stains. The empty cup in her hand, crushed from her death grip during the morning’s chaos, embodied everything about this city that had begun to suffocate her.
The thought rose unbidden: she needed a vacation. Needed it like she needed air in her lungs and space to breathe. She dropped the mangled cup into a nearby trash bin, her gaze drawn back to the billboard’s paradise. A passing woman, her own hair escaping a once-neat bun, caught her eye and nodded in silent solidarity. They shared the understanding of those who’d weathered the city’s chaos.
The familiar scents of freshly baked bread and ripe produce wafted from the market’s open doors, offering temporary sanctuary from the morning’s assault. Lily stood still, gathering herself, letting the aromas ground her in the present moment. Here, at last, she might find a few minutes of peace before facing whatever else the day had in store. Images of those turquoise waters lingered in her mind.
In the aftermath, as the commotion faded into the distance, she found herself alone with the remnants of her cup. The familiar scents from the market grounded her, like her mother’s voice echoing from memory: “Love needs a little caffeine.” Simple wisdom that had always steadied her, even now.
Scene 2: Sanctuary and Prayer
“Morning, Lily!” Marco, the fishmonger, called out as she entered. His warm smile faltered as he took in her disheveled appearance. “Rough morning already?”
Lily leaned against the fish counter, subtly taking weight off her throbbing ankle. Marco’s familiar presence and the market’s soothing atmosphere helped ease the tension from her morning ordeal, even if her ankle protested with each shift of her weight.
The market’s interior embraced her like an old friend, its familiar rhythm a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Stalls of vibrant produce lined the walls, their colors intensified by the morning light streaming through the skylights. The aroma of fresh bread mingled with the scent of ripe fruit, creating a comforting symphony of scents. The gentle hum of conversation and the clinking of coins at the registers added to the market’s soothing ambiance. But the enticing aroma of fresh coffee from the corner café made her empty cup feel even more tragic.
“You could say that.” Lily attempted to tuck another wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Rush hour turned into a contact sport today.” She approached his counter, where fresh seafood gleamed on beds of ice, their briny scent filling the air. “Please tell me you have something amazing to make this morning worthwhile.”
Marco’s eyes lit up. “Actually…” He gestured dramatically toward a display of pristine scallops. “Just got these in. Sweet as candy, fresh off the boat.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Been saving some especially for my favorite chef.”
Despite her frazzled state, Lily felt her professional interest spark. The scallops were perfect—plump, pearly, with that translucent sheen that promised sweetness. For a moment, she forgot about her twisted ankle and coffee-stained coat, lost in culinary possibilities.
“They’re beautiful,” she breathed, already envisioning tonight’s special.
“Take a look at this,” Marco said, lifting one. “See that color? Like mother-of-pearl. Each one tells a story of the waters it came from.” He paused, studying her face with a knowing look. “Though speaking of pearl, you look like you could use a fresh cup of coffee. Maria!” he called to his wife at the café counter. “Un caffè for Lily, extra strong!”
“Oh, you don’t have to—” Lily started, but Maria was already working the espresso machine, its gentle hissing a soothing counterpoint to the street noise that filtered in each time the door opened.
“Nonsense,” Marco waved off her protest. “You look like you’ve been through war this morning. Besides,” he winked, “can’t have my best customer making decisions about premium seafood without proper caffeine levels.”
Maria appeared with a steaming cup of espresso, adding a small biscotti on the saucer. “Here, cara. You look like you need this more than my morning regulars.” She placed a comforting hand on Lily’s shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. “Take a moment to breathe, child. The city can wait.”
Lily traced the rim of her espresso cup, watching the steam rise and inhaling the rich aroma. The warmth spread through her chilled fingers, offering a small comfort. “You remind me of the fishermen back home sometimes, Marco. They always seemed to know when the weather was about to change.”
Marco’s eyes crinkled with interest. “Ah, you have the sea in your blood too, I can tell. Where was home?”
“Maine. Small coastal town.” Lily smiled softly, memories washing over her. “My family had this tradition of Sunday morning walks along the beach, collecting shells before the tourists arrived. The fishermen would already be out, their boats like dark brushstrokes against the sunrise.”
“And now look at you,” Marco gestured toward the window where the concrete canyon of the city stretched beyond. “A sea bird in a steel forest.” He began arranging the scallops with practiced care, but his eyes held a knowing look. “You know, Lily, I’ve been watching you these past few years. Every time you handle the fish, there’s this… recognition. Like you’re greeting an old friend. But lately—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “lately I see you looking at them like they’re messages in bottles, carrying secrets from a life you left behind.”
Lily’s breath caught. Trust Marco to see right through her carefully constructed New York facade. A wave of unexpected emotion washed over her, a mixture of gratitude for his perceptiveness and a longing for the life she’d left behind. “I love my restaurant, I do. But sometimes…”
“Sometimes the tide pulls at you,” Marco finished, nodding sagely. “My nonna used to say that you can take the person from the sea, but you can’t take the sea from the person. It’s in the rhythm of your heart, the salt in your tears.” He wrapped the scallops with deliberate movements. “The ocean has its own way of calling its children home.”
“There are people in this world,” he continued, his weathered hands moving with practiced grace, “who understand the language of the sea. Not just the surface things—the tides and weather—but the deeper truths. The way it shapes a soul.” He secured the package with twine, his movements precise. “When you meet someone like that, you’ll know. They carry the same salt in their blood.”
Maria appeared with a refill of espresso, catching the end of Marco’s words. “Ah, Marco and his prophecies,” she smiled fondly. “But you know, he’s usually right about these things. The sea knows its own.”
The market’s door chimed, bringing in a gust of autumn air and a group of rushed customers. Maria hurried back to her counter, leaving Lily with her thoughts and the restorative power of proper Italian coffee.
“You know,” Marco said as he finished arranging her purchase, “don’t let the city chew you up. Sometimes daydreams are the universe’s way of giving us directions.” He handed her the package with a knowing smile. “Just need the courage to follow them.”
Lily balanced the wrapped scallops and her coffee, considering his words. Outside, car horns continued their urban symphony, but in here, a different possibility beckoned. She thought of her cramped kitchen, the endless pressure, the daily battle with the city’s rhythm.
“Maybe,” she said softly, more to herself than Marco, a flicker of hope igniting within her. “Maybe it is time for a change.”
“Take care of yourself, Lily,” Marco called as she headed for the door. “And remember—sometimes the best recipes require new ingredients!” He paused, then added more softly, “And sometimes the most important journeys begin with a call from the sea.”
The cab driver helped load her groceries while Lily gingerly slid into the backseat, wincing as her twisted ankle caught against the door frame. She’d need to ice it when she got home if she had any hope of managing her shift later.
The taxi’s interior cocooned her from the city’s chaos, its worn leather seats offering unexpected comfort. Lily leaned back, cradling her package of scallops, and watched the city blur past her window. Marco’s words about the sea calling its children home echoed in her thoughts, mixing with the gentle vibration of the car.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Ethan: “Hey sis, heading to Hawaii next week for a research project. Could use your culinary expertise.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. Trust her marine biologist brother to be surrounded by ocean while she remained landlocked in concrete. She started to type a polite refusal, then paused, Marco’s voice echoing in her head: “Sometimes daydreams are the universe’s way of giving us directions.”
“Let me think about it,” she typed instead.
The taxi wound through the quieter streets of her neighborhood, the morning sun casting long shadows between buildings. Her phone buzzed again – Julian’s name lighting up the screen. She watched it ring until it stopped, something in her too tired to navigate his particular brand of chaos today.
When she reached her apartment, she paid the driver and carefully maneuvered her way up the stairs, the package of scallops like precious cargo. Her apartment welcomed her – a space she’d crafted into a sanctuary of calm within the city’s storm. Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, catching the collection of seashells she’d arranged on the windowsill, each one a memory of home.
Lily placed the scallops in the refrigerator and moved to the small altar she’d created in one corner – a habit her grandmother had instilled in her. A piece of driftwood, worn smooth by the sea, served as its centerpiece. She lit the small candle beside it, the flame steady in the still air.
Her grandmother’s prayer came to her lips, as natural as breathing:
“Spirit of the sea and shore, Guide my path forevermore. In deep waters or on sand, Keep me steady where I stand. Grant me wisdom, grant me grace, Help me find my rightful place.”
The words settled around her like a familiar embrace. She’d said this prayer countless times on Maine beaches, but here, surrounded by the city’s pulse, they felt different. More urgent somehow.
Lily wrapped her ankle tightly with an elastic bandage after twenty minutes with an ice pack. The swelling had gone down somewhat, but each step still sent a dull ache up her leg. She dry-swallowed two ibuprofen, hoping they’d kick in before her shift started. Working the line required sure footing, and she couldn’t afford to show any weakness in front of her staff.
Her phone buzzed again – another missed call from Julian. She glanced at the time. The restaurant would be expecting her soon. With a deep breath, she gathered her chef’s whites and a fresh change of clothes. The morning’s dishevelment wouldn’t do for service.
As she changed, she caught her reflection in the mirror – her hair now neatly pinned back, her whites crisp and professional. But her eyes held something different, something that hadn’t been there before Marco’s prophecies and her grandmother’s prayer.
The city waited outside her window, its rhythm unchanged. But something had shifted inside her, like the first ripple before a tide turns.
Chapter 1. Scene 3.
Scene 3: The Prayer Answered
The kitchen was a living, breathing entity. Steam billowed from pots like morning fog rolling off the Maine coast, while flames leaped from stovetops in controlled bursts of orange and blue. Flour hung suspended in shafts of light, dancing like sea spray in the air. Lily stood at its heart, conducting this symphony of chaos with practiced gestures, even as something deep within her felt increasingly out of tune. Her ankle throbbed dully, a reminder of the morning’s mishap, forcing her to shift her weight as she moved between stations.
The cacophony wrapped around her: metal spatulas scraping griddles, knife blades drumming against cutting boards, pots clanging, water hissing as it hit hot pans. Underneath it all, the steady thrum of the ventilation system reminded her of waves against a shore—a thought she quickly pushed aside.
“Table four is requesting the scallops, Chef!” Marcus’s voice cut through the din, sharp as a filleting knife.
Lily reached for Marco’s scallops, their mother-of-pearl sheen catching the light. A sea bird in a steel forest, his words echoed as she arranged them with precise movements. The aroma of saffron rose from the risotto, mingling with garlic, fresh herbs, and the sweet perfume of reduced wine. Yet beneath these familiar kitchen scents, she caught a whisper of salt air.
The ticket printer erupted, its angry whir drowning out even the sizzle of the grill. Paper spilled forth like an endless wave, and that same instinct that had saved a life years ago prickled at the base of her neck.
“Chef,” the hostess appeared, face flushed, “there’s been a double booking. We have twice the number of guests arriving—”
“All at once,” Lily finished, the words tasting bitter. She remembered another crisis, two years ago, when the power had failed during a full house. She’d handled it then with the cool efficiency that had earned her this position. But now…
She forced a smile, squaring her shoulders. “All right, people, full house tonight! Keep it tight, keep it flowing!” The words felt hollow, like reciting lines in a play she’d performed too many times.
The kitchen erupted into controlled frenzy. Flames roared higher, steam thickened the air, and shouts bounced off stainless steel surfaces. Lily moved through it all, calling orders, adjusting temperatures, checking plates. Each motion was perfect, practiced—and somehow wrong, like swimming against a tide she could no longer fight.
The pop came without warning. The lights flickered, and the main oven went dark with a dying hum. In that brief moment of darkness, she could have sworn she heard seagulls crying.
“Chef, the oven’s dead!” Carlos’s panic cut through her momentary reverie.
Lily stared at the dark oven display, remembering Marco’s words about messages in bottles and the ocean calling its children home. “Everyone, maintain course. Use the backup ovens. I’ll handle this.”
The back hallway felt longer than usual, the walls pressing in like the sides of a ship’s corridor. Boxes of supplies loomed in the dim light, casting strange shadows. The dampness in the air grew stronger, reminiscent of fog rolling in before a storm.
At the electrical panel, she found the tripped breaker. The maintenance log hanging nearby showed no recent inspections—another item the restaurant owner had postponed despite her repeated requests. “Okay, this should do it,” she murmured, flipping the switch back into place. A sudden spark flashed from the panel, causing her to jerk her hand back. “Damn it!” she exclaimed, her pulse quickening. She knew she should wait for an electrician, but with a full house and limited time, she felt she had no choice. Determined, she decided to check the equipment connections.
Backtracking slightly, she found the junction where several appliance cords connected to a power strip—a temporary solution that had become permanent through neglect. One plug looked loose. Simple enough. But as she reached for it, her grandmother’s prayer whispered through her mind: Help me find my rightful place. Her ankle twinged as she stretched to reach the connection, throwing her slightly off balance. Her left hand gripped the metal frame of the breaker box to steady herself while her right hand reached for the plug.
As her fingers closed around the exposed metal of the plug, the spark came first—bright, beautiful, terrible. Time slowed. Her hand seized around the conductor, muscles contracting involuntarily, unable to let go. The electricity coursed through her body from arm to arm, across her chest. She saw everything with startling clarity: dust motes floating in the emergency lights, a spider’s web in the corner, the condensation beading on a pipe. Three seconds stretched into eternity as the current flowed through her, her heart stuttering in her chest. An involuntary cry escaped her lips as the circuit finally broke, throwing her backward against the wall.
The impact threw her back, but in that suspended moment, the institutional walls dissolved. She saw waves crashing against volcanic rocks, felt tropical wind on her face. The pain was there, but distant, like lightning viewed from across a vast ocean.
“The sea knows its own,” Marco’s voice echoed as darkness crept in from the edges of her vision.
Lily barely registered the impact as she collapsed, her consciousness drifting away to float above crystal-clear seas and glide past wind-swept palms. The sterile overhead lighting transformed into a brilliant Pacific dusk, while the rhythmic sound of surf beckoned her toward unconsciousness.
Her vision blurred—a small, shimmering spot of light appeared, expanding outward in jagged, zigzag patterns like lightning across a summer sky, while all noise faded into a distant hum as she sank to the cold floor.
Chapter 1: Overcooked Emotions
Scene 4: Awakening
A steady beeping filled the air, a rhythmic sound tethering Lily back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. The sterile scent of antiseptic replaced the phantom salt air of her dreams, and the stiffness of the sheets beneath her confirmed she was in a hospital. As the medication’s fog began to lift, she became aware of various discomforts—the tenderness of her hand, a dull throb in her temples, and her ankle, mercifully dulled by the pain medication flowing through her IV.
Through blurred vision, she turned her head to find Ethan seated beside her bed, his marine biologist’s tan a stark contrast to the institutional whites surrounding them. Concern melted into relief across his face as their eyes met.
“Hey there, sea star,” he said softly, using their childhood nickname. His gentle smile couldn’t quite hide the worry in his eyes.
“Ethan?” Her voice emerged barely above a whisper, dry and scratchy. The memory of the electrical incident hovered at the edges of her consciousness.
Seeing her discomfort, he leaned forward, offering a small cup with a straw. “Here, sip this.”
She accepted gratefully, the cool water soothing her parched throat. “What happened?” The malfunctioning oven, Marco’s words, the breaker panel, that vision of turquoise waters… The memories returned in fragments.
“You had an electrical incident at the restaurant,” Ethan explained gently. “Gave us quite a scare.” Lily attempted to shift position, wanting to face him better. A sharp twinge from her ankle made her wince. “Easy there,” Ethan cautioned, adjusting her pillows. “The doctor says the fall aggravated your earlier injury.”
“They brought you here late last night,” Ethan explained. “Liv and Chloe have been here since then – they just went home an hour ago to freshen up.”
“All night?”
“Mm-hmm. Liv has been remarkable,” Ethan said, a note of admiration in his voice. “She channeled her concern into action, researching medical leave policies and rehabilitation facilities. Found a specialist who coordinates comprehensive recovery programs.”
“My ankle?” Lily asked, the morning’s incident returning in fragments.
“The impact caused a fall,” Ethan explained, shifting carefully to the foot of the bed, mindful of her injury. “The doctor mentioned the earlier strain likely affected your stability.”
Before Lily could process this information, the doctor entered the room, tablet in hand. “Good morning, Lily. I’m glad to see you awake,” she said with a warm smile. “Let’s discuss your recovery plan. The examination shows mild tissue inflammation to your palm and fingers,” the doctor explained. “With proper care and physical therapy, we expect a full recovery.”
Will I still be able to work in the kitchen? The question burned in her throat, but something deeper whispered a different concern. Is that what I really want?
The doctor scrolled through her records. “While there are no fractures, you’re dealing with a moderate ankle sprain,” she explained. “The recent incident complicated what appears to have been an initial mild sprain from this morning. This explains the increased discomfort and reduced stability.”
Lily’s heart sank as she processed the implications for her work in the kitchen.
“A moderate sprain typically requires three to six weeks of rehabilitation,” the doctor continued. “Combined with your other injuries, I’m recommending a minimum three-month medical leave.”
“Three months?” The kitchen, the staff, everything I’ve worked for— The thought remained unfinished as the doctor spoke again.
“Working in a professional kitchen would be particularly challenging right now,” the doctor explained, her tone gentle but firm. “We need to monitor your recovery carefully, and there’s the emotional adjustment to consider. Your records indicate a history of high-intensity work environments, and this incident…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes our bodies signal when we need to make changes.”
The doctor made notes in her chart. “I’m recommending follow-up care with specialists and a comprehensive rehabilitation program. There are several excellent options we can explore together.”
The door opened as Chloe and Liv returned, looking refreshed from their break. Chloe carried bright sunflowers, while Liv held her ever-present phone and a thick folder of documents.
“Look who’s awake!” Chloe said warmly. The morning sunlight caught the yellow petals of the sunflowers as Chloe arranged them, brightening the sterile room.
“While you rested,” Liv added, settling into what was clearly ‘her’ chair from the night before, “I did some research. Actually, quite a lot of research.” She patted the folder beside her. “About medical leave options and something interesting about a rehabilitation specialist in Hawaii…”
“Hawaii?” Lily echoed, her attention sharpening. The islands she’d dreamed of visiting, where the ocean met the shore in endless waves of possibility.
“Dr. Chen at Straub Medical Center,” the doctor confirmed, nodding at Liv’s research. “Actually, they have an excellent program that combines comprehensive physical therapy with specialized recovery care. The warm climate and gentle ocean environment can be particularly beneficial for healing.”
Lily shifted slightly, testing her mobility. The resulting discomfort made her pause, drawing a careful breath. Even basic kitchen tasks would be impossible right now, she realized. The thought of navigating her cramped kitchen on an unstable ankle made her stomach tighten. Maybe a change of pace wasn’t just an option—it might be a necessity.
“I’ve reviewed all the HR policies and your benefits package,” Liv said, consulting her notes. “The company’s medical leave policy explicitly allows for out-of-state treatment as long as it’s with licensed medical professionals. And your insurance…” she pulled out a highlighted document, “actually lists Straub Medical Center as a preferred provider.”
“But will HR approve—” Lily began.
“Once the doctor submits the medical recommendation,” Liv assured her, “they’re required to accommodate your recovery plan. I can help you draft the formal request, ensuring everything’s properly documented.”
“We’ve been discussing it,” Ethan added, gesturing between himself and her friends. “I have that research conference coming up, and Liv found out that the timing would work perfectly with your treatment schedule.”
The doctor nodded approvingly. “Many patients find that a change of environment supports their recovery process. It can help create new, positive associations and promote overall healing.”
The doctor excused herself, the soft click of the door punctuating her departure. The sweet fragrance of sunflowers drifted through the room as Chloe arranged them, their bright yellow petals catching the afternoon light.
“And you won’t be alone,” Chloe added, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. She glanced at Liv before continuing, “We’ve been talking about it all night. I can work on my art anywhere…”
“And my firm has that satellite office in Honolulu,” Liv chimed in, tapping her folder meaningfully.
“Well,” Chloe said, her green eyes twinkling with gentle humor, “I must say, that bandage gives you a certain elegance. Very regal.”
Despite everything, Lily found herself smiling. Trust Chloe to find light in any situation.
“Just don’t try any formal curtsies,” Liv added with a warm smirk, “or we’ll have to explain quite a bit to the nursing staff.”
The laughter that followed eased some of the tension in the room. As it faded, Ethan leaned forward in his chair, his expression growing serious.
“So,” Ethan began carefully, “what do you think about Hawaii? A real break, somewhere peaceful. Somewhere with healing energy.”
Lily looked between them, their faces full of hope and concern. The memory of her vision—waves crashing against volcanic rocks, palm trees swaying in the trade winds—washed over her. Her grandmother’s prayer echoed in her mind: Help me find my rightful place. Something shifted inside her, like the turning of a tide.
“I…” she started, then paused, feeling the weight of change settling around her. “I think I’d like that.”
The smile that spread across Ethan’s face warmed her heart. “Then it’s settled. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Oh!” Ethan suddenly straightened. “I promised Mom and Dad I’d call the moment you woke up. They’ve been worried.” He pulled out his phone and dialed, putting it on speaker.
Their mother answered on the first ring. “Ethan? Is she—”
“I’m here, Mom,” Lily said softly.
“Oh, sweetheart!” Their mother’s voice cracked with emotion. “How are you feeling?
Lily shifted against her pillows. “I’m okay, Mom.”
“We’ve been so worried.” A rustling sound, then, “John! John, come quick—it’s Lily!”
Their father’s footsteps approached in the background. “Sweetheart?” His voice was breathless with concern. “Are you really okay?”
“We wanted to fly down immediately, but Ethan said—” her mother began.
“I’ve got her, Mom,” Ethan interjected. “Actually, we’ve been discussing a plan…” He outlined the Hawaii proposal, emphasizing the medical benefits and professional care available.
There was a moment of silence before their father spoke. “Hawaii? That’s… that’s actually perfect. Remember how the ocean always helped you heal when you were little?”
“Your father’s right,” their mother added. “And it would do you good to step back from that intense kitchen environment for a while. We’ve been worried about you, sweetheart. You’ve been carrying so much…”
“Has anyone…” her mother hesitated, “has anyone contacted Julian?”
The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Lily’s heart monitor betrayed a slight acceleration in its steady beeping. Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the sheet, and a familiar knot formed in her throat—the same one she’d felt that last night in their apartment. Not now. Not here.
“No,” Lily said firmly… then softer, “and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” The steady beeping of her heart monitor gradually returned to its normal rhythm.
Ethan and her friends exchanged knowing looks, but didn’t press the issue. Chloe squeezed her hand supportively.
“Well, at least tell me you’re really okay, sweetheart,” her mother pressed. “You sound tired.”
Lily caught Ethan’s eye as he opened his mouth to mention her ankle. She gave a slight shake of her head—no need to add to their worry. Her brother frowned but respected her wishes.
“I’m okay, Mom,” Lily assured her, keeping her voice steady. “Just resting. The doctors are taking good care of me.”
Her father’s voice came through, concern evident in his tone. “You always say you’re okay, even when you’re not. Remember that time in high school when you worked through that fever at the diner?”
Lily managed a soft laugh, though the memory of her determination struck close to home. “Dad, I promise I’m following doctor’s orders this time.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow at her selective truth-telling but kept quiet about both her ankle and the full extent of her injuries. Some things were better explained in person, when their parents couldn’t immediately drive down to New York.
“All right, sweetheart,” her mother said carefully, clearly sensing the unspoken tension. “Whatever you think is best.”
After ending the call, Lily gazed out the hospital window. Somewhere beyond the city’s steel and glass canyon, she could almost feel the Pacific calling. Perhaps Marco had been right—sometimes the sea did know its own.
“We’ll be back later,” Chloe promised, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
As they filed out of the room, their voices fading down the hallway, Lily closed her eyes. Images of turquoise waters and swaying palm trees filled her mind, replacing the harsh stainless steel of her kitchen. The relentless pace, the pressure—it all began to fade.
The steady beeping of the monitors blended into a soothing lullaby as she drifted into sleep. Dreams of Hawaii intertwined with hopes for a better life, weaving together like waves meeting the shore. For the first time since the accident, since even before that, really, the tightness in her chest began to ease. Perhaps change wasn’t something to fear, but rather a tide to carry her home.
end of Chapter one.