Chapter 9 - The Thursday Wire
At six-fifteen on Thursday morning, November 20, the temperature outside was twenty-two degrees. The frost on my office window at Little Elm had formed intricate, crystalline fern patterns that obscured the view of the empty playground.
I sat at my desk with an electric space heater ticking beside my ankles, a cup of black tea steaming in my favorite chipped ceramic mug, and my laptop open to the administrative portal of the Hawaiian property management company.
The clock in the lower corner of the screen read: 6:18 AM EST (1:18 AM HST).
I picked up the desk phone and dialed the direct line for the regional office in Lihue.
A woman named Leilani answered on the fourth ring, her voice warm, soft, and slightly sleepy. "Aloha, Hanalei Luxury Escapes. This is an after-hours emergency line; if you are checking in today, please press one."
"Leilani," I said. "My name is Darcy Lynn. I hold reservation number HLE-8842 for the estate on Anini Beach, checking in on December 20."
"Yes, Ms. Lynn! We have your file right here. The private chef has already submitted the preliminary breakfast menus for your party of six. Did you want to confirm the grocery preferences for the organic dairy?"
"I need to execute a full cancellation under the thirty-day clause," I said.
The line went quiet for three seconds, the only sound the faint, ocean-like static of a transpacific cable.
"A full cancellation, ma'am? Today is the exact twentieth... let me look at the timestamp. Yes, you are within the window by five hours. But the holiday season is non-rebookable for us; are you certain you want to release the property? The penalty after noon today is the full thirty-thousand-dollar deposit."
"I am certain," I said. "Please process the refund to the commercial debit card on file and send the confirmation receipt to my business email address."
"Processing now, Ms. Lynn... that is twenty-four thousand eight hundred dollars returning to your card within three to five business days. The five-thousand-dollar security deposit hold has been released."
"Thank you, Leilani."
"Aloha, ma'am. I hope your family is well."
"We are very well," I told her.
I hung up the phone, opened a second browser tab, and logged into my United Airlines MileagePlus account.
Six seats. Row 2, seats A through F, on flight 1442 from Philadelphia to San Francisco, connecting to flight 682 into Lihue. Fully refundable first-class fares, booked through my corporate travel desk six months earlier when our enrollment numbers had hit capacity.
I clicked the red button that said CANCEL RESERVATIONS (ALL PASSENGERS).
A dialog box popped up: ARE YOU SURE? THIS ACTION CANNOT BE UNDONE. A REFUND OF $5,124.00 WILL BE CREDITED TO THE ORIGINAL FORM OF PAYMENT.
I clicked CONFIRM.
The screen flashed green: YOUR TRIPS HAVE BEEN SUCCESSFULLY CANCELED. CANCELLATION NUMBERS: NL882-A THROUGH F.
I sat in the quiet office, listening to the space heater tick as the fan cycled off. The total amount refunded to my business operating account across the two transactions was twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and twenty-four dollars.
At 6:52 AM, I opened my phone’s messaging app, created a group text with Mom, Dad, and Kelsey, and typed twenty-four words:
The Kauai trip is canceled. All six seats and the house. Ren and I will make our own Christmas. Do not go to the airport.
I hit send.
I set the phone on the wooden blotter, took a sip of my tea, and watched the cursor blink.
Ten minutes later, at 7:02 AM, the screen lit up.
Mom: Don't be dramatic, Darcy. We know you're upset about the wedding, but this tantrum is getting ridiculous. Your father and I have already packed our resort wear. We'll see you at the airport on the 20th.
Three minutes later, Dad’s text arrived:
Dad: You wouldn't waste thirty thousand dollars. You’re not that stupid. We'll be at Terminal C at six in the morning like we planned. Have the boarding passes printed.
I did not reply.
I opened a new tab on my browser, navigated to the Alaska Airlines site, and booked two coach-class tickets from Philadelphia to Portland, Oregon, leaving on the morning of December 22. Then I booked four nights at an old, timber-framed hotel on the pier in Astoria where the rooms had wood-burning fireplaces, binoculars on the window sills, and balconies that hung directly over the pilings where the sea lions slept.
The total cost was fourteen hundred and eighty dollars.
The bell above the preschool front door chimed. Renee walked into the kitchen, her wool scarf dusted with the first dry flakes of a morning snow squall.
"You do it?" she asked, leaning through my office door with her gloves still on.
"I did it," I said, showing her the confirmation screen.
May you like
Renee looked at the green text, took off her glasses, wiped them on the hem of her sweatshirt, and put them back on. A slow, wide, magnificent smile spread across her face—the smile of a woman who had just watched a heavy bridge clear a flooded river.
"Well," Renee said, hanging her coat on the peg behind the door. "Let's go put the oatmeal on for the four-year-olds. They’re going to be hungry today."
