I was awakened at seven the next morning by whimpering. No, it was more like mewling, and it was coming from Monk’s room.
I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and shuffled over to the door between our rooms. I pressed my ear against the door.
“Mr. Monk?” I said. “Is that you?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve been asking myself the same question since dawn.”
I tried the knob. The door was unlocked.
I walked in to find Monk standing in the corner, his back to the wall. He was wearing his usual suit, with his starched white shirt buttoned up to his neck. The bed was made, though the bedspread had been removed, folded, and placed out on the lanai. The aloha shirt and the bathing suit he’d worn yesterday were folded and placed in the garbage can.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I woke up in bed,” Monk said. “Beneath that bedspread.”
He tipped his head toward the bedspread as if it were a wild animal.
“Do you know how many people have sat on that bedspread?” Monk said. “Toilet seats in public restrooms are more sanitary, and I slept under it.”
Monk shivered from head to toe, then shook his head. He held out his hand toward me.
“Wipe,” he said.
“I don’t have any, I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to pick some up yet.”
“I didn’t pack any either,” he said. “Can you believe it? Was I insane?”
“Actually, you were more or less normal,” I said. “Compared to other people, that is.”
“It’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Monk said. “Or Bruce Banner and the Hulk.”
“You have no memory of what you did yesterday?”
“Worse,” he said. “I remember it all.”
He cringed and I cringed for him.
“You have to put it all out of your mind or you’ll be paralyzed,” I said. “I suggest you take another pill and grab the next flight home.”
“I’m staying,” Monk said.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll go crazy at home by myself,” Monk said. “I’m not very good alone. Besides, I need to unwind.”
“Isn’t that what you did yesterday?”
He recoiled from the thought, doing that full-body shiver of his.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk. That was a low blow.”
Monk acknowledged my apology with a slight nod. “If you really want me to go, I will.”
I almost said yes, but then realized that if I did, I’d feel even guiltier than I had leaving him behind in San Francisco.
“If you’re going to stay, we need to have an understanding. You have to be on your best behavior.”
“You won’t even know I’m here. Except that I’m going to be with you all the time. More or less. Mostly more.”
“Exactly, so this week doesn’t count as my vacation. This is work. I still have all my vacation days coming to me.”
“You don’t have any vacation days.”
“We’ll have that fight another time,” I said. “I’m here to relax.”
“Me, too. You should start packing.”
“Packing? For what?”
“Our move to new rooms,” Monk said. “I can’t stay in this one.”
“Why not?”
His gaze drifted over to the desk. I saw three envelopes and four pieces of hotel stationery. I stifled a smile. In a strange way, it was a relief to have the Monk I knew back again.
“I see,” I said.
I walked over to the desk, tore one of the pieces of stationery in half, and dropped the pieces into the trash can.
“Problem solved,” I said.
I called housekeeping to come empty Monk’s garbage and take his bedspread away before he set fire to it. Then I called the concierge to see if there was any place on the island that carried Sierra Springs bottled water, the only water Monk drank, and Wet Ones disinfectant wipes, the only wipes Monk trusted.
God was on my side. The hotel had a plentiful stock of Sierra Springs water and the gift shop sold Wet Ones. Crisis averted. I asked them to charge a case of each to Mr. Monk’s account and bring them up to his room right away.
I also asked them to bring up a bowl of Chex cereal for him (he loves those little squares) and an order of macadamia pancakes, fresh pineapple, and hot coffee for me.
I showered, put on a sundress, and met Monk on his lanai for breakfast. He was still wearing his shirt, jacket, slacks, and loafers, despite the humidity and the heat.
“Aren’t you uncomfortable in all that?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “No.”
“Okay, but you’re going to be overdressed for the wedding,” I said. “It’s Hawaii-casual.”
“I can be Hawaii-casual.” He went into his room, took off his coat, hung it up in the closet, and came back out on the lanai. “Voilà.”
I was suffocating just looking at him.
“How about opening up your collar and rolling up your sleeves?”
“Maybe I should do a whole striptease while I’m at it,” Monk said. And then he was stricken by a new thought. “Wait. Is this a nudist wedding?”
“No, of course not.”
He sighed with relief and wagged a finger at me. “You had me going there for a minute.”
“We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?”
“Not that kind of fun,” he said.
Mr. Monk Speaks Up
The wedding ceremony took place in the hotel’s secluded luau garden, which was ringed by a sunburst of blossoming tropical flowers—white orchids, crimson bougainvillea, yellow allamandas, blazing red anthuriums, cups of gold, and birds-of-paradise. Those flowers were complemented by stunning bouquets prepared for the wedding and placed throughout the garden. Even the guests themselves were flowery. All the guests, with the exception of Monk, wore fresh plumeria leis and floral aloha wear.
A Hawaiian band sang “Ke Kali Nei Au,” which was to the islands what Peter, Paul, and Mary’s “The Wedding Song” is on the mainland. But the music was hardly necessary. The singsong chirp of island birds and the natural rhythm
