Kaua'i Me a River Read online

  “Aloha. And mahalo to everyone for being so prompt.” Her wide smile pulled her cheeks taut against well-defined cheekbones. “Let’s move into the conference room, shall we?”

  The teenager stayed put while the rest of us trooped down a short hall. We entered a room with an oval wooden table with eight chairs around it. On one wall, a wide window faced the mountain dubbed “Bali Hai” in the old movie, South Pacific. In the far corner sat a small flat-screen television on a rolling cart.

  While everyone found seats around the table I gawked out the window. By the time I turned to take a seat the only chair available was the one at Croc-woman’s left. I sat down. As we settled in, a guy in more-or-less professional attire—starched beige cotton aloha shirt, tan slacks and brown leather loafers—came in. He closed the door and stood in front of it with his arms crossed like a bank guard trying to look official.

  “Again, aloha, and mahalo for your presence here today,” said Croc-woman. She smiled at the guy standing by the door and he gave her an ‘atta-girl’ nod of the head. “Please accept my special mahalo to those of you who took time off from work and traveled to be here today.” From the looks of things she was talking to me. The other women looked like they’d taken time off from retail therapy at Honolulu’s Ala Moana Shopping Center and then a fifty-dollar girls’ lunch at the Royal Hawaiian.

  “My name is Valentine Fabares. My surname is French so it’s pronounced, ‘Fah-bray,’ but I’m born and raised here on Kaua'i. I’m the attorney of record for the estate. I’m joined here this morning by my colleague, Tim Abbott, the CPA who assisted me with the financial reports.” The guy by the door raised his hand as if the teacher was taking roll.

  “Is this everyone?” said one of the women at the table. She had a prominent mole at the side of her upper lip and it was hard not to fix on it. Also, she looked older than the others by at least a decade. But it was hard to judge ages. As I scanned the group I guessed there’d been a fair amount of nipping and tucking, not to mention Botox. The lip mole woman went on, “I mean, are there others who aren’t here today?”

  “Just one,” said Valentine. “But besides her, the people sitting at this table constitute the entire group representing the named heirs. There may be unnamed heirs who come forward later as a result of public notification, but I doubt it. But please, let’s agree to hold all questions until after the reading of the will, shall we?”

  Reading of the will? My mom had a will? Why had it taken thirty years to unearth her will? And why isn’t my brother here?

  “Let’s begin.” Valentine Fabares cleared her throat and began reading the last will and testament of one Phillip James Wilkerson, the Third. The will started off stating his birthdate, place of employment and addresses of various homes he claimed to own. The guy must’ve been loaded. He had three homes on various islands in Hawaii, two on the mainland, and an apartment in Portofino, Italy. Then Valentine read a line that stopped me cold, “I have used other names during the course of my lifetime, including the names Jim Wilkes and Coyote Moon.”

  I sucked in a breath. For a few moments I held it in. It was as if a cog in my brain had frozen up and shut the whole thing down. I had to consciously remind myself to do stuff that was usually automatic, like breathing and blinking.

  So, this meeting wasn’t about my mother or how she died. This meeting was about my father, Phillip James Wilkerson, the Third. He’d taken off when I was just a baby, but not before claiming me as his child. I’d often pondered my parents’ names on my birth certificate and wondered if they were fake. My mother’s name was listed as Martha Warner. The name typed on the ‘father’ line was Coyote P. Moon, of Hanalei, Hawaii.

  CHAPTER 7

  Valentine Fabares kept on reading, but for the next few minutes I didn’t take in much of what she said. I was otherwise occupied, listening to a seashell-like rush of sound that blotted out the world around me. I’d long ago given up any hope of finding my father so being invited to the reading of his will was about as shocking as being fingered for a crime I hadn’t committed.

  “…and my fourth wife was Linda Gardner Wilkerson, by whom I had two children, Kali Elizabeth Wilkerson and Nathaniel Robert Wilkerson. Their last known address was 2025 Apu’a’a Street in Honolulu, Hawaii. The children’s social security numbers are…” At that point, I tuned out again. How had Wilkerson gotten everyone’s addresses and social security numbers? Had Valentine already read my address and social security number? How had I missed that?

  She went on reading, “My sixth wife was Susanne Marie Beatty Wilkerson. This union produced no known children. Her last known address was…”

  I looked up at a clock on the wall. Valentine had been reading for more than five minutes. She ended with, “This is my last will and testament, hereby sworn to and witnessed on this day, Thursday, the fifth of August, 2010.”

  The room was hushed. The youngest-looking of my father’s former spouses dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Two others looked as if they were dying to dig out their smart phones and update their Facebook status. The blousy blond sitting next to me glared as if daring anyone to say a good word about the deceased.

  “So that’s it?” said Lip Mole Woman. “What about the money? And if Phil had six wives and one of them isn’t here, why are there seven women, including you of course, sitting at this table?”

  It seemed to take a couple of the gals longer than necessary to do the math.

  “I’ll take your last question first,” said Valentine. Her voice sounded like she’d gone to the same Homeland Security hostage negotiation class I had. We’d been taught a voice tone referred to as ‘CLC’—calm, low, and clear. We did a series of role plays learning to speak as if we were discussing the weather when we knew perfectly well the guy we were talking to had a loaded gun shoved to the temple of a terrified hostage. My negotiator voice had come in handy more than a few times in dealing with overwrought brides. A blue ink spot on the bodice of a four-thousand dollar wedding gown? Use the CLC voice to talk her down off the ledge. Or how about dealing with a trophy-wife stepmother showing up in the same dress, three sizes smaller, as the mother-of-the-bride? Again, go with the CLC voice to review the options.

  Valentine smiled as she looked around the table and then she nodded to the guy standing by the door. “Pardon me. I was remiss in not asking everyone to introduce themselves. Shall we do that now? I think after all the introductions are made, you’ll see why we have six people here this morning instead of five.”

  Valentine gestured for the woman on her right to begin. I pulled out a little notebook and pen I keep in my purse. I had a feeling I may need to remember who was who later on. The first woman said her name was Linda Gardner, formerly Linda Wilkerson, and she’d been Phil’s fourth wife.

  The lip mole woman introduced herself as Phil’s first wife, Margaret Chesterton. She said she went by ‘Peggy’ and she was the mother of Phil’s two oldest children. She said her father had been chief of police for the Kaua'i Police Department before becoming the mayor in 1982. She went on to say she’d known Valentine Fabares for years, even decades.

  “I remember when you first passed the bar exam,” she said. “Daddy introduced you at a Chamber of Commerce event and you inadvertently referred to him as ‘Chief Chesterton’ instead of ‘Mister Mayor’.” She shot Valentine a smug smile that wasn’t returned.

  Next to her was the young blond who’d dabbed at her eyes during the reading of the will. She looked to be my age, maybe even a little younger. When she spoke, her voice was low and breathy. She said her name was Susanne Wilkerson, but she liked to be called Sunny. She said she was not only Phil’s sixth wife but also his widow. She was with him when he died and she’d still be with him if he’d been able to beat the cancer. Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat. In the momentary silence I studied her appearance. Her skin was smooth and clear, her short blond bob perfectly coifed. I wouldn’t venture to guess the ages of most of the women in the room, but I
’d bet money Sunny was at least ten to twelve years younger than the others.

  “I know you all have different memories and experiences of Phil,” Sunny said. “But he was my entire world. Every morning when I wake up I thank God we had the time together that we had. I just wish it could’ve been longer.”

  At that, the first wife—Peggy—piped up. “Be careful what you wish for, honey. As you can see, Phil wasn’t so good when it came to the long haul. The good news is, at least he never got off cheap.”

  The women around the table nodded.

  “Amen,” said one.

  “You got that right, honey,” said another.

  Valentine broke in. “Ladies, let’s try to keep this to introductions only. We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

  The next woman spoke with a slight lisp. She said her name was Rita O’Reilly, formerly Rita Wilkerson, and she’d been Phil’s second wife. She said that her marriage to Phil had been a short one but they’d managed to stay together long enough to have one child. She finished by saying she had no idea why she, and not her college-age daughter, had been summoned to the reading of Philip’s will.

  The woman sitting to my right was the blousy blond who’d asked about other heirs before Valentine had had a chance to lay down the ground rules. She introduced herself in a booming voice as Joanie Bush, Phil’s third wife. She said she and Phil had been blessed with twins. She said even though they were grown now, she knew the twins missed their father every day.

  She said she’d never taken Phil’s name when they married because she wanted to keep her professional name. Her cutesy name, stupendous boob job and spikey mass of white-blond hair made me wonder exactly what profession she’d been in.

  Finally, it was my turn. I looked around at the assemblage of nuptial train wrecks that had graced my father’s bed and said, “My name is Pali Moon. I guess I’m Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter. I didn’t even know who my father was until just a few minutes ago.” I looked across the table at Peggy. “And, I think I’m actually his oldest child. He was only twenty when I was born.”

  The room began buzzing with side conversations. Joanie Bush, the blond to my right, practically spat at Valentine. “What the hell’s going on here? You said Phil specified wives only; no kids.”

  Valentine put up her palms in an apparent effort to deflect Joanie’s anger. “Yes, I know. But that brings us to your earlier question, Miss Bush—”

  “It’s Mrs. Bush,” Joanie interrupted. “I remarried, although God knows after Phil it was a miracle I found it in my heart to ever trust a man again.”

  “Yes, well, Mrs. Bush,” said Valentine. “As I was saying, we’re now ready to address your question regarding the distribution of assets. The information will be provided by means of a video that Mr. Wilkerson made at the time he drafted his will. Of course there’s a formal written bequest as well, but he asked me to play the video before making copies of the bequest available.”

  Valentine went to the corner of the room and fiddled with a DVD player on the TV cart. Then she asked Tim Abbott, the guy standing by the door, if he’d lower the window shades. Tim’s upper lip was moist and when he reached up to pull the shade release I saw an underarm sweat patch. Valentine also seemed a little shaky, but I attributed it to calorie-deprivation and working under the scrutiny of a gaggle of greedy women.

  When the TV sparked to life I blinked at the brightness in the darkened room. The first image was a vivid blue background with the words “Last Will and Testament of Phillip J. Wilkerson III” on it. Hawaiian slack key guitar music played in the background as the words faded and were replaced by the date ‘August 2011’ and then the words ‘Peace of Paradise, Hawaii’ were added.

  The blue title slide was replaced by a sweeping view of lawn, cityscape, ocean, and sky. Judging from the city skyline I determined the shot must’ve been taken from a hill overlooking Honolulu.

  The camera panned to reveal a man sitting in a wheelchair on a ground level lanai. Behind him was a wall of glass and to his right a pool of water, probably a fish pond or a reflecting pool.

  As the camera zoomed in, I got a good look at my father’s face. He had a high forehead with thinning brown hair. His features were pretty average except for a thin, sharp nose. His steely eyes stared back at the camera as if challenging it to judge him. On a small table at his side was a cut-crystal highball glass with a wedge of lime perched on the rim.

  He wore what appeared to be an expensive aloha shirt, maybe Tommy Bahama, and light tan slacks. The video seemed to be professionally shot. Smooth panning, good lighting, skillful focusing. I’ve had to sit through enough poorly-produced wedding videos that I can spot good work when I see it. Wilkerson didn’t display even the slightest evidence of uneasiness at being in front of a camera. No anxious twitches or self-conscious smiles. Although he appeared wan and somewhat emaciated, his jowly neckline hinted that at one time he’d probably been overweight.

  I shifted in my chair as I took in his face. I’d studied my own facial profile both in photos and in the mirror so I was well-aware my own beak tended more toward hawk than sparrow. And I’d always considered my forehead to be a bit high. I cover it with a fringe of bangs that I cut myself when they extend below my eyebrows. Phil Wilkerson’s light brown hair—what was left of it—was the same color as mine if you didn’t factor in the peroxide-aided highlights Farrah had talked me into in a few weeks back.

  The camera went in for a close-up and Phil, aka Coyote Moon, began to speak.

  “Aloha. My name is Phil Wilkerson. I’m the President and CEO of Island Paradise Cable, the largest provider of cable and Internet services in the Hawaiian Islands. I was born in Portland, Oregon on June seventh, nineteen-fifty-eight. My parents, now deceased, were Gladys and Phillip Wilkerson Junior, of Portland, Oregon. My father owned Oregon Ferrous and Foundry, a steel mill on the Willamette River. Before moving to Hawaii I enjoyed a comfortable childhood with two loving parents. I had one brother, Robert. He was wounded in the Vietnam War in 1973 and took his own life eight years later.” At this Phil bit his lower lip, as if the memory still stung.

  I glanced around the dim room. It appeared Phil’s family saga was old news to everyone else. But it was certainly new news to me.

  He went on. “I attended the University of Oregon in Eugene, the alma mater of Phil Knight, the founder of a little company called Nike. Before college, I took some time off to see the world and I came to Hawaii. I stayed longer than I’d planned. For almost two years, nineteen-seventy-five and seventy-six, I lived a totally carefree life. I spent some time on the north shore of Kaua'i in an area known as Taylor Camp. I’ve always considered my Taylor Camp days precious. Although I’ve done well for myself in business, I’ve never forgotten the many dear friends I made there. ”

  Many dear friends? My mother was no more to this guy than a dear friend? What did that make me—an acquaintance? I felt my face flush. The rushing sound in my ears returned and it was so loud and distracting I found it difficult to hear the video. After a few moments of taking in Wilkerson’s almost wolfish smile and watching his lips move, I calmed down enough to once again make out what he was saying.

  “Since you are viewing this video it means my life has ended. I enjoyed life immensely, but even the sweetest moments must come to a close, and that is why I’ve called you all together.”

  At that point he clasped his hands and bowed his head. Then he closed his eyes. We all sat there, waiting. I got the distinct impression this self-indulgent pause in the action was a glimpse into the true character of Phillip James Wilkerson, the Third.

  He opened his eyes. At that point, Valentine cleared her throat and got up and went to stand next to Tim Abbott by the door. As I took in Valentine’s impassive face and erect posture, I couldn’t help but feel she was positioning herself for a quick getaway.

  ***

  Phil Wilkerson stared straight into the camera lens with a thin smile. Then he leaned in and began to speak again.r />
  “To the extent possible, I have done my best to be a good father. I provided a comfortable lifestyle to my children that knew no bounds. Private schools, blow-out birthday parties and lavish Christmas gifts; my children enjoyed it all. Each got a new sports car at sixteen, and a free ride to any college they could get into. And what did I get in return? Drug abuse, disrespect, and calls from the police in the middle of the night. Of my eight children, only one hasn’t disappointed me. To my eldest daughter, who now calls herself ‘Pali’, I want to apologize for my absence in your life. I had my reasons, but now my reasons don’t matter. I’m sure whatever justice the good Lord has in store for me will be fair. I felt I had no recourse other than the one I chose.”

  I squirmed in my chair as he leaned in and nearly touched his nose to the camera lens. “But know this, Pali. Even though I never contacted you I’ve been watching you. I never lost sight of where you were and what you were doing. I was there when you graduated from the University of Hawaii, and I was pleased when I heard you’d been accepted into the Homeland Security Federal Air Marshal Training program on the mainland. I’m proud of you. You managed to get a college education with no financial or emotional support from either side of your family.”

  It was getting downright embarrassing as my father blathered on about my life. I felt the gaze of everyone in the room shift from watching the screen to watching me.