JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby Page 6

  I slowly lowered my hands, sticking my right paw out for a handshake.

  “Pali Moon,” I said. “From ‘Let’s Get Maui’d.”

  He allowed that to roll around in his cavernous skull for a few seconds, and then said, “Oh, I get it. Yeah. I’m Lono. I work here. I live here, too, but mostly I’m here working.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lono.”

  “You come wit’ me,” he said. “I’ll get you my mom’s numba. Right now she’s over at my sista’s place on O’ahu, but she’ll be back by Monday.”

  I followed him to his caretaker bungalow. I had a hunch that after talking to Lono’s mother, my anxiety about being able to get what I needed on Moloka’i was either gonna get a whole lot better or a whole lot worse.

  ***

  His mother’s name was Malama. I never did get her full name, but I had her phone number so that was enough. I jogged back to the car while listening to Hatch’s voicemail message on my phone.

  “Pali, it’s me,” he said. “I’m starting to get a little worried about you. Call when you get this.”

  I called and offered a thumbnail version of the events of the last hour. I promised I’d be back within a half-hour, and so, once again I pushed the decades-old Geo to its limits all the way back to the condo.

  Hatch met me at the door.

  “Are you okay?” he said. “You looked spooked.”

  I filled him in on my encounter with Lono, aka Machete Man, but told him it had ended amicably.

  “I had a great time surfing,” he said. “Empty beaches and nobody in my way on the good waves. We should come over here more often.”

  That night, Hatch grilled the fish we’d picked up at the market, and I made a salad. Afterwards, we sat outside watching the moon edge its way across a star-flecked sky.

  “It sure is quiet here,” Hatch said.

  “Yeah. Almost too quiet.”

  “So, the place where they’re having the wedding is nice?”

  “It’s fantastic. It’s even more la-di-dah than your Australian movie maker’s spread in Sprecklesville.”

  “Oh yeah? How so?” He sounded a little put off; as if I’d dissed him personally by saying his landlord’s fancy compound on Maui had been one-upped by George Bustamante’s swanky beach house.

  “Well, first of all, it’s directly on the beach. I bet there’s at least a football field of totally secluded beach right in front of the property. The house itself is huge, along with ohana cottages, and barns, and three or four huge garages. I’d say the estate takes up a good four or five acres.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you what: I know you want to go to Kaulapapa tomorrow, but let’s leave a little early and I’ll take you by there. You can’t imagine how beautiful it is.”

  Hatch folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. His facial expression was almost brooding in the gathering darkness.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking. Do you ever regret saying, ‘yes’?”

  “What are you talking about?

  “I had to practically hog-tie you to get you to say ‘yes’ to marrying me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m just wondering if on days like this—you know, when you see how the one-percenters live—if you have second thoughts about hooking up with a humble smoke-eater like me.”

  I went over and sat in his lap. I leaned in and gave him a kiss. “You know,” I said. “I was a one-percenter for a little while, remember? It didn’t suit me, so I got rid of it. You suit me. I never want to get rid of you.”

  “You promise?” he said.

  “Isn’t that what marriage is? A promise.”

  ***

  The next morning we asked about going to the Kaluapapa Settlement, but the woman who ran the condo office said it was closed on Sundays.

  “You know, there are still Hansen’s Disease patients living there,” she said. “They’re cured now, but they still have the scars. Tours go down there every day, so Sunday’s the only day the residents have the place to themselves.”

  “Mahalo,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to check out Kalaupapa another time.”

  We walked out to the Geo and I offered to drive. The car was stifling inside. Hatch cranked on the A/C, but all the little blower could do was simply move the hot stale air around, no sign of cooling.

  “Since we can’t go down to Kalaupapa, what would you like to do today?” I said. I felt a trickle of sweat creeping down my spine.

  “Why don’t we go to the beach out by your swanky wedding place?” said Hatch. “When I was surfing yesterday I ran into a guy who told me Papohaku Beach is over three miles long and three-hundred feet wide. The locals claim it’s the biggest white sand beach in Hawaii.”

  “I thought Waikiki was the biggest,” I said.

  “Nope. The dude said the Hawaii PR machine likes the tourists to think that, so they can keep them corralled on O’ahu. But he swore this one’s bigger. And it’s no doubt cleaner. Did I ever tell you about what a tourist brought in to the station when I was still with HPD? He claimed he’d found it on Waikiki Beach.”

  “I have a hunch it’s gonna be something disgusting.”

  “You got that right. It was a finger. A human pinkie finger. Cut cleanly at the first joint. We ran the print but didn’t get a match.”

  “Mahalo for that visual, Hatch.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve seen way worse stuff than that.”

  “True.”

  As we drove past the verdant green fields of rural Moloka’i under a wide sapphire-blue sky dotted with towering white clouds, it was hard to imagine the pain and misery people inflicted on each other. I’d certainly seen my share. But I felt a sea change coming, and things were looking up. I’d spent quite enough of the past few years immersed in the sticky drama of other people’s lives. It felt good to be finally coming up for air.

  CHAPTER 9

  One innate talent I’m especially grateful for is my built-in navigation system. Like a human homing pigeon, I can always find my way back to anywhere I’ve been before. I have no idea how I do it. It’s just there, in the back of my head, like a GPS that doesn’t require an external power source.

  I deftly made the trip to George Bustamante’s beach house with no false turns, no consulting the map.

  “That’s quite a wall,” said Hatch. We’d pulled up and parked on the street outside of the formidable lava rock barricade that kept the public from viewing the jaw-dropping property on the other side.

  “Wait ‘til you see the rest of the place,” I said.

  We walked through the opening in the wall and I shouted for Lono, hoping to avoid another scene with the machete.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Let’s try the house,” I said. We went up to the double doors and I knocked. Again, no answer.

  From the landing outside the front entrance, the view of the ocean was as good as it gets. The blue-black water sparkled as if thousands of brilliant-cut diamonds had been tossed across its velvet surface; and above, the clear blue sky remained unmarred by even a single cloud or stray jet contrail.

  “Is that O’ahu?” said Hatch, pointing to a low dark form at the far end of the horizon.

  “I think so. We’re facing west, so that would be the next island over.”

  After knocking again and still failing to raise anyone inside, we began to make our way back down to the sidewalk. Suddenly, the front door flew open and a florid-faced older man stepped out onto the landing.

  “Who goes there?” he boomed. His face was haloed by a mane of yellowish, limp gray hair with lengthy strands that nearly brushed his shoulders. His hands were gnarled into fists.

  I stepped up and offered my hand. “Aloha,” I said. “My name is Pali Moon. I’m the wedding planner Richard and Amanda hired to do their wedding.”

  He didn’t shake my hand, which was okay with me as I wasn’t sure if he was able to unclench his fists.


  “Ha!” he barked. “Bad idea, that one.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure if he was referring to them hiring me, or the marriage in general, so I didn’t let on.

  “May we take a look inside the house?” I said. “I’d like to get an idea of how we’ll set up for the different venues—you know, the ceremony, the dinner, and so on.”

  “I told them they had to keep it outside,” he said. “No one allowed in my house.”

  “Oh. But we’ll need access to the kitchen,” I said.

  “There are full kitchens in both of those ohanas,” he said, gesturing to the guesthouses down by the pool. “I’ll allow you to use them, as long as you clean up after yourself.”

  “May I see them?”

  “What’s to see? They’re kitchens. Stove, refrigerator, microwave; each one is fully stocked.”

  “Mind if we look around a little at the grounds? I suppose we could do the ceremony by the pool and then have the dinner on the lanai.”

  “The lanai is part of the house,” he countered.

  “Yeah, but it’s outside.”

  We stared each other down like two cats who’d come to use the lone litter box at the same time; neither willing to give way to the other.

  “I suppose I can allow you to eat up there,” he said. “But the sliding doors will be locked. If people need to use the john, they’ll have to use the ones in the ohanas.” He paused. “How many people are we talking about here?”

  “Fifteen. Maybe a few more.”

  “Ah.” He shook his head but his ratty hair stayed put. The shaggy locks made him look a lot like that guy in the old Beetlejuice movie.

  Throughout the negotiation, Hatch had discreetly remained at the far end of the sidewalk. George Bustamante turned and went back into the house, slamming the door as a final coda to what he must have considered a less than agreeable duet.

  “That was the groom’s friend?” Hatch said as we walked back to the car. “I didn’t catch it all, but he didn’t sound happy. Maybe he’s pissed your guy didn’t ask him to be ‘best man.’”

  “No, that’s not it. The two are in business together, and this week something bad happened at work. George must be having second thoughts about offering his place for the wedding.”

  “Can you move it somewhere else?” Hatch said.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask Lono’s mother when I talk to her.”

  I drove us back to Papohaku Beach Park, where I’d been yesterday, and parked the car.

  “Here we are,” I said. “The biggest beach in Hawaii.”

  “According to the locals,” said Hatch. “Let’s check it out for ourselves.”

  We walked through a wide grassy area shaded by a thick grove of kiawe trees. When we topped the small dune that blocked the view to the beach beyond it was like being in an airplane and coming out of thick cloud cover into bright sunshine.

  The beach stretched wide on either side of us for as far as I could see. The soft sand sloped down to the water, unblemished by even a single footprint. The effect made me gasp. I’d never seen such an unspoiled, pristine beach.

  “Wow,” said Hatch. “Can you believe this?”

  “No. And people think Hana is secluded? This is like ‘land on Mars and find a beach’ secluded.”

  “Do you want to walk the whole three miles?” he said. “There’s got to be somebody else out here.”

  But there wasn’t. We walked the entire length of Papohaku Beach and only encountered one other person: a woman coming through the park as we were going back to the car.

  I felt a little sorry for her. She’d have to put up with seeing our footprints until the waves obliged and wiped them away.

  “I can’t believe we never heard of this place,” said Hatch.

  “Seems there’s a lot about this island we’ve never heard of,” I said.

  After our long slog through the soft sand, we were famished.

  “Do you think there’s a restaurant on this end of the island?” Hatch said.

  We drove back toward town, slowing at every wide spot in the road, but we didn’t find a single eating establishment.

  “Not even a huli-huli chicken stand,” Hatch said. “I guess that’s what you get for having a beach all to yourself. But, seriously, how tough could it be to throw some chicken parts over a fire in a sawed-off oil drum? There’s no competition. A guy could make a fortune.”

  “You thinking of looking into Moloka’i real estate?” I said.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “You know me, always thinking about the next big adventure. But this place may be a little too rural for us.”

  The word “us” seemed to hang in the air like the scent of a plumeria tree in full bloom. I’d never been part of an “us” relationship before I met Hatch. Oh, I’d had boyfriends now and then. I even had an embarrassing crush on an instructor at air marshal training in New Jersey. But I’d never been inextricably linked with a guy enough to use the word “us” to describe my future.

  We had to drive all the way back to Kaunakakai before finding a place to grab lunch.

  ***

  After lunch, we spent a leisurely afternoon doing what my auntie Mana had euphemistically referred to as “reading the newspaper.” She and her long-time boyfriend used to disappear into her bedroom on lazy Sunday afternoons, telling us kids to go outside and play and don’t come back in unless someone was bleeding or unconscious. I now realize how precious that alone time was for her and Paka. With sometimes up to eight kids in the house, and most of us not even related to her by blood or marriage, her nights were often interrupted with bad dreams, requests for drinks of water, or sleepwalking.

  Later that afternoon, Hatch packed up his things to get ready to leave. I was surprised by how sad I felt about seeing him go. We were finally communicating better than we had for months, and I’d allowed myself to get over my skittishness about “’til death do us part.”

  Hatch had stuck by me as I’d slogged through the minefield of self-doubt and trust issues brought about by losing both of my parents before I was six. And, although I used to prefer sleeping alone, now when I wake in the night and hear his soft snuffly breathing, it soothes me back to sleep. I’m still not the poster child of “let it be” but I’m working on it.

  I was envious of Farrah and Ono: two people who’d probably never even considered, let alone talked about, trust issues in their marriage. Ono’s cheerful disposition was hard-fought after losing his first wife to cancer and then spiraling into a morass of grief, fueled by out-of-control alcoholism. But thanks to his employer who’d introduced him to Bill W, he’d come out the other side stronger, more resilient, and with a sunny-side up attitude that had become even more so since meeting Farrah.

  That night, we went into town for an early dinner at the Paddler’s Inn. The name comes from the grueling Moloka’i to O’ahu World Paddleboard Contest that’s held each summer. Competitors come from all over the world to paddle over thirty-two miles across some of the roughest water on the planet. Didn’t sound like a good time to me, but I could see the envy in Hatch’s eyes as he gazed at the photos of the winners.

  “Wow, wouldn’t that be awesome?” he said.

  “To do it; or to win it?”

  “To survive it,” he said with a laugh.

  The restaurant was a large open room, with a long bar along the back wall, tables and chairs in the middle, and a low stage at right angles to the bar. The casual ambiance was reinforced by an almost tent-like feel, since the side walls were just wooden lattice: open to the evening breeze.

  Hatch ordered a beer and I had white wine. While we waited for our food to arrive, the entertainment for the evening started setting up. The band was made up of four locals—three men and a sixty-something woman—who played a wide repertoire of songs, from old Hawaiian favorites to the Beatles.

  We had to hurry dinner a bit, since Hatch was catching the last flight to Kahului at seven-thirty.

  Our waitress came to pick
up our plates. “You guys want to see the dessert menu?” she said.

  “Mahalo, but no. I’ve got to get to the airport,” Hatch said.

  “You going, too?” she said to me.

  “No, I’m sticking around for another day or so,” I said. “I’m doing a job over here.”

  She looked like she was eager to hear what the job entailed, but I just shot her a smile.

  “You going for hot bread tonight?” she said. “I think the cream cheese is back.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “You know, hot bread. From the Kanemitsu Bakery.”

  I continued to look confused, so she explained, “It starts at eighty-thirty, maybe nine. They open the back door to the bakery and you get fresh bread, right out of the oven. It comes with toppings. They ran out of cream cheese a few nights ago, but I heard they got more.”

  “Why would people go to a bakery at nine o’clock at night?” I said.

  She shrugged. “What else you gonna do around here? Besides, people get the munchies, you know? Or drunks gotta eat somethin’ to sober ‘em up before the drive home. It’s like what they call a public service, eh?”

  I decided I’d run by the Kanemitsu Bakery on my way back from dropping off Hatch. I ordered strawberry and cream cheese. The bread was warm and fragrant. The red gooey strawberry topping dripped down my hand and onto my shirt. I was a sticky mess, but the sugar rush made me feel a little better after watching Hatch’s plane disappear into the dark.

  Back at the condo, I looked in the mirror, and it looked like I’d been shot. I didn’t care; I agreed with our waitress. Hot bread on Moloka’i was definitely a public service.

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday was April 15, income tax day in America. I’d done my taxes weeks before, since I was self-employed and I paid quarterly taxes throughout the year. It wasn’t something I enjoyed doing, so getting it off my desk and off my mind was always a relief.

  I called Lono’s mother, Malama, at ten in the morning.

  “Aloha, Malama,” I said. “My name is Pali Moon, and I’m a wedding—”