It’s practical. “Something like that.”
The rain poured from the gutter and splattered on the ground at the corner of the house. As Kal stared out at it, his father said at last, “Well, we’ll look forward to meeting her.” He stood up and so did Raiden. “I’m going to take a look at that siding.”
Kal glanced toward his own house. All was quiet indoors, Hurricane Hiialo sleeping. Watching the Akita follow his father down the steps into the rain, he drew a quiet breath. King hadn’t criticized, hadn’t shown any disapproval at all. Kal knew that when his father had said they’d look forward to meeting Erika, he meant it.
His parents always kept things in perspective. They’d survived Hurricanes Iwa and Iniki.
And Kal had cried in his dad’s arms after Maka died.
Iune: June
HIIALO KICKED HER SEAT in the Datsun. Thud, thud, thud, in a mindless rhythm. Her lips were tightly sealed, her eyes nervous. In her lap was a plastic bag containing a braided lei hala lei, made of flowers of the pandanus tree, and a second lei made of braided red ti leaves.
“Stop kicking the seat, Hiialo.” He ate a Turns. “You okay?”
She nodded.
She’d been up half the night, coming out of her room every five minutes for another drink of water. Must have picked up on his mood. All he’d told Hiialo was that he’d placed a want ad to meet a woman; he was lonely without her mom. His daughter had reacted as though what he’d done was sensible. But did she suspect the truth about Erika? That if all went well she would stay for good, as Hiialo’s stepmother?
Kal saw the sign for the airport and manually worked the Datsun’s broken turn indicator, flipping it back and forth as an Aloha Airlines plane flew in over the sea, descending to the terminal.
“Is your pen pal on that plane?” asked Hiialo.
“I think so.”
Her lips clamped shut again.
Kal parked in the visitors’ lot and came around to Hiialo’s side of the car to lift her into his arms. “I love you, Ti-leaf.” It was his special name for her. Ti leaves were a symbol of luck; she was all of his. Everything he had.
Hiialo kissed his face and rested her head against his shoulder. “I love you, Daddy.”
Kal carried her toward the terminal, thinking, Hiialo B. Goode…
LOW GREEN SHRUBS—Hooker’s Green Dark, thought Erika—lined the shore, and white caps dotted the ocean beyond. Her carryall was tucked under the seat in front of her, and she resisted reaching for it to open her compact. She looked fine—especially for a woman who hadn’t slept in a week. She’d been too excited to sleep.
Absently Erika touched her hair. Days earlier she’d gone to the beauty college in Santa Barbara for a free haircut. The result was that her hair hung at one length, just brushing her shoulders. Nothing dramatic, but she was glad she’d done something. She wore a silk sheath of aquamarine—shin-length, with slits partway up both sides. Sandals, no stockings.
She hoped Hiialo would think she was pretty, would like her. That was everything. Meeting Kal was just…
Well, okay, it was natural to want him to like her, too. In fact, it was necessary. She couldn’t afford to go back to the mainland. Adele hadn’t wanted to publish prints from any of her recent watercolors. Erika didn’t know what she was doing wrong, but it was months since she’d sold anything. Until she received royalties from Sand Castles, she had four hundred and fifty dollars to her name, not even enough for a ticket home. She was going to have to get a job.
But if she had a job, she couldn’t watch Hiialo during the day.
I have to sell some art.
As the plane touched down, the captain welcomed everyone to Kauai. “The temperature in Lihue is eighty-five degrees…”
The plane taxied interminably before it stopped and the seat-belt signs went off with a quiet ding. Erika remained in her seat, letting the other passengers go first. She’d be slow on the stairs. Beside her was a diminutive local beauty in a beach cover-up and flip-flops. She jostled Erika with her bag, then turned and said in charming apology, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Her voice was musical, her manner sweet. Had Maka been like that?
A graceful human being in every way…
Suddenly Erika felt about a hundred years old.
When the other passengers had passed, she stood up, ducked under the overhead and limped to the door. Slowly, holding the railings, she descended the stairs to the humid airfield and made her way to the small utilitarian terminal. As soon as she stepped inside, she smelled flowers.
He was there, conspicuous for his height and his looks and the little girl beside him, who wore turquoise shorts and a tank top silk-screened with the image of a surfer and the slogan “Breaks to da max!” She was peering intently into a nearby planter bigger than herself.
Kal spotted her and waved, and Erika walked toward him, conscious of her limp, of him watching her. Three yards away, she thought, Your eyes are blue.
Teal, so fine a shade that Erika was surprised she hadn’t always known the color. A teal she could mix from Turquoise and Hooker’s Green Dark. He wore off-white, slightly wrinkled cotton pants and an aloha shirt in navy blue, black and yellow, covered with trumpet vines and ukuleles. Despite the flip-flops on his feet, Erika knew he had dressed up for her coming, but in contrast to the men she knew in Santa Barbara, he seemed casual. Unpretentious. No designer labels, no cologne. Yes, red meat, yes, domestic beer. Shaka. Hang loose.
Mr. Family?
Like a daddy wolf. His wolf’s expression was on her, assessing her, sniffing the air. Alert.
Mutely Erika submitted to the examination.
It was brief, though Kal found her face hard to absorb in one take. Brown eyes. Olive complexion. Smooth skin. She was tall and slender, with the honed limbs of an athlete.
And a slight limp.
He draped the lei hala lei around her neck, and her thick hair reached out and wisped against his fingers, clinging to them with static electricity. “Aloha,” he said and touched his lips to her cool cheek. Strands of hair seemed to leap against his face, and he drew back.
Still feeling the kiss and his hands brushing her as he’d put the lei around her neck, Erika recalled the word for thank you. “Mahalo. What a beautiful lei.”
Well, she’d figured out that mahalo wasn’t Hawaiian for airport trash can, reflected Kal. When she clued into the fact that the word was used mostly by poolside entertainers and interisland flight attendants, she’d be all right.
She was fingering the lei, examining it as though she
