he drew from the box. The letter from Santa Barbara was on top. The return address sticker read “Erika Blade” and had a logo of an artist’s palette beside it. Alone in the office, he tossed the rest of his mail on a bench, sat down and opened the envelope, his curiosity stronger than his embarrassment over the letter he should never have mailed.
To Ms. Aloha.
Erika Blade.
She had sent another card. Same artist, different picture. A very old woman sitting in the sand, gazing out to sea. The ocean really looked like the ocean.
As Kal opened the card, the photo dropped out faceup.
A good-looking brunette in cutoffs and a faded T-shirt sat against the side of a weathered wooden building with a drawing board against her knees and a paintbrush in her hand. She had long muscular legs and a laughing smile.
A good smile.
But sunglasses hid her eyes.
Reflexively fishing for an antacid from a bottle in his pack, Kal studied every detail, down to the shape of her toes, before he turned to her small delicate handwriting, which covered the whole inside of the card and continued on the back. She had a lot to say, and as he chewed on a tablet, he read with curiosity, not with hope.
Dear Kalahiki,
Thank you for answering my note. Reading of your terrible loss made my heart ache. I am so sorry about your wife’s death, and I wish there were something I could do to ease your grief.
My conscience dictates that I precede this whole reply with the advice that you not marry anyone at this time. Despite the things you said in your letter, I believe there is more love in store for you. You should find it before marrying again—for your daughter’s sake and your own.
This is what I believe, but I can’t know your heart. Leaving your choices to you, I’ll introduce myself.
My name is Erika Blade. I am thirty-six years old and a watercolor artist. But probably, if my last name is familiar, it’s because my father was the undersea explorer Christopher Blade. My brother, David, and I grew up on his ship, the Siren, and accompanied him and my mother all over the world on scientific expeditions until I entered art school in Australia and began to make art my career. While I was at school, the Siren sank and my parents were killed. My brother continued my father’s work, and I have helped him some.
About five years ago, I was seriously injured in an automobile accident. Though luckier than your Maka, I was temporarily paralyzed.
During the three years I spent in a wheelchair, I lived on my brother’s ship with him and his son, Christian. Chris was three at the time of my accident; he lost his mother soon afterward. For three years, I helped my brother look after him, and this experience shaped who I am today. I love children.
Eventually I decided to move off David’s ship and into a place of my own. Shortly afterward, I regained feeling in my legs. With the help of therapy, I have been walking for about eighteen months, but because of knee injuries in the accident I still walk with a limp.
Because my parents are dead, my family consists of my brother, his wife, Jean, and my nephew, Chris. However, they are seldom in Santa Barbara anymore; David’s work takes them all over the world. In any case, I want a family of my own. And, like you, I prefer celibacy. The arrangement you have suggested appeals to me very much. I think it would be good for me. I’m less sure it would be best for you and your daughter.
So, Kalahiki, I leave you to your thoughts. I would always be glad to hear from you again.
In friendship,
Erika Blade
The last line was her phone number.
On the front of the card, Kal found her name. No wonder she could paint the sea. Christopher Blade’s daughter.
Did his parents have her prints in their gallery?
Erika…
When he’d placed the ad, it was with the hope that there was someone like her out there. Someone who wasn’t interested in sex—but who still seemed capable of a meaningful relationship. Someone who loved children and would love Hiialo.
But Erika Blade didn’t know Hiialo. And he didn’t know Erika.
Can’t do this.
Kal replaced the photo and the card in the envelope, put them in his day pack with the other mail and stood up. Pushing open the glass door of the post office, he went out into the rain and the scent of wetness and grabbed his ancient three-speed Indian Scout from where he’d leaned it against the siding.
The downpour pelting him, Kal flicked on the headlight on the handlebars and pedaled out to the road, his T-shirt and shorts immediately drenched anew. He crossed a long stone bridge, riding as though he could escape the rain, and his heart raced. His mind replayed the contents of the letter, and he knew he would read it again that night when Hiialo was in bed.
Christopher Blade’s daughter. Three years in a wheelchair.
He could hear his tires on the wet pavement and the sound of the violent winter surf just a block away, a sound that once would have called him to the breaks at Hanalei Point, to Waikoko or Hideaways. Freedom…
Don’t even think about bringing her here, Kal. You never really planned to do it. It just seemed better than having your daughter in day care.
To temper tantrums and moodiness.
To trying to do it alone.
To messing up.
But he couldn’t go through with this. It wouldn’t be right.
Why not? Riding through the rain, Kal tried to remember exactly what Erika Blade had said about sex. Hardly anything.
Painful thoughts came.
Loneliness.
The glow of headlights cast a long shadow of his body and bicycle ahead of him on the water-running pavement. Kal steered into a roadside ditch, springing off his bike when the front wheel stuck in the mud. As rain streamed down his face, a red 1996 Land Rover whipped past. Kal recognized the vehicle. It belonged to a movie star who used his fifth home, in Haena, two weekends of every year.
Reminding himself to buy a helmet, Kal yanked his bike out of the mud and back to the road before he realized the front wheel wouldn’t turn and the forks were bent. He stood in the rain, and it drowned his voice as he yelled after the long-vanished car, “I hate your guts, malihini! You killed my wife!” He knew it wasn’t really the driver of this car who’d hit Maka—just someone like him. Someone who would never belong.
Kal leaned his arms on the handlebars, his head in his hands.
Erika Blade would be a malihini, a newcomer, too.
He wouldn’t write to her again. He’d said personal things to her. She’d said personal things to him. They were even.
And her advice was sane.
