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

by JoAnn Bassett

  “But the bride’s supposed to fold the cranes,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know. But Lani’s convinced the kids it’s their duty to help their auntie Pali. It’s been great. They’ve been at it for hours, and there’s been a lot less bickering than usual. A busy house is a quiet house.”

  “Speaking of busy, this last wedding I’m doing is going to keep me plenty busy. It’s being held over on Moloka’i.”

  “Seriously? Why?”

  By now the tea and steeped, and Sifu Doug handed me a mug of his famous green tea. I’m not a big fan of green tea, but his always tastes fabulous and it’s very relaxing. I have a hunch he spikes it with something that may alert the beagles at the airport, so I’m reluctant to inquire about the specific ingredients.

  “It’s a May-December marriage,” I said. “And the groom—”

  “A what kind of marriage?”

  “A May-December marriage. That’s when the man is older than the woman.”

  “Isn’t the guy often a little older than the woman?” he said.

  “Yeah, but in this case we’re talking way older. Like capital “O” older. I’d say she’s in her mid- to late twenties and he’s gotta be, like, almost eighty or so.”

  “Fifty years difference?” He let out a low whistle.

  “Anyway, it seems he’s pretty well-off, financially, and he’s got a friend who’s got a place over on the west side of Moloka’i. They’re getting married there.”

  “When was the last time you were over there?”

  “It’s been years. Auntie Mana took us one time to visit some friends of hers. I’ll bet it’s been twenty, maybe even twenty-five, years ago.”

  “Well,” he said. “I go over a couple times a year to help with a local kids’ tournament they do over there. And I can pretty much guarantee the place hasn’t changed one bit since you were there.”

  “Huh,” I said. “So, is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

  He put a hand on his jaw and rubbed his clean-shaven chin as if checking for stray whiskers.

  “I guess that depends on what you call ‘good,’” he said.

  CHAPTER 5

  Richard and Amanda were late for our nine o’clock meeting. I’m not a big stickler for punctuality, ‘cuz after all, I’m island-born and raised. But by nine-forty-five I was getting a little concerned. Richard didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’d play power trips by making people wait, and Amanda seemed so eager to become Mrs. Atkinson I was pretty sure she wasn’t the laggard.

  At ten o’clock, my phone chimed.

  “Pali, it’s me,” said the caller.

  I consider it presumptuous to say “it’s me” when my only clue from caller ID is a mainland phone number. But Amanda was my only client, and I’d noticed she used a cutesy babyish voice whenever Richard was around, so it didn’t take great powers of deduction to figure out who was on the other end of the call.

  “Aloha, Amanda.”

  “Oh yeah, aloha. I forgot.” She giggled as if she’d just remembered to use the secret password. “Anyway, we’re gonna need to come in later today. Richard’s had something come up at work.”

  Work? The guy worked? If anyone looked like they’d qualify to be a card-carrying member of the American Association of Retired Persons, it’d be Richard.

  “Okay,” I said. “When would you like to come in? We’ve still got to finalize the guest list and decide the menu for the wedding dinner. I’m sorry to push, but we’ve got to get these things handled so I can line up people on Moloka’i, or arrange to bring in people from Maui. Either way, it’s going to take some scheduling and coordination to make it all happen.”

  I hoped I hadn’t sounded as annoyed as I felt. But in my gusto to sign up my final client, I’d failed to adhere to one of my own tried-and-true wedding planning principles: sell them what works, and avoid what doesn’t.

  If a cowgirl bride wants to get married on horseback, but the only horses available are smelly nags that are prone to bite, I’ll work hard to convince her she’ll have much more pleasant wedding memories if she opts for a stand-up ceremony in a lovely green pasture and then leaves on horseback after the reception. After all, when the wedding festivities are over, my job is done.

  I should’ve at least tried to talk Amanda and Richard into honeymooning on Moloka’i after getting properly “I do’d” in some posh resort in Wailea.

  “We can be there by two or two-thirty, right, dearest one?” she said.

  I assumed she was cooing at Richard and not me. At least I hoped so.

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll see you then. And please remember to bring your guest list.”

  “We may have to add some more people later.”

  “That’s fine. But we only have a little over two weeks, so we need to get things moving.” I started to hang up, but then added, “Oh, and by the way. Do you have your Hawaii wedding license, or do you want me to help you with that?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Amanda said. “Can we talk about it this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  I hung up, wondering what there was to talk about. Either you have the license or you don’t. But then, Amanda didn’t seem like a woman who saw things in black or white—unless, of course, she was selecting the color of a three-thousand dollar Chanel handbag she’d sweet-talked Richard into buying for her.

  ***

  When they finally showed up at two-thirty, Richard looked even older and more infirm than he had on Tuesday. I pretended to be on a phone call when Amanda came through the door solo, which forced her to step up and maneuver Richard’s wheelchair into the shop on her own. It was that or risk having her golden oldie fiancé mowed down by the traffic on Baldwin Avenue.

  Once they both were inside, I hung up on my fake phone call and greeted them with offers of coffee or fizzy water.

  “Richard needs water,” Amanda said, panting. “No ice. And not too cold, either.”

  I wondered if she was going to shake a few drops on her inner wrist like a mother checking her baby’s formula.

  We all settled down after rearranging the furniture to accommodate Richard’s chair, and I inquired again about the marriage license.

  “Richard says we don’t have one. He wants you to get it for us,” Amanda said.

  “I can help you get a license. I can even go with you to the Department of Health,” I said. “But you have to appear, in person, to show your ID and take the oath.”

  “What ‘oath’?” she said.

  “It’s nothing. You just state that you are who you say you are, and you’re in good standing to get married. No big deal.”

  Richard hadn’t uttered a word since arriving. I tried to read his face to see what was bothering him, but his expression was blank. His eyes had that thousand-yard stare people get when they’re completely oblivious to the here and now.

  “Richard,” I said, looking directly at him.

  He slowly turned his gaze to me. “Ah, yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, never better. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem kind of preoccupied. I was wondering if something was bothering you.”

  “He’s fine,” Amanda broke in. “He’s gotten some, well, I guess you’d say, bad news about his business. That’s all.” She’d hooked her fingers into air-quotes when she’d said, bad news.

  “If I may ask, what is the nature of your business, Richard?” I said.

  “He’s an art dealer,” Amanda said. “He has galleries in Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris. All over the world, really.”

  “Not for long, my dear,” Richard whispered, just loud enough to hear. “Not for long.”

  ***

  I offered to lead the way down to the Department of Health to get the marriage license, but I told Amanda and Richard they’d have to follow in their van. There was no way I’d be able to accommodate the two of them, along with Richard’s wheelchair in my Mini Cooper.

  I also explained t
he usual procedure is for the bridal couple to get their license three to four weeks before the wedding, so we were cutting it close with being only a couple of weeks out.

  When we got to the office, the line wasn’t long. A young couple ahead of us asked Richard if he’d like to go ahead of them. They must’ve thought the waiting was stressful for an old guy like him. I had to admit he looked so pale it looked as if he might pass out.

  Amanda filled out the form, and then the two of them showed their ID and took the quick oath. Then it was time to pay. The Hawaii DOH only takes cash, so Amanda had to wrangle the money out of Richard’s pants pocket. He was belted into his wheelchair, and the buckle on the seat belt was one of those plastic things that requires squeezing both sides of the buckle while releasing the clip. I would’ve thought that by now she’d have talked him into allowing her to carry his cash in her purse, but no, he kept it in a back pocket of his pants.

  The roll of money was so bulky, Richard had wound a thick yellow rubber band around it to keep it in place. I couldn’t imagine it was comfortable sitting on a wad that size all day, but after they’d paid, Richard was adamant about her replacing the rubber band and returning it to his pants pocket.

  Amanda seemed relieved when we finally headed back out to the parking lot.

  “Whew. I hate things like that,” she said. “I’d rather go to the dentist.”

  Her brilliant white smile signaled she’d probably spent more time in dentist and orthodontist offices than I’d spent getting a college degree. As for me, I brush and floss and go in for my twice-yearly check-up and consider myself a martyr. No way I’d spend any more time, or money, on what my auntie Mana referred to as my “mouth bones.”

  As we bade our farewells, I asked if we could meet again the next morning.

  “I’m heading to Moloka’i this weekend to see what’s available over there,” I said. “So, I’d like to get information on your venue and go over a couple of things we haven’t discussed, like what kind of music you want, and who you’d like to officiate.”

  Richard looked up at me with an annoyed expression.

  “I’ll let Amanda handle that,” he said. “I’m kind of busy putting out fires at work. It looks like I’ll need to go to LA tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Will Amanda be going with you?”

  Previously, we’d discussed we might all get together in Moloka’i on Monday after Hatch had gone back to work. I’d told them I’d be willing to stay one more day to iron out any last minute particulars or to deal with any problems I saw once I got over there.

  “I’d love to have her come along, but you girls are busy with the wedding, so I’ll go alone this time.”

  “But you promise you’ll be back by Tuesday. Right, Snookums?” Amanda said.

  “That’s right, Sweet-pea. I’ll meet up with you at George’s.”

  Amanda bent over and kissed the top of his head where his thinning hair had been combed over the bald spot.

  I held it together all the way back to my car, but once I’d slammed the door shut, I allowed myself a full-body shudder. Then I felt guilty. To paraphrase the Pope, Who am I to judge?

  ***

  That night after dinner, Steve called a “family meeting.” Actually, he’d used the Hawaiian word for family, ‘ohana, which I thought was cute. But I’d never say so. He’d strike me mute with his death-ray glare.

  We assembled in the living room: rotund Farrah taking up two-thirds of the sofa; her husband, Ono, wedged in alongside her; and me taking the scarcely fanny-width space on the other end. Hatch sat in the only other seat. It was an old wicker armchair that had done hard time on the front lanai and looked as if it was poised for the perfect moment to collapse in a heap of brittle straw. Steve remained standing, arms crossed.

  Steve spoke first. “I called this meeting to discuss something of great importance to this household,” he said. “Mainly, food.”

  “You need me to go to the store before we take off this weekend?” Hatch said. “If so, I need to go tonight. I’m on duty in the morning.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but that’s not what I want to talk about,” Steve said.

  Ono looked worried. I figured he was calculating his and Farrah’s share of the food costs and coming up with a number he didn’t like—or more honestly, one he couldn’t afford.

  “If you need us to pitch in some money…” Ono said.

  “No, it’s not that, either,” Steve said.

  We all waited. The weird little wall clock I’d gotten from my auntie Mana’s estate ticked loudly in the silence.

  “It’s about the division of labor,” Steve said. “Or, more importantly, the amount of labor required to satisfy everyone’s finicky eating habits.”

  “We’re not finicky,” said Farrah. “We’re mindful. We respect the creatures of the universe by not chowing down on them.”

  Steve slowly shook his head. “C’mon, people; work with me. I’ve got a full-time job, just like the rest of you. I don’t have the time, or the inclination, to buy and cook hot dogs for this one and extruded soy product for that one. I say, we all agree that each of us will fix dinner one day a week. And we’ll all promise to eat whatever’s put in front of us. If you don’t want to eat it, then you’re free to fend for yourself.”

  “But there’s only five of us,” said Ono. “And there’s seven days in a week.”

  “No, there’s seven of us,” Farrah said, tapping her belly.

  “No way,” said Hatch. “No offense, Farrah, but I’d like to put forth a motion that you have to be an air-breather to make dinner. I can’t face the thought of quinoa and tofu three nights a week.”

  “Huh. You want to share with everyone here what your cholesterol count was at your last firefighter physical?” I said, only half-kidding.

  “Let’s not make this a health thing,” Steve said. “Of course healthy food is important, but this is about fairness. And it’s just not fair to ask me to be everyone’s personal chef.”

  Farrah raised her hand.

  “Yes, Farrah?” Steve said.

  “Okay, so if everybody’s gonna do grinds one day each week,” she said. “Does that include Pali? I mean, she’s my bestest-best, and all, but…”

  She didn’t finish. All eyes shifted to me, as if I’d been fingered as a potential witch in colonial Salem.

  “You know, there’s such a thing as take-out,” I said.

  They all expelled a collective sigh of relief, and I got up and went upstairs. About fifteen minutes later, Steve tapped on the guest room door.

  “Why’d you leave the ‘ohana meeting?” he said.

  “You know darn well why.”

  “Yeah, well, we got it all figured out. Your day will be Thursday.”

  “And what about the two extra days?” I said.

  “Hey, you left the meeting. Why should I catch you up on what you missed?”

  I shot him my own death-ray glare.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. “Hatch on Monday, or if he’s on-duty he’ll trade with someone else. Then me on Tuesday, Farrah on Wednesday, you on Thursday, and Ono on Friday. We all have the weekend off. We can eat out, or make something in, but we don’t cook for each other.”

  “Huh. You put me on Thursday because it’s dollar taco night at the Ball and Chain, didn’t you?” I said. “You never eat here on Thursdays.”

  “It just worked out that way,” he said with a grin.

  “You’ll probably have all the others joining you down there, you know. It’ll really cramp your style.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Nothing more entertaining than watching a butch fireman and a cocky boat captain fend off unwanted advances at a gay bar. And Farrah? She’ll clear the room in fifteen seconds with her breeder belly. Come to think of it, I can hardly wait!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Amanda was coming to my shop on Friday morning to clear up final details before I went to Moloka’i the next day. I
’d forgotten to ask Richard the address of his friend’s place on the west side and I’d need it since I wanted to check out the venue. I’m one of those people who generally likes to avoid wandering into things blind. If Richard’s friend was an old Army buddy who’d tuned in, turned on, and dropped out in the 1960’s and now owned a squatter’s shack on a public beach, I wanted to know. It’d be a whole different ball game if the guy was a dot com millionaire with a flashy condo in a gated beach resort.

  Personally, I was hoping the place would turn out to be something in the middle. Not a hovel, but not so pretentious that I’d have to get every guest vetted by an unsmiling, rules-quoting, security dude at a guard shack.

  Amanda arrived right at nine o’clock. Again, she was wearing tight short-shorts, but this time she had on an almost see-thru white top with no discernable bra. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on her face.

  I always find it amusing when women dress provocatively and then scowl and say, “My eyes are up here,” when you happen to cast your glance down to check out what they’re selling. Not that I’m buying, mind you. It’s just that I’ve been well-trained to always size up the physical attributes of the opposition.

  “Have you ever met Richard’s friend?” I said to Amanda. “You know, George, the one who has the place on Moloka’i?”

  “Of course.” She shook her head as if I’d asked a particularly lame question.

  I didn’t take offense. I figured a lot of life’s questions were tough for Amanda. She was probably secretly relieved I’d tossed her a softball.

  “Can you tell me a little about him?”

  “Why? I’m not marrying him. Although I probably could’ve if I’d wanted to. But he’s kind of mean, so I think I’m better off with Richard.”

  Okay. This was going down a road I wasn’t willing to take.

  “Do you know how long Richard and George have known each other?”

  “Like, forever,” she said.

  “And what does George do? I mean, what kind of work?”