JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

When we arrived at the house, George came out to greet Amanda. He ordered Lono to retrieve her luggage from the car and take it to the poolside
ohana.
I excused myself and joined Lono as he walked the car. Even though he was a big guy, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to wrangle it all in one trip.

“Mr. Bustamante said you might be staying here,” Lono said.

“Oh? I hadn’t heard.”

“Yeah, he said you could have the maid’s quarters. She’s gone to visit her sister on Kaua'i for a week or so. It’s a pretty nice room, and it’s right next to my place.”

I helped him lug Amanda’s luggage out of the car. He didn’t comment on the ridiculous number of suitcases, so I assumed George Bustamante wasn’t one to travel light, either.

“Yeah,” he went on. “My mom says you’re gonna let her do a bunch of stuff for the wedding.
Mahalo
for calling her.”

“Don’t ‘
mahalo
’ me too soon,” I said. “Amanda can be a handful.”

He smiled. “One of those ‘bride-zillas’ my mom talks about?”

“I have a hunch that in Amanda’s case it’s not just the wedding that’s bringing out the worst in her. She’s a pretty demanding young woman.”

“But, we’re used to that with mainland girls, eh?” It seemed that since I’d brought his mom onboard, Lono now considered me a friend and confidant. Fine with me; I’d never turn down an offer of friendship.

I bid him good-bye and went up to the house to see if Lono had been correct in saying George had extended an offer for me to stay in the maid’s quarters. I knocked. It took almost a full minute for someone to come to the door. The door opened and Amanda came barreling out, nearly knocking me down as she blew past. I stepped back and watched her march down the walkway, arms pumping and chin lifted.

I peeked into the foyer past the still-open door.

“
Aloha
,” I said. “Anybody here?”

George stepped into the foyer. His narrowed eyes smoldered and he had a distinct red blotch blazing across one cheek.

“That bitch slapped me,” he said.

“Oh my,” I said. I tried to come up with a more sympathetic follow-up, but words failed me. What does one say? “
Sorry?
” The only thing that came to mind was what my auntie Mana would’ve said, “
Did you deserve it
?”

He seemed to gather his wits and stepped back, gesturing for me to enter.

“I’m really sorry to intrude,” I said.

“Not at all. Please, come in.”

I stood in the foyer, my eyes adjusting to the light. The ten-foot tall walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings. The canvasses were so closely spaced it was hard to determine the color of the walls.

“Wow,” I said. “Your artwork is beautiful.”

“Thank you. It’s all genuine, you know. No prints or tacky giclées in the bunch.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what a
giclée
was, tacky or not.

“You’ve probably heard by now what Richard has done,” he said.

“I understand there’s been a problem.”

“Oh my dear girl, it’s more than a mere ‘problem.’ It’s a disaster. I was attempting to explain the magnitude to that silly, stupid child when she hauled off and abruptly ended the conversation.”

“I see.” After five years in the wedding planning business I’ve learned that if you want someone to give you details, it’s best not to ask.

“Poor, dear deluded Richard. Have you ever heard that old saw, ‘If it seems too good to be true, it probably is?’ Obviously my business partner hasn’t.”

George slowly shook his head. I thought he was referring to Richard’s choice of a wife, but he cleared it up as he went on.

“A Matisse for fifty thousand? A Degás for thirty? Even an idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about art would smell a foul odor coming off a deal like that.”

Being unversed in the finer points of fine art, I probably fell into George’s “idiot” category. But I’d taken an Art History class in college, so even I recognized the names “Matisse” and “Degás.”

“Hmm.” I murmured sympathetically.

“And long lost originals? Come on. That old ruse, ‘we found this in a barn on the family farm’ is as trite as they come. Why on earth would Richard fall for something like that?”

I gave a slight shrug, as if it were a mystery to me, too.

“So, here we are. Our reputation is smeared; our business is ruined. Who will ever provide provenance documents to anything we sell?  It won’t happen. It’s tough enough to get skittish art experts to authenticate anything as it is. But with Richard getting caught trying to pass forgeries? We might as well set up a booth at a swap meet and sell velvet paintings of dogs playing poker.”

***

Hatch called at three that afternoon. He said he’d just talked to Ono, and he’d told him the midwife agreed Farrah’s blood pressure was a bit high, but she said that happens sometimes with multiple births. She ordered Farrah to bed rest and told Ono to take her blood pressure every hour. She said to call again if it rose more than ten points.

“You can imagine how Farrah reacted to being told she had to stay in bed,” he said.

“Is Beatrice going to be able to run the store by herself?” I said.

“Probably not for long. But Ono’s lined up some guys to take over his catamaran trips, so he’ll be able to help out some.”

“I need to get back there,” I said. “George offered me the maid’s quarters, but I’d like to come back home tonight. Malama’s coming over in an hour and I’m hoping she and Amanda hit it off. If they do, I’ll leave and just come back for the wedding day. That reminds me, I need to order a cake from Keahou.”

Hatch ignored my comment about the cake and said. “I’d like it if you could come home. And not just for Farrah. I miss you. A lot.”

His sentiment choked me up a little. We weren’t generally corny romantics, but I liked hearing I was loved and missed. Who wouldn’t?

“I miss you, too. Wish me luck with this hand-off to Malama. If all goes well, I’ll be on the next thing smokin’.”

Lono escorted me to the pool area where I was to wait for Malama. George had allowed me to move into the maid’s quarters, but he’d made it clear I wasn’t to “receive visitors” there. A smiling woman, probably one of the kitchen staff, provided me with a glass of iced tea and a tiny bamboo bowl of taro chips.

Sitting under a green canvas market umbrella, with my tea, my chips and a five-million- dollar ocean view, I reflected on Hatch’s remark about me marrying a “humble smoke-eater.” I’d inherited a huge sum of money from my guilt-ridden father, and I’d invested it to provide my previously-unknown siblings with a trust-fund income. They’d grown up with money; I hadn’t. I think money is like beauty. If you had it as a child, it’s difficult to live without. If you’ve never had it, then it throws a wrench in things to acquire it later. I wasn’t willing to spend the rest of my life trying to prove I deserved to be filthy rich.

Malama arrived at ten minutes after four. She was late, but well within the bounds of “island time.”

“
Aloha
,” she said. I stood and she pulled me in for a tight hug, which was fine with me. She was about the same size and shape as my much-loved Auntie Mana who’d raised me. I appreciate any chance to be hugged by a woman who can stand in for my auntie.

“It’s going well,” Malama said. “I’ve talked to many people, and, so far, everyone says, ‘yes.’ We have music—a slack-key guitar player, best on the island—and flowers, food, everyt’ing. I think it’s all good.”

“Great,” I said. “And I’ll order the cake from my usual cake artist on Maui. I’ll pick it up the day before and bring it over on the ferry.”

Lono showed up, machete in hand, and came over to greet his mother. He carefully laid the lethal knife on the ground before going in for a hug. I watched as Malama swayed side to side, squeezing her son with the kind of affection that makes childless women, like me, rethink our priorities.

“Good to see you, Mom,” Lono said.

“The whole place looks wonderful, Leonard,” Malama said, eying the tidy landscaping. “But don’t you think that hedge is a little short?” She pointed to a line of colorful croton bushes that had been scalped to knee-high. The top branches of the hedge were bare, like thick brown fingers reaching up, begging for leaves to cover their nakedness.

“I know. I didn’t want to cut it down that much, but Mr. Bustamante said it blocked his view to the water.”

“Ah, I see. Well, you’ve done good work here, son. I’m so proud of you.”

The comment seemed a bit effusive for weed pulling and leaf blowing, but I had a hunch there was a story there. The unemployment rate on Moloka’i is the highest in the islands, so maybe Mom was just darn happy her kid had a steady job and a decent place to live.

Lono picked up his machete and went back to work.

Malama said, “I was hoping to meet the bride. Is she around?”

“Yes, she’s in her room. I’ll go get her.”

“No, you stay and finish your tea. I’ll go to the house and give my
aloha
to Mr. Bustamante, and ask Leonard to tell the bride we’re here. I’m sure he knows where she’s staying.”

I drained my tea while Malama was gone, and made short work of the taro chips, too. I hadn’t eaten lunch and my stomach was rumbling. Hopefully, the meet and greet with Amanda and Malama would go quickly and I’d have time to grab something to eat before my flight home.

Lono and Amanda arrived a few minutes later. Malama was still up at the house. Amanda looked like she’d been roused from a nap and she wasn’t too happy about it.

“What’s this guy talking about?” she said, thrusting a thumb toward Lono. She plopped down in the chair opposite me.

I looked up at Lono, who seemed just as annoyed as having to play butler as Amanda was at being awakened from her nap.

“
Mahalo
, Lono,” I said. “I appreciate you bringing Amanda out here.”

He mumbled something like, “No problem.” Then he ambled off, thunking the dull side of the machete blade against his palm as if signaling a strong urge to whack something.

“What did he mean when he said his
mother
was doing my wedding?” Amanda said to me. “Is that guy your
son
? I mean, if he is, I want the name of your plastic surgeon.”

“No, he’s not my son. Let me explain.”

I explained that I’d been fortunate to find Malama because she was a local and she knew how to get all the things we’d need.

“She’s even lined up a first-rate slack-key guitar player,” I said. “I had no idea how I was going to find a good musician who’d come over here. I was worried I’d have to either hire somebody mediocre from Maui, or line up some local guys to audition. Musicians are notorious for not showing up—for either the audition or the wedding.”

Amanda stared at me, lip curled, as if I’d spit on her and refused to apologize.

“So, what are you saying?” she said. “Are you telling me you’ve handed off my fairy tale wedding to a…a…” She floundered to come up with a politically correct way to say something that was anything but politically correct.

“To a local?” I said, helping her out.

“Yeah, whatever. If I’d wanted some kind of Hawaiian hoe-down, I wouldn’t have come to you in the first place,” she said. “I don’t want to serve pig meat and raw fish, or whatever passes for party food for those kind of people. I want
elegance
. Like George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin in Venice, or even Kim Kardashian and Kanye West in Paris.”

It was all I could do to keep from slapping her, but there’d already been enough slapping for one day. Instead I said, “Malama is a highly regarded wedding planner who’s knocking herself out to make your wedding as wonderful as you always hoped it would be. She’s a local, which means she has the contacts and the clout to get things done and to get the people we need to actually show up. On Maui, I have that kind of clout. But here on Moloka’i, your chances of a glitch-free wedding are going to be much better if we work with a local resident.”

Amanda was still sulking when Malama came down to join us.

“Oh, is this pretty girl the bride?” Malama said. She went around to Amanda’s side of the table and stood, waiting for Amanda to get up and greet her. Amanda stayed seated, head down, arms tightly crossed.

Malama dealt with the awkward moment by tossing me a smile and taking a seat in the chair next to Amanda. Once again, the urge to slap the girl silly flashed across my mind but I held it at bay, reminding myself that stooping to her level was the last thing I wanted.

“Amanda,” I said in a school-marmish voice I save for occasions like this, “this is Malama. She’ll be taking over the local coordination of your wedding. I’ll be paying Malama her fee, so our original contract still stands.”

“When?” Amanda said.