Lars Suzuki was waiting for me at my office door. On the way to the classroom, he trotted beside me, talking without a break about his other classes, his approach to the assignments in my class, and his newest job, an internship in our fundraising office. To hear him tell it, Lars had a lot of different jobs. I supposed he managed to talk himself into them, and then talk himself right out of them again soon after.

  Lars was one of those college kids who, at the age of twenty or so, still looked like a boy. He was just over five feet and slight. He wore his straight black hair about an inch long, exactly the right length to stick out from his head in a radial pattern like Nancy in the old comic strip. I smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals as we walked together, relieved I didn’t have to talk.

  We reached the classroom building, a stained concrete block with a red metal roof. I found the room I was looking for and pushed open the swinging door. Lars followed me inside without hesitation, his nonstop chatter echoing off the green tiles.

  “Lars,” I said. “This is the ladies’ room.”

  He backed out and examined the area around the door. His face fell as he spotted the word “Ladies” stenciled in black paint on the concrete wall.

  “I’ll see you in class,” I called out to him.

  “Okay, Professor,” he called back. “See you in class.”

  By the time my last class let out, I had a dull ache in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten all day, which only happens if I am very upset. I didn’t stop at my office. Instead, I went straight out to the parking lot, threw my laptop bag into the passenger seat of my 1959 Thunderbird, buckled in, and started driving. I should have stopped at the grocery store to stock up on coffee, but I didn’t do that either. As my two-and-a-quarter inch whitewall tires (just like in the original Thunderbird ads) splashed through muddy puddles and my vacuum motors struggled to push the wipers across the windshield, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be home and done with this horrible, horrible day. Driving up to the wrecked papaya orchard, and then spotting the single boot…all day I’d been struggling to push the image out of my head.

  I concentrated on the immediate future: I’d steer my car into the shelter of my narrow carport, run inside, and pour myself a glass of wine. Maybe a hot bath next, but first things first. Then I’d send a text to Donnie inviting him to stop by after he was done at the Drive-Inn. Things would look better once I got home, and Donnie was with me.

  My optimism, as it turns out, was premature.

  Chapter Four

  The toppled tree had taken out a side window and a good chunk of my new copper gutter on the way down, landing on my carport hard enough to crush the metal roof into a V-shape. It was almost as if the Albizia had sacrificed itself deliberately, just to ruin my day.

  It was just getting dark. Donnie would still be at work. I backed into the street and started driving the few blocks down toward the Bayfront, to Donnie’s Drive-Inn. Through the tangle of power lines strung across the narrow street, I could see a sliver of the bay. The water reflected the sky, a moody, churning gray.

  Donnie walked out to meet me the moment I pulled into the parking lot. When I saw him, I immediately felt better. Tall and well-built, his neat black hair touched with gray at the temples, my husband was awfully easy on the eyes. He didn’t go to the gym and didn’t need to. He spent all day moving heavy things around: fifty-pound bags of rice, pallets of frozen hamburger patties, and the painted red picnic benches, which had to be upended and hosed down every night.

  I climbed out of the driver’s seat into Donnie’s embrace and began to sob into his Donnie’s Drive-Inn polo shirt.

  “Donnie,” I blubbered. “It’s a mess. It’s…I don’t know if anyone can fix it.”

  “It’s okay. I have a whole stack of clean shirts in the office.”

  I looked up to see his handsome face clouded with worry. He produced a clean tissue from somewhere and handed it to me.

  “Oh, your shirt. Sorry about that. No, when I went home just now... You know how it’s been so windy today? Well, one of my trees—”

  “I saw. One of your Albizias fell over.”

  “You saw?”

  Donnie pulled me close. Wearing my platforms, I was exactly the right height for my nose to lodge in his armpit. I closed my eyes and inhaled his spicy-clean deodorant smell.

  “I went by your place this afternoon to check for damage,” he said. “I called Konishi Construction right away.”

  I pulled my head free.

  “You already called?”

  “Just for an estimate,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry. I didn’t make any decisions for you. I know you don’t like people making decisions for you.”

  “No, no, it’s good. It’s great. Thank you. I thought I was going to have to find someone myself. So I guess I’ll move to your place now. For however long it takes to fix the damage, anyway. I hope it’s okay.”

  “Of course. Stay as long as you want.” He kissed the top of my head. “I have to get back. See you at home tonight. You going to be all right?”

  “Sure. I’ll be fine.”

  I watched Donnie walk away, his red polo shirt straining over his strong shoulders and his smooth, golden biceps. I supposed there were worse things than moving in with my handsome husband for a little while.

  I drove the short distance back to my house and went inside. Branches protruded into the house through the window. The floor underneath was covered with water, leaves, and broken glass. I swept up as much of the mess as I could, then pulled some clean towels from the linen closet and wiped the floor until it was merely damp. That was as good as it would get. In Mahina’s humid climate, nothing ever gets completely dry.

  I checked my computer for new email messages. The only one that required an immediate reply was from the Student Retention Office. Linda (they all seem to be named Linda) was asking me to consider making the required readings in my Intro course optional. I could just imagine how her bright idea would go over with those students who actually had bought the textbook and course packet when class started two months earlier, and completed the assigned work.

  Linda had also attached a list of students who “needed” to be excused from an upcoming writing assignment. These exemptions, she explained, were based on results from the new Foundation-funded software connected to our Learning Management System and designed to track student progress in real time. We hadn’t yet achieved the administrators’ dream of replacing the faculty with software, but we were getting closer.

  I wrote back, politely telling Linda the suggested changes were not possible at this time, what with the semester already half over, and thanking her for keeping me “in the loop.” The university’s legal department (blessings upon every one of them) had ruled that because of academic freedom, the Student Retention Office couldn’t require us to dumb down our classes, although they were free to ask us to do so. This verdict had been greeted with wailing and gnashing of teeth on the part of the administration, and much rejoicing by the faculty.

  I made sure my reply was sent, packed up my computer, and retrieved my overnight bag from the wrecked carport. I went to my bedroom and collected a week’s worth of outfits, a few items of jewelry, my makeup bag, my special comb for curly hair, and my Alice Mongoose sleep shirt. I took one last look around before I left, to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. It was both liberating and discouraging to realize how little I had worth stealing.

  It may have seemed unusual for a happily married couple to live apart, but when Donnie and I got married, each of us already had a house. Donnie’s was a spacious ranch model on three acres. He’d had it redone by a famous interior designer from Honolulu, known for his spare and elegant aesthetic. It had a professional kitchen with a gas range, which was unusual on this island. (The utility wasn’t about to dig through volcanic rock to install gas lines, so if you wanted to cook on a flame you had to arrange to get propane delivered. For a serious cook like Donnie, it was worth it.)

  My 1920s plantation house was far more modest than Donnie’s place. But it was conveniently located in town, just a few blocks from Donnie’s Drive-Inn and a short drive from campus. I’d redone the plumbing, added ceiling fans, refinished the hardwood floors, and overall gotten it just the way I liked it. The drawback—and it was a big one—was the single bathroom. Donnie and I had considered selling our respective properties and buying something together, but so far, it hadn’t worked out.

  Donnie’s house was about a twenty-minute drive out of town when the traffic was good. And on this day, the traffic not good. The wind had knocked a tree onto power lines, pulling down two utility poles onto the main highway. The utility’s repair crew was taking up the right lane, forcing all traffic into single file. Eventually I made it through the bottleneck and turned off onto Donnie’s street.

  Donnie’s backyard was surrounded by a chain link fence, a necessity back when Donnie’s son Davison used to keep a pack of hunting dogs. I still held my mainland prejudice against chain link fences. Donnie didn’t understand why I would have a grudge against something so practical, but chain link fences made me think of the neighborhood near where I went to grad school: Windblown trash, weedy vacant lots, and ominous graffiti. Shopping carts piled with junk, next to mounds of dirty blankets, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be human beings way down on their luck. To me, a chain link fence said “skid row.” To Donnie, it was simply a practical choice. It wouldn’t rust in the rain or get knocked over by rambunctious Rottweilers.

  I parked on the street, found the key, threw my overnight bag over my shoulder, and went inside. The interior, as usual, was immaculate. The chalk-white walls of the living room were hung with paintings from a couple of local artists he’d just started collecting. A carved koa wood bowl, patterned with sections cut so thin they were translucent, glowed on the coffee table. The centerpiece of the room was a low-slung Ettore Sottsass sofa in gunmetal leather with black seat cushions. I liked the sofa. It almost made up for the chain link fence.

  I took my clothes down the hallway to the master bedroom, unloaded them onto the platform bed, and opened the closet. To the right of Donnie’s perfectly pressed black slacks and his crisp aloha shirts and Donnie’s Drive-Inn red polo shirts hung two of my dresses. I scooted the polo shirts aside to make more room and hung up the clothes I’d brought from home: a charcoal Lilli Ann jacket with black piping; wide-leg sailor trousers; a black pencil skirt; a few white blouses, both short sleeved and long.

  Donnie could talk all he wanted about my moving in so we could live like a real married couple. As long as I wasn’t getting any more than a linear foot of closet space, I’d always feel like a guest in his house.

  I heard the front door open.

  “Molly?”

  “Donnie?” I slid the closet shut and hurried out to the living room. “You’re home early. Everything okay?”

  “Ka`imi Medeiros stopped by the Drive-Inn. He told me what happened this morning down at Art Lam’s place.”

  Chapter Five

  “Detective Medeiros stopped by? Uh-oh.” I dropped onto the couch.

  “Molly.” Donnie eyed me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get a glass of wine.” Donnie turned away.

  “It’s a little early for you. Isn’t it?”

  “I sense I’m going to need it. Would you like one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Donnie brought a bottle and two glasses.

  “I didn’t want to spring it on you while you were at work,” I said. “I figured a tree crashing through my window was enough bad news for one afternoon. What did Detective Medeiros tell you? Do they know who the victim was?”

  “He didn’t say. I had a bad feeling about you driving all the way down there. At least you weren’t alone.” Donnie poured a glass of wine for me, and then one for himself. “This isn’t the first time someone’s biotech crop has been vandalized. Those activists can be unpredictable.”

  I took a sip. “You did say that. I remember.”

  “I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

  “On the bright side, I’m sure our other interviews will go a lot better than this one.”

  “Molly, you’re not going to keep working on this grant after what happened this morning, are you? Aren’t you worried?”

  “I’m a nervous wreck. Of course I am. Donnie, you know me. I’m not a thrill seeker. I’m cautious, bordering on cowardly.”

  “Good,” Donnie said.

  “But this didn’t have anything to do with Emma or me. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I know this grant is important to you. But it’s not worth your life.”

  “Donnie, I realize you’re worried about my safety, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I have to keep my research going. I can’t just opt out. How about this? From here on out, Emma and I won’t go anywhere remote. We’ll talk to people right here in town, or we’ll do our interviews by phone.”

  “Molly.” Donnie took my hand. “You don’t know who did this. How do you know they won’t come after you next? You have to get as far away from this as you can.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?” I pulled my hand away, picked up the wine bottle, and refilled my glass. “We can’t just give the grant money back.”

  I wasn’t sure it was true. But after all it had taken to get the grant, and how much work we’d already put into it, I had no intention of giving the money back.

  “I thought you said there wasn’t any money,” Donnie said.

  “Not in the form of a paycheck, but it helps us pay for recording equipment, conference travel, publication fees—”

  “Publication fees?” Donnie set down his wine. “Are you telling me you have to pay to publish your articles? Aren’t they supposed to pay you?”

  “Not academic journals. You never get paid for an academic article. And more and more journals require pub fees.”

  “All this time I thought you were getting paid for publishing. Are you telling me it’s been costing us money?”

  “Donnie, it’s not costing ‘us’ money. You and I still have separate bank accounts.”

  “I know. We still need to sit down and figure it all out.”

  Donnie and I had been having trouble working out the details of our shared finances. Specifically, there was the delicate matter of Donnie’s awful son Davison, whom I wouldn’t trust anywhere near my hard-earned money. Of course, I couldn’t tell Donnie outright. Davison was my stepson now, and for Donnie’s sake, I had to pretend to like him.

  Before I met Donnie, young Davison had been enrolled in my Intro to Business Management class. There, he had distinguished himself as a remorseless cheater and a world-class suckup. While those qualities probably boded well for his future business career, they didn’t make a great impression on me.

  “I need to publish my research to get tenure,” I said. “It’s a requirement of my job. You’ve heard of publish or perish?”

  I poured out the last of the wine, dividing it between us.

  “Doesn’t it seem like a racket to you?” Donnie said.

  “It probably is. Donnie, listen. You don’t need to worry about me. Emma and I are going to be very careful.”

  “I don’t want some crazy person cutting your brake lines,” Donnie said. “Or firebombing my restaurant.”

  “Emma and I are just asking questions. We’re neutral. We’re not the ones growing things, or telling people what to plant. No one’s going to come after us.”

  “Okay,” Donnie said, in a tone that signaled that he might have lost the battle, but we would see who’d win the war.

  “Anyway,” he said. “I do have some good news.”

  “Wonderful. I’d love to hear some good news right now.”

  “I talked to Davison this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Looks like he’ll be able to come out to visit us for his session break.”

  “Oh, great.” I drained my wine glass and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To go open another bottle of wine.”

  “Molly, we’ve already finished a whole bottle between us. Do you really think you should—”

  “Donnie, I’ve had a really, really bad day. No, you’re right. I shouldn’t be drinking this much on a weeknight. Maybe I should go up to the yoga studio. If I leave now, I can catch the last session of Restorative Yoga.”

  “Is the kid going to be there?” Donnie asked. “The one who used to be your student?”

  “Oh, Primo? No. I told you. I’m not taking any more classes from him.”

  Far from being a “kid,” Primo Nordmann was, in fact, pushing forty, despite his surfer-y blond good looks.

  “One of the two sisters will probably be teaching, either Sharon or Sharla. When I went in the one time, I didn’t realize I was taking a class from one of my former students until it was too late.”

  When Donnie had picked me up after the yoga session, the extroverted Primo had come over and introduced himself. The shirtless and well-built Primo had proceeded to say a number of complimentary things about my innate yoga talent, rattling on about how flexible I was and how I was one of the few women he knew who could throw her legs behind her head. It didn’t sit well with my conservative husband.

  “Good,” Donnie said. “I don’t trust him.”

  I stood up.

  “Donnie, I already said I’m not going to take any more classes from him. What else do you want me to do? Is this how it’s going to be? You’re going to disapprove of every single thing I do?”

  “No, Molly, I—”

  “What I do for my job? What I do for exercise? What I do for fun? Oh, wait, I don’t do anything for fun because I have no spare time because I don’t have tenure yet, and despite my teaching load, I still have to publish my brains out, which apparently is something you don’t approve of either. So what’s the plan? You’re just going to keep at it, drip, drip, drip, until I get fed up and leave, just like—”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23