THE ARRIVAL
This was not the kind of place one built a hotel—the land fierce and unforgiving, the sun dangerous. Endless fields of lava flows, some ancient and some as recent as 1859, covered the entire coastline. On much of it, nothing grew but the very occasional kiawe tree or random tuft of grass. Overseeing the whole expanse loomed five massive volcanoes—Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa, Hualālai, Kohala Mountain and Haleakalā across the channel on Maui.
To Lu, it was home.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked the elongated woman sitting next to her in the back of the car.
At the Waimea airport, in howling wind and sideways rain, they had piled into the back seat of a shiny black limousine, sent by Mr. Rockefeller. Lu could barely contain her excitement at being here, but the woman next to her had immediately closed her eyes and passed out. She smelled like jelly beans and caramel syrup, and she snored like a lonely donkey looking for some conversation. But now that they were nearing the bottom of Kawaihae Road, the other woman had woken up and was alert as could be, round eyes taking in the barren landscape.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror and caught Lu’s eye. “No question about it, Miss Diaz.”
“You must be kidding me. It feels like we’ve been duped,” the lady said.
Miss Diaz? Lu felt a jolt of adrenaline. She snuck a glance at her neighbor. Long, almost black hair, middle part, button nose. Casual but chic in a white gauzy blouse, jeans and strappy wooden sandals. Of all people, this was the Joni Diaz. Somehow she’d missed it in her fuzzy-headed haze back at the airport. It had been a hell of a flight and she’d been stuck in the smoking section next to a man with severe halitosis. Her hair still smelled like the ashtray on her boss’s desk.
Joni yawned. “Even the cows look miserable.”
A herd of cattle bunched up along a barbed-wire fence. Lu had to agree, they did look forlorn, their long-lashed eyes pleading, Get me out of here. When she had first learned of Rockefeller’s plan to build a golf course at Kauna‘oa, her first thought had been, He must be insane. And not only a golf course, but a fancy hotel. Inhospitable, sweltering and in the boonies. But it did have one thing going for it.
“Wait until you see the water,” Lu said.
The ocean was the only redeeming quality on this section of the island. The kind of blue heaven that dreams were made of. It was late afternoon, though, and anyone born and bred on the Big Island knew that by this time of day the onshore winds would be whipping.
“No offense, love, but it looks like bloody victory at sea to me,” Joni said.
Whitecaps crashed everywhere.
Lu felt defensive of her island. “First thing in the morning, you’ve never seen anything so pretty. Slick as blue glass and teeming with fish and dolphins and, during the winter months, whales. Give it a chance,” Lu said.
Joni turned her way and yawned.
“How do you know so much?” Her tone was more lazy and curious than anything.
“I grew up in Kona.”
“Are you a guest at the hotel?”
Lu held up her notebook. “I’m doing a story on Mr. Rockefeller’s new hotel for Sunset magazine.”
Speaking those words would never get old.
Joni looked her up and down. “Come on, you’re too young to be a reporter.”
Good things come in small packages, Auntie H always said. Small for her age as a child, and with an unruly head of coffee-colored curls, Lu had learned to overcompensate with grown-up words and tall tales.
“Think what you want. And I’m a journalist, not a reporter.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Reporters report news and facts, journalists go deeper—we tell the stories.”
“So what’s your name, Miss Journalist from Sunset magazine?” Joni asked. She had an innocent feel to her, but there was nothing innocent about her voice.
“Lu.”
“Is that short for Lucille or Betty Lou or some kind of Lou?”
“Luana. It’s Hawaiian.”
“You’re Hawaiian?”
“No, I’m Portuguese. On my dad’s side. My mom’s family is mostly Irish.”
Why she felt compelled to elaborate, she had no idea. She’d always been proud of her Hawaiian name, but on the mainland, no one understood, so she shortened it to Lu, which was her nickname, anyway. As a byline it worked well. No one knew she was a woman.
Joni held out her hand. “I’m Joni. Joni Diaz. Might I book you for a morning swim tomorrow? Something tells me you’d be a perfect tour guide.”
Lu laughed. “I’d love to swim with you, but I’m no tour guide. This is a work trip, so I’m on the clock the whole time. They sent me last-minute, and I have plenty of catching up to do.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve flown all the way across the Pacific to visit the world’s most expensive hotel, and you aren’t going to have even a wee bit of fun?” Joni said.
That was exactly what she planned on doing. “This is my first big assignment. I got lucky being sent here. It was a fluke, so now I need to take full advantage.”
“How old are you, Luana? You don’t mind if I call you that, do you—it’s such a beautiful name.”
“Not at all. I’m twenty-five.”
“Let me give you a tip. Don’t work so hard that you forget to have fun. I tried that once and it nearly killed me,” Joni said, voice trailing off in barely a whisper.
Joni Diaz was not a day over thirty. In the past five years or so, she had shot to fame with her soulful voice and knack for writing songs that made people weep. Women loved her, men wanted her. Old people admired her, and kids wanted to be her. She had always seemed larger than life. But in person, there was a fragility about her that made Lu curious. Not unusual, because Lu was curious about everything.
They reached the bottom of the winding road and veered left onto a patchy road heading south. Joni rolled down her window halfway, letting in a blast of hot air, then quickly rolling it back up. “Where are the trees, for chrissakes?”
“Some of these kiawe trees grow quite large. You might know them as mesquite. Or Prosopis pallida.”
Joni frowned. “Come again?”
“That’s their Latin name.”
“You speak Latin?”
Lu shrugged. “No, but I know my local plants.”
A few minutes later, they turned down toward the ocean, passing a rock wall with a simple orange flower logo and the words Mauna Kea. They drove through a row of hala trees and fuchsia bougainvillea bushes, and the barren scrub and crumbly lava gave way to a neon-green golf course. Lu had read about it, and seen photographs, but still had had big doubts that anyone would be able to construct a golf course on a‘a lava. Apparently she’d been wrong. They passed through the golf course to the edge of the ocean, where one of the holes perched precariously on the cliff. To reach it, one would have to clear a little cove.
“I don’t play golf, but that looks like a losing proposition for just about anyone,” Joni said.
Lu had never played golf, either. Golf was for people with money and her family was the opposite of wealthy. They were farmers—rich in macadamia nuts, afternoon rain and spiders. The road swung left toward the hotel, and green sprang up everywhere, dotted with orange and pink flower accents.
“Hey, here are your trees,” Lu said with a certain amount of satisfaction.
An assortment of plumeria, royal poinciana, banyan and coconut trees lined the drive. At a roundabout, they pulled up behind a long line of cars—everything from limousines to rusted ranch trucks covered in mud. Lu felt a flurry in her chest. She was actually here! Now she had to manage to write something smart. Something attention grabbing. Something brilliant.
Girls with plumeria lei greeted them, kissing their cheeks and smiling aloha. The girls were not much younger than Lu and their coconut and vanilla smells rubbed off on her cheek. A tall, skinny reed of a man swept them into the lobby, where a few stylish guests milled around, holding drinks, talking and leaning on the oiled hardwood railings and looking out over the ocean below.
The lack of outer walls and abundance of plants gave the place a sense of freedom and room to breathe. A huge atrium in the center opened to the floor below, where towering coconut trees stretched toward the sky. There was so much salt in the air you could have bottled and sold it.
Lu was still with Joni, who had put on a pair of oversize shades. A few heads turned, but she paid them no mind. Joni seemed at ease, but Lu felt as though she were in over her head. Then someone behind them latched on to Joni’s arm.
“Excuse me, Miss Diaz, can I get a shot?” a man in a khaki suit asked, holding up a pricey Canon that blocked his face.
Joni yanked her arm away. “Not right now, please.”
The man clicked, anyway.
“Hey, she said no,” Lu snapped.
When he lowered the camera, her mouth went dry. Black wavy hair, gap in his teeth. The man in question was none other than Matteo Russi. Legend. Icon. He had been working for Life magazine almost as long as she’d been alive. Maybe longer.
“You the bodyguard?” he asked, dark eyes unflinching.
Lu was at a loss for words.
Joni answered for her. “Yes, she is. Now please find someone else to bother.”
They veered away before he could respond, Lu reeling from the unexpected interaction. Not a great first impression for the man she had been dying to meet for as long as she could remember. She should have known he would be here. The Mauna Kea Beach Hotel was a photographer’s dream, and Mr. Rockefeller would have wanted only the best. She suddenly felt very out of her league.
When Lu opened the door to her room, even though it was on the lowest level and probably the cheapest one on this side, she was dazzled. This was no Holiday Inn. Crisp orange bedspreads, freshly woven lauhala mats, dark hardwood doors and a vase full of pink proteas and ferns. The oceanfront rooms all faced west, and looked down over a crescent-shaped beach and the blue horizon beyond. It was this ocean that she had missed the most. She flopped down on the nearest bed, ready for a nap and yet far too excited to sleep.
Mr. Rockefeller had planned three openings for his grand hotel—an open house for the locals, which had already transpired, one for the upper echelon of Hawai‘i, and now a fortunate few were invited to stay the weekend. People were referring to the latter as his House Party. This was reserved for a small group of very important people—politicians and old-money types had come from far and wide for a weekend of golf, horseback riding, fishing and drinking. Lu counted herself lucky to be included. The guest list was closely guarded.
It almost hadn’t happened. Two days ago, she had been sitting at her desk punching away at her typewriter with the sticky O, when Rusty Styles, executive editor, came over, smoke pouring from his nostrils.
“Where’s your boss?” he said.
“He’s at Berkeley in search of nude protesters, I think.”
Her boss, Joe, the culture editor, was always pushing limits at the magazine.
“Shit. I need him.”
Lu perked up. “Can I help?”
“Sid crashed his bike and broke his collarbone, now he can’t go to Napa. I’m sending Joe in his place,” he said.
“Joe leaves for Hawai‘i tomorrow.”
“Not anymore. But now I have to find someone to send to the Mauna Kea and I’m already short-staffed.”
Joe would not be pleased, but the opportunity almost knocked Lu out of her chair. “I grew up in Hawai‘i. How about sending me?”
“Now, why would I do that?”
“For one, I know the island. My uncle and I used to collect salt along the very rocks the hotel is built on. He works there now, too, so I’m sure he can get me any inside stories. And...” she said, pausing for effect. “I’ve memorized Mark Twain’s book Roughing It in the Sandwich Islands, and already have a million ideas for stories.”
Partial lie—yes, Mark Twain. No, story ideas. Yet. She was surprised by how badly she suddenly wanted to go. The mainland might have more opportunity, but it still didn’t feel like home. As much as she wished it so. The water was cold, the people different, and the air smelled of pine trees and smog and winter. Something about it hollowed her out.
Styles pushed up his black-rimmed glasses and inspected her more closely. “I promised Rockefeller I’d send someone seasoned.”
He had her there.
“Mr. Rockefeller hires women whenever he can. He’d more than approve.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
By the way he said it, she knew that he knew it to be true.
“I know everything there is to know about him and his new hotel. Joe put me on it to help him prepare.”
He rubbed his chin. “No offense, but you look like a sophomore in high school. You won’t fit in and you’re about as unseasoned as they come,” he said.
“You said you needed someone, and I’m someone. I’m a strong writer and I know the island. Give me a chance. Please, Mr. Styles.”
“You’ve never done a feature.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you have a choice.”
Two days later, and here she was, already friends with Joni Diaz and the weekend hadn’t even started. The schedule had been placed on the table, and Lu committed it to memory as the onshore winds blew in through the open sliding-glass doors and tickled her skin.
She wished she could talk to Dylan and tell him about her day so far. He would die if he knew that Matteo Russi was here, absolutely flip out and probably embarrass the both of them. Russi had been her friend’s idol for as long as she’d known him, which was exactly two years and one month. How she knew that she had no idea. The thought of Dylan filled her with a warm morning sunshine on your skin kind of feeling. Only this was on the inside. Lately, this had been happening more and more, and Lu found it disconcerting.
The first time they’d met, she had been at the beach in Pacifica, getting her ocean fix, and out of the water came Dylan with a Duke Kahanamoku surfboard and kelp wrapped around his neck like a lei. Lu asked him where he got the board, and he told her his dad swam with Duke back in the day. She told him she was from Hawai‘i and he started peppering her with questions, as any good journalist would. Soon, they were sipping coffee in a café, listening to Pete Seeger. He was funny and kind and had eyes the color of deep sea. Maybe that was why he felt like home.
Now, Lu was in Hawai‘i without him as he got ready for his assignment in Vietnam. It didn’t seem fair, but then, when had life ever been fair?