Winter is dry season on the western slopes of Hualālai, but even then, the foliage is dense and green and plump with moisture. On this particular Tuesday, honeybees buzzed in the occasional ohia blossom, and Hawaiian hawks floated overhead. Lu felt as though she’d just been here, and yet in these last six months, so much had happened.
Joni had been laid to rest in her hometown just outside of Los Angeles, with Lu and Russi both in attendance at a private ceremony under a cluster of weeping willow trees. Hearing Joni’s voice, her song, her laughter, coming out of the record player only added to the heartbreak of the day. She might have been famous all the world over, and larger than life, but she was as mortal as the rest of us.
In the United States District Court in Honolulu, the Fuchs trial wrapped up in just over a month, with convictions of two counts of murder, and conspiracy to commit espionage—in large part due to Isabel’s testimony and the decoded Japanese message she had kept all those years. The FBI was also able to directly connect him with Kuehn and the passing of US secrets to the Japanese. Lu had been called to testify, as well, eager to do her part in putting him away for as long as possible. The scratches on his side also helped condemn him, as did his wife admitting he had slipped out of the room that night and later returned with wet hair. In the end, Fuchs was sentenced to life in prison without parole, and sent to Leavenworth. A small price to pay for the evil he had wrought on the world and almost gotten away with.
And in a big leap of faith, Lu had left her job at Sunset and written up the story on Russi, who had bared all. It was emotional and raw and real. He was a champ through the whole thing. Not only that, but she and Russi teamed up on the story about Fuchs. Time magazine had eagerly bought both, and they used her photo of Fuchs being taken out of the Mauna Kea in handcuffs. Since then, she’d been hired as a staff writer at Paradise of the Pacific. Russi had been right, after all. Hawai‘i needed her, and she needed Hawai‘i.
This time, as they bounced up the unpaved road to the coffee farm, Lu was with Dylan, not Russi.
“I still can’t believe you grew up here. It’s beautiful, but it reminds me of the jungles in ’Nam, only without Charlies hiding out in the next bush with pockets full of grenades and AK-47s ready to blow you to smithereens,” he said.
Lu glanced over at him. “Nope, these forests are safe. The only thing you really need to worry about is Huala-lai erupting, but who knows when that will be next. Maybe another thousand years.” She reached over and grabbed his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He seemed twenty years older.
“You think you’re glad,” he said, slowly shaking his head.
The timing had worked out perfectly. Dylan had called late one night from his little apartment in Saigon and told her he was coming home, by way of Hawai‘i. Every minute that he was away, there’d been a silent ticking clock in her head. He called when he could, telling her how he’d hitched a ride on a chopper to the front lines at the Delta in the morning, jumped into the trenches with the grunts and made it back to Saigon by nightfall to telex his story. About the soldier who’d fallen on a mine, not thirty feet ahead. And that maybe being a war correspondent wasn’t his thing.
In July, after leaving the Mauna Kea, she’d made it to San Francisco in time to see him for one hour before they had to leave for the airport. He had a duffel bag bulging with camera gear and a backpack larger than him waiting patiently by the door. Lu knew it was now or possibly never to let him know how she felt. On the plane ride, she’d been rehearsing what to say, and imagining the particular facial expressions her words would elicit.
Dylan, I need to tell you something.
I think I might like you more than just friends.
Please don’t go.
And he would say, I have to.
As it turned out, she didn’t need to say anything at all. The minute she stepped in the door, he swept her into his arms and pulled her close. She smelled Ivory soap on his skin and beer on his breath. He messed up her hair with his big hands, which for some reason made her want to cry. Her ear fit in the depression just below his clavicle—he was that tall—and she could hear his heartbeat. A strong reminder that he was alive, at least for the moment.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us since I got the call. We’ve known each other for how long now? And you know what the crazy thing is?” he said.
She could hardly breathe. “What?”
“I only just now realized how much I love you. Like, really love you.”
He spoke as though it were the most natural thing in the world. No hesitancy, no nervousness, just God’s honest truth. When she didn’t answer, he pried her from his chest and looked into her eyes. “Say something?”
Lu felt wingbeats beneath her ribs. “I know. I love you, too. Always have.”
Later, she watched him walk out onto the tarmac, jeans a little too loose, arms a little too long. But those arms were the finest arms she knew. And they loved her. And she loved them. And now they were going off to cover a war that no one was really sure about. Men were dying on both sides in alarming numbers. Innocent people were being shot in the streets. Vietcong were cracking the sky and shaking the earth, and Americans were caught in the middle. So, when he called to say he was coming home, she knew what she had to do.
Isabel had left the truck for them at the airport that morning, and Lu and Dylan had flown over together from Honolulu, holding hands the entire way. Every chance he could, he touched her. Hand on her back, leg up against hers. Elbows bumping.
Now, they pulled up to the house. When Lu shut the engine, quiet settled in, under the seats, between her shoulder blades, all around them. She felt home in a way she never had before. Which made her think, Home is a feeling, not a place.
“You sure she doesn’t mind me tagging along with you?” he asked.
“She’s going to love you, come on.”
While they were rustling around in the back, grabbing bags, Isabel appeared on the porch. She was holding a jug full of something orange, hopefully lilikoi juice. She set the jug on the table and ran down the stairs. Lu introduced her to Dylan, who she hugged as though he were her own son coming home from war. A good sign, because Isabel could come off a little aloof at times. Not if you were her inner circle, though. Those lucky few were loved fiercely and they knew it.
“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t get here while it was still light,” Isabel said.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Lu said.
Isabel took them up back to the paniolo cabin, a little red-and-white house that was half fireplace, half deck. Every nook and cranny was covered in cowboy paraphernalia—hats, ropes, horseshoes, spurs, old black-and-white photos of cattle drives down the coast where the interisland steamer waited. Isabel loved antique hunting and had a nose for it. When Lu was lucky, she’d get to tag along. Her favorite find was an old leather saddle from Samuel Parker himself. Never mind that she had no horse to put it on. There’s always someday, Isabel had said.
After a quick freshen-up, they found Isabel sitting on the porch swing, holding a glass of red wine. She wasn’t alone. Matteo Russi was by her side, Primo beer in hand. Her head rested on his shoulder as though it had always belonged there. One of his arms was slung around her. The swing lightly moved back and forth.
Click.
Russi smiled wide. “Would you look at what the cat dragged in.”
Lu rushed up. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Believe it, kid. I bought a one-way.”
Isabel glowed from the inside out. “He did.”
Dylan stood, mouth agape, then regained his composure and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Russi, I’m a big fan.”
Russi pulled him in for a half hug. “I hear you took one for the team. My hat’s off to you for going over there, man.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
Isabel steered them down the steps. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, but I’d like to get this done while we still have sunlight.”
They followed her across the driveway, through a hole in the rock wall and into a newly mowed area. There was a long wooden bench, cut out of a massive ohia trunk. Someone had left two shovels, two sets of gloves and a bunch of young coffee trees in burlap, ready for planting. Russi whistled and, a moment later, Mele and a little donkey came trotting down the driveway and into the clearing.
“Pepeiao, look how big you’ve gotten!” Lu said.
Pepeiao made a beeline toward Russi.
Isabel laughed. “You should see these two. She follows him around like an imprinted duckling. He slips her guavas when he thinks I’m not watching.”
While Mele seemed only mildly interested in the group, Pepeiao rubbed her neck against Russi, and sniffed his pockets. Russi produced a few small apple cubes in his palm and shrugged. “What can I say? Love is love.”
Lu watched Isabel watch Russi. The way her smile lines deepened, and how her eyes lingered long after he’d finished speaking. It was as though she had to make up for all that time apart. Years of longing finally quenched.
They were here to plant a small grove of special coffee trees in honor of Walt. Walter Grove. A living legacy that would always remind them of the loving, kind and idealistic man that he was. Big brother, best friend, gone too young on this same day, twenty-four years ago. Walt had now been dead almost as long as he’d been alive.
Russi and Isabel took the shovels and got to work. Lu and Dylan carefully placed a sapling in each hole, covering them back up and adding fresh mulch and mac-nut shells. It felt good to get her hands back in the dirt. Hear the sound of honeycreeper wings whirring through the forest. Sweat well earned. There was a strong feeling that all was right in the world.
After the last sapling went in, Isabel pulled out an old crumpled envelope with a letter. Russi put his arm around her waist, protectively. Tenderly. She began to read.
Dear Sis,
I do believe I’ve fallen in love, and her name is Hawai‘i. I am smitten with everything about her. There is no other place I’d rather be stationed on the whole of this planet. The water is warm, the air is sweet and you can walk around in shorts all year ’round. At least that’s what they tell me. By they, I mean the locals, who are as friendly as they come and are constantly offering to teach us new things. How to do the hula, play the ukulele or surf on the rollers outside of Waikiki.
My partner in crime is a guy named Matteo Russi, a real firecracker from New York City. He flies circles around me, but I don’t mind. It’s good to have guys like that on your team. Russi and I have been surfing a couple of times and been bit by the bug. It’s like flying, only on water. You would love it. And come to think of it, you’d love him. We already have plans to move over to a place called Kona and start a coffee farm when this blows over.
I sometimes forget why we’re really here, that overseas there are wars going on, but that forgetting goes away as soon as we go out for training, and practice landings on a tiny strip in the dark. The skies out here are black as hell. You could have filled a whole bucket with the sweat off my brow. For the meantime, I’m going to enjoy every beautiful day in this place. You need to come visit, or maybe even get yourself stationed here, too. I’m sure they could use you. Miss you to the stars and back.
From Hawai‘i, with love,
Walt
That night, sitting around the firepit, they drank a little too much wine and told stories about the war. The old war and the new war. Dylan and Russi hit it off splendidly, and once the two of them started talking cameras, Lu moved close to Isabel. They sat arm in arm.
She could feel Walt’s presence all around, even though she had never met him. He so clearly lived on. Not only in their hearts, but in every tree and every flower. In the donkeys that carried the coffee beans. The clouds that watered the land. The soil. The starry sky. Maybe that was the secret to dying—to live a life with so much heart that, when you go, you are never really gone.