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THE STORM BLEW HARD from the ocean, funneling up the Hanakoa River behind the Brewster House. Even Mrs. Masterman, who loved sitting outdoors, had conceded to the elements and moved our little meeting inside, to the downstairs room.
Iker Legazpi was already settled in with a cup of tea and was complimenting Mrs. Masterman on her exquisite peanut butter cookies.
“Well, I’m sorry about the weather,” Mrs. Masterman said.
“The view is still spectacular.” I took the seat next to Iker.
“And you are so kind to open your house to us,” Iker added.
Outside the French doors, the wind grew wilder. The broad fans of the traveler palms jerked and bounced. The pale Garisenda roses shook on their trellises. Across the gorge, where the river ran unseen far below us, a tall mango tree swayed. I was glad to be indoors, sipping hot tea.
“Oh, the view is even better from upstairs,” Fontanne Masterman said. “Molly, Iker, why don’t you stay after? I can give you a proper tour.”
“Sadly, I have another engagement,” Iker said.
“I have time. I’d love a tour. Leilani walked me through so quickly the first time. It would be nice to see all of the rooms.”
A woman in a flower-trimmed straw hat entered the basement room. She was in late middle age and of a cheery disposition, the type even strangers called “Aunty.” I didn’t remember her being at the earlier Garden Society meeting, but she looked familiar.
“Molly,” said Aunty, as she helped herself to hot tea and cookies, “I saw you got Davison to come to church this week. Good job, you.”
Ah, yes. I knew her from St. Damien’s. She always said hello when I saw her at Mass.
“I’d love to take credit for getting Davison to come to church,” I said, “But I was actually surprised to see him there.”
What was her name? Mrs. Almeida. No, not Almeida. It was a Portuguese name, though, and it started with an A. Araújo. Mrs. Araújo.
Iker stood and introduced himself with a little bow.
“I’m Luana Andrade,” she said.
Andrade. I knew that. She and her husband owned Andrade’s Snack Shack, down at the beach by Emma’s canoe halau.
“Please call me Luana,” she continued. “And of course I know Molly. Molly, sweetie, what is the thing on Davison’s face? Not permanent, is it?”
“It’s part of a tattoo. It’s supposed to be a cobra.”
“Never had any common sense, that boy.” Luana Andrade lowered herself into the rattan chair with a ladylike grunt.
“You think that’s bad...” I started, but then stopped myself. Finishing my thought would require me to explain how I knew about Davison’s other, much worse tattoos. I had no desire to relive the appalling hotel room mix-up that had ruined my first romantic getaway with Donnie.
“An’ poor Donnie, did what could,” Mrs. Andrade said, “but little Davison really needs a mother. The wife just wen’ left, remember, Fontanne?”
“I never understood how a woman could leave her children,” Mrs. Masterman declared. “My daughter is just over in Honolulu, and I miss her so.”
“Know what, though?” Luana reached for a peanut butter cookie. “She looked a lot like you, Molly. The wife.”
“She was much thinner than Molly, though,” Mrs. Masterman said. “The young lady looked like she lived on coffee and cigarettes.”
“The hair, but. And the shape of her face. An’ look at the eyes. Donnie get one type, ah?”
“Actually,” I said, “Donnie and I are sort of on hold right now.”
Iker stirred his tea quietly.
“Aw, I didn’t know, Molly.” Luana shook her head in sympathy. “So sorry to hear it.”
“Oh, I expect it’s this Melanie business,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Donnie Gonsalves has always been so image-conscious.”
Luana nodded knowingly.
Nicole Nixon rushed in, holding a dripping umbrella.
“Put it in there, dear,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Don’t let it drip on the floor. I have peanut butter cookies, lilikoi éclairs, coffee, and tea. What would you like?”
Nicole stuffed the umbrella into the indicated stand and pushed her damp hair out of her face.
“Tea, please. Do you have green tea? Great, thanks. Hi, Iker. Hi, Luana. Oh, Molly, I need to talk to you about the search committee. Not now, though. Afterwards. Wow, it’s bad out there. What did I miss?”
At first I assumed Nicole was talking about putting together a search team to look for her missing husband. But then I realized she was referring to the committee responsible for filling the vacant position in the English department. I did not want to get stuck on a search committee, spending my unpaid summer combing through hundreds of pages of transcripts, recommendation letters, and teaching statements. I concentrated on drinking my tea and pretended I hadn’t heard Nicole’s request.
“We were just about to start,” Mrs. Masterman said. “Now Nicole, you had asked about fertilizers, so I thought we could review some soil basics today. Molly, as the newest member of the Pua Kala Garden Society, you will want to pay close attention. The foundation of a healthy garden is the soil. Now the two major soil types found on this island are Andisol and Histosol. Andisol is formed from the things that come out of volcanoes: ash, pumice, and cinder. On this side of the island, however, our heavy rain encourages vegetal growth, so our gardens will have a good deal of Histosol, which is decayed plant matter...”
My mind wandered as Fontanne Masterman continued to describe soil types. Nicole was probably going to corner me and ask me to replace her missing husband Scott on the search committee for the full-time English position. Nicole was applying for the position herself, so she would want an ally. I could sympathize, but search committees were an unrewarding time-suck in the best of circumstances. And serving on this one would be like spending the entire summer preparing a meal I would never taste.
Why was I hankering after this English job, anyway? As Nicole herself had observed, I was lucky to have a tenure-track position. Of course, Nicole might have said it to discourage me from applying.
I couldn’t help feeling like a failure and a sellout. My parents told me they were proud of me, but I knew they were just being polite. I was certain they shriveled with embarrassment every time they ran into the Gjebreas. Bethany Gjebrea had been a couple of years behind me in school, so I never really knew her when I was growing up. Now she was a pediatrician, married to an anesthesiologist, and they had three kids.
Well, I consoled myself, Dr. Bethany Gjebrea, M.D. probably didn’t know anything about Andisol or Histosol. I turned my attention back to the conversation just as Mrs. Masterman was saying,
“You could use blood meal and bone meal together, Nicole, but only if you needed to amend the soil for those particular...”
Blood meal and bone meal? It sounded disgusting. Did people really put that stuff in their gardens? Did vegetarians know about this? If I were a vegetarian, I think I’d be pretty upset. Imagine forgoing meat, only to discover your supposedly blameless soy burger had been cultivated in a gory welter of bones and blood.
Iker asked a question about roses, kicking off a lively discussion about nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. As long as there wasn’t a test at the end, I decided I’d be fine. All I had to do was stay alert until the end of the meeting, and I’d be rewarded with a full tour of the Brewster House. I helped myself to another peanut butter cookie, hoping the sugar would keep me alert.