Chapter Three

Judging by the cars parked along Punchbowl Street, the library dedication had brought out only a handful of history enthusiasts. “The Historic Society hasn’t actually gotten a new building,” Auntie explained as we walked up the stairs to the Library of Hawai‘i. “It’s been moved to a wing of the public library.”

Inside, the main lobby was high-ceilinged to let fly the hushed conversation of people checking out books at the reception desk. We followed a sign pointing down the hall to the refurbished room that had been painted a pale green.

Apart from a small group of men clustered around a display of black-and-white photographs, Auntie and I appeared to be the only women not actively involved in setting up a punchbowl and cookies on a tray. Then I made a pleasant discovery. Of the two people behind the podium, one was the society’s president, Professor Ralph Kuykendall, and the other was a tall silver-haired woman with a dimpled smile. I remembered her fondly.

As she made her way toward us, her long flowered muumuu flowed around her ankles, and her head was tilted appraisingly. “You’ve grown into quite the pretty young woman,” she remarked with directness, and I shifted from one foot to the other.

“And you’re still the grande dame of Hawaiian history,” I offered. Vivian Winston was the half-sister of my grandmother, on the Wentworth side. She had written several well-received books on colonial history that traced the connection between Polynesian voyagers and the earliest British explorers in the Pacific.

She laughed in genuine appreciation. “So you remember me. It’s good to see you again, Merrylei.”

“How could I forget those afternoons when you drove all the way out to see us? Mother always looked forward to showing you her paintings.”

Now I’d said it. I was momentarily distracted by the thought that I’d brought up the very topic of my mother’s paintings I so wanted to avoid.

“It was the country in those days, wasn’t it?” Vivian passed over my unfortunate reference and turned intelligent eyes toward Auntie. “And how have you been enjoying the peace and quiet out at Makani Kai?”

“We’ve settled into the carriage house quite well. Do come for a visit some time—before you have to rush off again on another book tour. We can barely keep up with your coming and going.”

“I just returned from Los Angeles this week. As soon as I take care of matters at home, I’ll be sure to come out to see you at the old estate.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “You called the house Makani Kai?”

“That’s what your grandfather Stanley Wentworth called it. It’s Hawaiian for Sea Wind—the name of the Wentworth family’s first sailing ship, back in the 1600s.”

“Makani Kai.” It sounded very exotic.

“The name fell out of favor with your father. I’m probably the only one who calls it that now.”

Auntie May excused herself to help at the refreshment table as Professor Kuykendall tapped lightly at the podium to signal that the formal program would begin soon.

“You know quite a bit about the history of the house, and the valley, too.” I wasn’t yet ready to give up the conversation.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a twinkle. “Why don’t you come to my house for afternoon tea? We can talk then. I receive at four o’clock—next Friday would be convenient.” It wasn’t a request, but was delivered with such warmth that I felt she was looking forward to our meeting as much as I was. “I’m being summoned.” She gestured toward the podium. “I’ll see you on Friday. You know the house on Diamond Head Road?”

I assured her that I knew the way and would drive myself without the need for a taxi. When she walked away, I stood alone at the back of the room, not ready to launch into the kind of small talk that social mingling demanded. It gave me the chance to take in the room and its occupants. The reading tables and shelving were standard library issue, in contrast to the manuscripts and leather-bound books that hinted of historic secrets. I recognized the Territorial archivist Maude Jones at the refreshment table talking with Auntie May.

Professor Kuykendall tapped more vigorously on the podium in order to introduce the society’s librarian, Violet Silverman, who began making announcements in a voice that sounded accustomed to “shushing” unruly students. There was something in her remarks about the annual report, then congratulations to Shichiro Watanabe for completing a study tracking births in the Territory. He modestly smiled to scattered applause. I came to the startling discovery there wasn’t anyone else of Japanese ancestry in the room. Then my attention drifted.

I had started the morning by re-touching more of my mother’s mural, then changed my mind and put away my oils in order to take a walk up the valley before it got too warm. A one-lane track led through tall grass behind the leased gardens where my tenant farmers had houses. I continued on, wending my way uphill into wooded conservation land. From every angle I tried deconstructing views of the forested slopes in hopes of approximating the sketch I’d made, but couldn’t fit the pieces together.

For a moment I imagined what it might be like tramping through the trees—smelling the lush undergrowth and mossy soil—getting so carried away by my search for the road of my imagination that I felt a faint breeze on my cheek, like the brush of a first kiss. Until I crashed back to the library room and the name…

“Mr. Jamison Sumida, who so generously donated his time to the architectural design of our new resource center.”

All eyes were turned toward me, or rather, to Jamison, who stood at my shoulder, near enough to give every appearance of having walked in with me. I hoped I wasn’t blushing as warmly as I felt.

Mrs. Silverman looked up from her printed report, “…and Merrylei Wentworth has recently joined the Society.” More light applause. I followed Mr. Watanabe’s example by offering a faint smile since I didn’t have the slightest idea where, if at all, the introductions fit into the program.

As it turned out, acknowledgements for a donated copy of the Pan Pacific Who’s Who concluded the formal dedication. Jerry Caine was among the faces turned in my direction, now being led to the refreshment table on the arm of Auntie May. Jamison hadn’t spoken. I felt, rather than saw, his closeness stirring against me like a breeze. Yet he seemed to remain strangely insular, giving the impression that there were two very different sides to his character—a hidden personality he shared infrequently, and a public one he regularly used to face the world.

“Hello, Miss Wentworth,” he greeted me. “I see that your interest in history extends beyond Makana Valley.” His tone was distant and impersonal, as though he was reminding me that we were the merest acquaintances at a social gathering. One of his hands rested carelessly in a trouser pocket, affecting casualness in his attire, but still looking impeccable anyway. Gone were his wistful reflections and friendly banter with Johnny and me, now replaced by cool elegance.

“I’m interested in a lot of things,” I answered untruthfully, knowing all too well that I was dedicating my every waking hour to the house restoration. “There’s the Honolulu Symphony,” I improvised, thinking of a poster at the library entrance. “Did you know it’s older than any on the Mainland?”

“Your family has always been dedicated to the arts.” His words were proper, unexceptional, although I detected a deeper meaning hidden behind them. He must have heard about the theft at the Art Academy but was too much of a gentleman to bring up the subject here. “Do you play an instrument?”

“Why, yes, the piano. My mother played all the classics beautifully. I never practiced as much as I should have, and now, of course, I’m terribly rusty. Except for the day I aired out the music room, I haven’t played in years.”

“You’ve got a big project to finish up. I imagine you need as much time as you can get each day to finish without interruptions.”

It dawned on me that I wanted an interruption. I wanted to learn more about the house. And learn more about him. See the house through his eyes. But I couldn’t think of a way to say anything or remind him about the drawings he’d promised without sounding pushy or desperate. He hadn’t given me any reason to believe he remembered about the drawings, anyway, or that he would use them as an excuse to see me again. So I muttered something about the sorry condition of the music room and expected him to find some excuse to walk away.

Instead, he deliberated for a minute. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance to show it to me sometime.”

“The music room? Yes, if you like. Though I have to warn you, there haven’t been any renovations to the room.” I groaned inside, wishing I had sounded less like a reluctant housekeeper who wasn’t quite up to passing the white glove test.

“Will you be free tomorrow? I could drop off the architectural drawings I mentioned.”

“I’m planning to finish up my mother’s mural in the afternoon, so I’ll be around the house then.” I looked at his strong elegant fingers. “Do you play the piano?”

“Some might call it playing.” He was laughing with his eyes. “Others might describe it differently.”

“Then you’ll appreciate the Steinway, or at least its pretentions to former glory. It must be in desperate need of tuning.”

“You won’t find it an imposition?” His dark eyes surveyed me.

“Not at all,” I answered, with a sincerity I couldn’t disguise. I was conscious in that brief moment of his personal magnetism. The dark hair combed back neatly, with even darker eyes—lightly mocking, inquisitive, yet hiding behind a mask he seemed determined to wear in public.

Auntie May still had Jerry in tow and was steering him purposefully toward my little desert island at the back of the room where I had been a willing castaway with Jamison. I dragged my fingers through the waves of my new hairstyle and was acutely aware that I stood between two attractive men, wondering how I’d measure up.

“Mr. Sumida, please let me introduce my aunt, Mrs. May Goodhue, and Mr. Jerry Caine.”

Jerry spoke first, “The Society is grateful for your help in designing this new wing of the library.” His words were carefully chosen, impersonal. I thought: He’s only saying what’s expected of him because he wants to stay in my good graces.

“It was a privilege to be part of such an important project,” Jamison responded with an easy nod, ignoring any possible slight.

“I hear you’re an art collector,” Auntie pleasantly commented.

“Only in a small way. My interest is aspiring local artists.”

“You don’t go for the big names, then. Any reason?” Jerry challenged. A little arc of tension sizzled around him.

“Even the very famous were unknown at one time,” Jamison said with a smile. “Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime.” His eyes met mine for less than an instant, but I sensed a message was passing between kindred spirits who looked beyond the obvious. The library melted away from me in a blur of soft edges and distant voices, leaving the two of us standing alone together for no more than the blink of an eye. It was as if there was no one else in the room.

What was he saying now? “Everyone needs to get their start sometime.” He was talking about his art collection, wasn’t he?

“Well put, Mr. Sumida,” Auntie May said, while Jerry rubbed his chin in rueful consideration.

It was disconcerting to stand between the two men with their different personalities. Both were successful in their fields. Beneath the glossy surface of Jerry’s high opinion of himself, I wondered if a deeper vein of respect had been tapped.

I couldn’t tell what Jamison was thinking. He had drawn within himself, becoming a silent spectator to Jerry’s increasingly animated performance.

This wasn’t exactly the way I’d hoped things would go after our eyes made the first real connection of the evening. While Jerry seemed content enough to concede Jamison’s views on struggling artists, he now began campaigning to score his own points. Every time the conversation turned away from him, he dropped the name of a notable acquaintance connected to his family and their insurance business. As a result we heard at length about Doris Duke’s Islamic art collection at her Black Point estate, while Jamison let him talk on. I gradually became a little perplexed by both of them—Jamison for not putting forward his own ideas, while Jerry staked out his territorial claim around me based on what he must assume was our common social status.

Watching him I thought, he’s jealous...but, no. Jerry would inherit a successful business one day. This must be my own fevered imagination playing tricks on me.

While Jerry filled us in on decorations planned for next month’s Aloha Charity Ball, Jamison grabbed an opening to make a graceful exit. “Mrs. Goodhue, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance—” he gave Auntie May a bow “—and now I need to excuse myself.” He smiled to each of us and walked toward the far window, where Professor Kuykendall and Shichiro Watanabe were deep in conversation. I lost him in the crowd for a second, then caught a glimpse of the professor energetically shaking his hand, before Maude Jones blocked my view with a tray of cookies.

“Quite a shame,” Jerry commented when Jamison was out of earshot. “Since the government froze the assets of all the Japanese banks in town, their business community has come on hard times. There’s not much design work for one of their architects these days.”

I looked in his face for a trace of sympathy, but found nothing.

His remark opened up a different perspective on Jamison’s interest in my house renovations. Maybe there was a small job that he hoped I could offer him. That would make a lot more sense than…

“I can’t picture our Japanese neighbors plotting against us by sending money back to support the Japanese army,” Auntie said a little more severely than was her custom. She had been watching Jerry’s expression, too. “They came here for a better life, just like all of our families did. Mr. Sumida must be doing well if he’s interested in adding more paintings to his collection.”

“He may be buying one of my mother’s paintings when I get them out of storage,” I explained.

Jerry’s brows puckered as he glanced between Auntie and me. “Does he know about the trouble at the Art Academy?”

“He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Luckily, the newspapers kept your name out of it. They reported on an attempted burglary and some minor damage to a painting.”

“Minor?” I was surprised, then reconsidered. “My mother’s painting wasn’t valuable, so I’m glad it wasn’t mentioned.”

“Have you heard anything yet from the police?” he asked.

“They probably don’t follow up on every prank that gets reported.”

“You think it was a prank?”

“I’m only going by what Captain Maddox said. That the break-in was some drunken hooligan’s idea of a practical joke. We might as well just leave it at that, for now.”

It wasn’t quite the truth. Something about the way the painting had been crudely, almost savagely, cut out of its stretcher bars put me on edge.

“I was hoping to learn a little more about Hawaiian artists of the 1800s while I was here tonight,” I said, to turn the conversation in a less emotionally charged direction.

“Then you must talk to Maude.” Auntie seemed as willing as I was to change the subject. She waved to the self-appointed hostess who set down her tray on the refreshment table and walked over. “You know my niece Merrylei?”

“Yes, of course. I hear you’ve been refurbishing your family’s house.”

I smiled my “yes” as Auntie continued, “It’s about the artists that were here in Hawaiʻi before the turn of the century. Merrylei is interested in learning more about them.”

“Because of the age of the house,” I pointed out. “It’ll help me restore the ambiance of the place by knowing more about the period. King Kalākaua was a visitor to the house.”

“Oh, I can give you some general information.” Maude fluffed her curls while she surveyed the room. “Really you need to talk to…” She glanced over her shoulder and wagged a gloved finger toward an older bearded man.

He sauntered over, sipping a glass of Hawaiian punch. “Yes?”

Maude went through the necessary introductions for Benjamin Hastings, Professor Emeritus of history. Yes, he was familiar with the period. “My interest has always been the king’s coronation in 1883. It was a grand celebration, with more than eight thousand attending. There were several very dignified portraits of the king done over the years, though none of the coronation itself.”

Within minutes we were joined by several other history buffs from the university, each eager to be helpful and share their knowledge. Working backwards and forwards simultaneously—with a great deal of hopping from one subject to another, amid cheerful disagreements—they patched together a chronology of King Kalākaua’s reign, with a summary of paintings and photographs that showed the royal couple.

“And then there was that unpleasant business about the crown after the king’s death,” Benjamin ventured. “The king had worn it for only one day. At his coronation.”

“And the ghost,” Maude scoffed, with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, the Islands are a magnet for ghost stories,” one of the men joined in.

“They’re usually taken from ancient legends.”

“Not the ghost that’s been seen back around the old barracks. Behind ʻIolani Palace,” Maude said. “I’ve never seen it myself, of course,” she stated archly.

“Who’s this ghost supposed to be?” I spoke slowly to camouflage the excitement rising in my voice at the mention of the king’s crown. “I always like to hear a good ghost story.”

“Corporal George Ryan.” Benjamin rolled each syllable in the name with a shake of his head. “A member of the Hawaiʻi Guards who was convicted of breaking into the palace and prying all the jewels out of the king’s crown. Mostly diamonds, with some rubies and pearls. Sold them in Chinatown for opium, it’s said.”

“Only a few were ever recovered,” another one of the men offered. “Then artificial stones were eventually used to restore the look of the crown.”

“It was on display about fifteen years ago, if you remember. Now it’ll stay packed away in the Archives,” Maude assured us with resolve.

“Ryan paid a heavy price for his crime.” Benjamin stared at the floor, as if weighing his words.

“Both arms cut off, and his head—” The man who first mentioned ghost stories was about to go into detail.

“Goodness sakes,” Auntie broke in, her reprimand good-natured in tone. “We’ll all be having nightmares tonight at this rate.”

Everyone laughed in agreement at the macabre direction the conversation had taken. Benjamin looked up with a smile and launched a lively discussion on the merits of color photography versus hand-tinted black-and-white, while I listened with enjoyment. As a group, we moved toward the photo display.

After most of the scholars drifted back to the refreshment table, I could finally get a word in edgewise. “Is the society’s reading room going to be open to the public on weekdays?” I asked Maude.

“It’ll be open during the main library hours.”

I faked a quick look around…then caught myself. Who was I was trying to find? Everyone had gone except Violet who was straightening up cookie trays, and two men still examining the photograph display. “I’d like to come back sometime soon,” I said to disguise my wandering attention. “I didn’t realize there were so many books about Hawaiʻi’s history.”

“Violet will be happy to help you find what you need.” Maude turned to include Jerry, who had said little while attending with what seemed like uncharacteristic restraint, but great interest, to the group discussion.

“I’ll personally bring Merrylei here myself, any time of the day or night, if only she’ll come out for a soda with me,” Jerry teased. “Neither snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night—”

“Sounds like you’re trying to deliver the mail on time,” I interrupted.

Jerry put his hand to his heart and continued, with heightened emotion, “…across erupting volcanoes, tidal waves…”

He lowered his hand, but his eyes were still sparkling with mischief. “A minor point, under the circumstances, don’t you think?”

I detected a lighthearted kidding to his manner that was calculated to drive away any earlier misunderstandings.

“Well then, how about Monday,” I relented. I could combine lunch with a morning at the library to make a day of it. “Meet you at noon?”

“Benson’s?” He sounded pleasantly surprised.

“Benson’s it is.”

“And now, can I escort you two beautiful ladies to your car?”

“I think the punch has gone to your head—” I laughed “—but yes, that’d be nice.”

“The punch was spiked?” he asked in mocking regret, as though he might have had a few extra glasses if he’d known.

“Of course not,” Auntie assured him, trying through her smile to direct a stern glance at me for even hinting at impropriety.

I didn’t take her look to heart. Jerry didn’t strike me as someone who ended his Saturday evenings with a visit to the library, regardless of what he’d been drinking there. That hard look on his face when he was introduced to Jamison might have revealed more than he intended.

He went ahead to open the library door while I strolled down the hall at Auntie’s slower pace. “I think you’ve made a good choice,” she whispered.

I smiled back, knowing that my decision to do a little research at the new library had nothing to do with Jerry Caine.

“So do I,” I answered.

****

I wasn’t really listening to Auntie May fifteen minutes later after we turned onto the dark valley road, past the last of the streetlights that splashed amber pools of safety on the pavement. My attention was focused on keeping the Nash steady on the single lane that led through a wooded grove before the carriage house. Until a movement in the trees seized my attention.

Using all my strength, I swung the wheel of the car to avoid striking a solitary horse and rider that appeared out of nowhere.

Auntie May clutched at the dashboard to steady herself as the tires screeched in protest. “What’s wrong, Lei?”

“Did you see that man? What in the world is someone doing on horseback at this hour?” I coasted to a rolling stop to look back out the window. Nothing was visible in the dim glow of the taillights. “I don’t see anything now.”

“Are you sure it was a man? It might have been a cow that wandered away from the Meadow Dairy.”

“That’s possible, I guess.” We’d stopped next to a majestic Christmas berry tree that would make a good landmark for me to locate in daylight. I wanted to take a look around. “Have you ever heard of another road leading onto our property?”

“No, why?”

“Nothing in particular. I was just wondering.”

The little rush that left me shaky passed, so I put the car in gear and crept through the last group of trees until cheerful lights of the carriage house blinked their welcome.

After a long final look down the dark road, I followed Auntie inside and climbed the stairs to my room. Earlier in the day, I’d carried my old copy of Pride and Prejudice over from the house, thinking I would read it again. Tonight seemed like just the time to start.

Comfortably propped by pillows against the headboard, I opened to the first chapter and smiled at the opening line, like greeting an old friend

Not too long after, I drifted off. I don’t remember turning out the reading light, though I must have, since it was out in the morning. The book was still beside me, where it had slipped from my hands, open like a shield against the unknown.