Page 61 of Tiki Beach
“We should call her,” I said suddenly, reaching for my phone again.
“Pearl?” Keone asked.
I nodded. “She should hear about the press conference from us, not the news.”
I dialed the hospital room. “Hello?” Pearl’s voice came through the line, stronger than it had been the day before, but still carrying the tremor of age and illness.
“Pearl, it’s Kat,” I said. “I have some news about the case.”
As I filled her in on the upcoming press conference and what it would mean for the future of her garden, warmth flooded me.
Pearl had been knocked down but never defeated. She was always ready to begin again, to fight for what mattered. To preserve the past while building something new for the future.
When I hung up, Keone was watching me with a soft expression.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Stronger,” I said. “And very pleased about the press conference. She said she’d try to watch it from her hospital room.”
Keone nodded, then gestured toward the view before them: sunshine, waving palms, sparkles on the pool and the sea beyond. “So, what do you say? Ready to face the world again?”
I looked out at the ocean beyond Kahului Bay—endless, washing away the old, always creating something new. Much like our beloved island of Maui, where the past and future were forever in conversation.
“Not quite yet,” I said, settling back against him on the lounger and turning to give him a kiss. “Let’s stay here a little longer.” Sometimes the most important thing you could do was simply be present—to witness, to remember, and when the time was right, to help others do the same—with some kissing in the sunshine to spice things up.
17
TWO WEEKS LATER:
Late afternoon’s warmth slanted through the sliders of our former model home in New Ohia State Park, bathing the assembled company in warm golden light. The wide deck had been arranged with additional seating to accommodate our expanded group, while the adjacent living room buzzed with conversations, and in the background, Artie Pahinui skillfully plucked the strings of his guitar in a slack-key melody.
Tiki and Misty had claimed the prime sunny spot on the bay window seat of the living room, their combined gray and calico fur gleaming as they observed the human proceedings with characteristic feline detachment—occasionally accepting offerings of cheese bites from Rita, who remained convinced that all cats required constant supplementary feeding regardless of their obvious health.
At the center of the gathering sat Pearl Yamamoto, her diminutive frame dwarfed by what she called her “command center,” a state-of-the-art wheelchair that gleamed with polished titanium and custom details. Despite the toll the poisoning had taken on her body, Pearl’s dark eyes remained bright and sharp beneath her silver hair, which was perfectly styled and adorned with delicate jade combs.
Standing behind Pearl’s wheelchair, next to Keone, was Lani Nakasone, her caregiver of two weeks. Lani was a part-time waitress at the Hotel Hana, which had been slow lately, allowing her time to work with Pearl and provide her care. She and Keone had dated in the past; their relationship had ended amicably, but seeing them together still triggered a tiny, irrational twinge of something I refused to call jealousy.
Especially since Lani was genuinely kind, and exactly what Pearl needed right now. I actually liked her. I just didn’t like her next to my man, which was where she was standing right now.
Keone laughed at something Pearl told the both of them as I moved between the kitchen and the deck, balancing a tray of iced tea glasses while navigating around the Red Hat Society ladies. They had commandeered the most comfortable seating, and their vibrant purple outfits and signature red hats added a festive air to what was essentially an informal debriefing session following the most significant corruption case in our area’s recent history.
“Here, let me help with that,” Keone said, intercepting me before I could attempt to distribute drinks single-handedly.
“Thanks,” I smiled, releasing the tray to his more stable grip. “I think Aunt Fae invited half the town instead of just the key investigation participants.”
“She does love to throw a gathering,” Keone said. “Why have an intimate debrief when you could host a community forum complete with color-coordinated refreshments?” He nodded toward the dining table, where Aunt Fae and my friend Elle had arranged an impressive spread of finger foods organized by color—a rainbow of culinary offerings that was as visually striking as it was delicious.
“At least she restrained herself from printing commemorative T-shirts. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to have them on order for the Heritage Garden groundbreaking ceremony,” I said as I finished handing out the glasses of iced tea.
“Too late.” Keone grinned as he set down the empty tray to reach into his pocket. He produced his phone and showed me a mock-up image Aunt Fae had sent him that morning: a proposed T-shirt design featuring a stylized crane in flight above the text “Truth Rises: Ohia Heritage Garden Now.”
“Oh wow,” I groaned, though I couldn’t help smiling. “Please tell me you talked her out of it.”
“Actually, Pearl loves the design,” he replied. “Says it captures the spirit of the project. They’re discussing color options and sustainable fabric choices and planning to have it on the Heritage Garden website, along with other swag.”
“I insisted on organic bamboo fabric for any of the Heritage Garden merchandise we’re planning.” Pearl must have overheard us, because she chimed in, her voice carrying its characteristic blend of authority and humor. “If we’re going to commemorate justice with clothing, it should at least be ethically and sustainably sourced.”
Lani leaned down to adjust Pearl’s shawl, a handwoven piece in shades of purple that complemented her cream-colored dress. “You have strong opinions about fabric,” she said with an affectionate smile. “I’ve learned a lot about textiles in the last two weeks.”
