Page 22 of A Little Luck

Max hops up and jogs over to her, taking her arm and giving her a hug. “Aunt Sheila, I want you to meet one of my oldest friends.”

She’s wearing a long, loose hunter-green dress with lots of beads and leather jewelry, and I notice right away the cane in her hand. Her eyes travel over my head into the trees behind me.

Aunt Sheila is blind.

A grin lifts her heavily lined cheeks, and she motions in my direction. “Your oldest friend smells like a good cook.”

The chicken is all set, and I put the pair of tongs I’m holding down to go to her. “Hi, Aunt Sheila.” I take the hand she holds out. “I’m Adam Stone.”

“Adam Stone.” She nods, like she’s making a decision. “A good, strong name. It’s nice to meet you, Adam. Have you spent a lot of time in the islands?”

“No, ma’am. It’s my first time visiting, but my parents came here before I was born.”

“To Moloka’i?”

“No, they went to see Pearl Harbor.”

“Ah.” She lifts her chin. “They visited Oahu. I’ve heard the museum there is beautiful.”

“Everything here is beautiful.” Max walks out, carrying a platter with a round loaf of golden bread, a plate of green beans, and a sliced pineapple.

I grab the beans and the pineapple off the platter and arrange them beside the chicken on the grill. “Want the bread toasted?”

“You know it.” Max uses a large knife to cut it into thick pieces.

“I love a man who knows how to cook.” Sheila pulls out the sturdy bamboo chair from in front of the small outdoor table and takes a pipe from the pocket of her dress. “How long are you boys planning to stay?”

“Depends on how long you’ll put up with us.” Max takes a chair across from his aunt and pours three shot glasses of Oke, or Hawaiian moonshine.

“You know I love my favorite nephew.” She winks in his direction.

“I’m your only nephew.” He puts a glass in her hand. “Cheers—to good times with good friends.”

I step over and take the small glass, clinking it against theirs. “Thanks for letting me stay with you here.”

“You’re welcome in my home. Moloka’i is called ‘the friendly island’ for a reason.”

Returning to the grill, I remove the food, arranging the pieces on plates and setting them at each of our places, starting with Aunt Sheila. Max takes care of the utensils, and he pours glasses of white wine for each of us.

For a few minutes, we eat in pleasant silence—except for my friend’s groaning over how good everything tastes. Surfing works up our appetites, and the jet lag is hitting me hard. Still, I’m doing my best to stay awake as long as I can.

“This was good.” Aunt Sheila nods, sitting back in her chair. “For someone who has never visited the island, it’s very good.”

“Thanks. I actually read the recipe in a magazine while we were waiting on the plane and decided to try it.”

“That’s right. You’re the pilot.” She lifts her chin, sliding her chair back and standing. “Let me show you our island.”

She holds out a hand, and I glance at Max, who’s on his feet as well.

“Sure—let’s do it.” I put my napkin beside my plate.

Aunt Sheila is incredibly sure-footed for a blind person. Using her cane, she guides us to a low fence at the back of her small yard. We pass through a rickety gate to a path that goes straight up the side of a hill.

Palms and small flowering shrubs surround us, and when we reach the top, it opens to a breathtaking view of the green mountains and the shore below.

“It’s breathtaking.” My voice is hushed, and Sheila chuckles.

“It’s the least developed and the least disturbed by tourism of the islands.”

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