The Aloha Quilt (12 page)

“I think I’ll use a mirror,” said Bonnie. “And a pencil with a large eraser.”

“Draw something fun,” Midori advised. “Something that makes you happy. Even a small
quilt will require many, many days, so it should be something that you enjoy and want
to keep forever.”

“I can’t think of anything at the moment.”

“The more you know of Hawaii, the more inspiration you will find. My nephew, Hinano
Paoa, might be able to offer you some guidance. He’s expecting you.”

“Today?”

“This afternoon. He’ll be in his shop, and he said you should feel free to stop by
whenever you have time.”

Bonnie helped Midori clean up from the pattern designing lesson, left a note on Claire’s
desk explaining that she was going on a research trip, and set off with a notebook
tucked into her purse and her cell phone set to vibrate. Midori’s directions took
her through Lahaina beyond the route she and Claire had taken earlier that day to
a part of town she had not visited before. Once Bonnie was sure she had taken a wrong
turn, but a young woman working behind the counter at a surf shop assured her she
was only a few blocks away.

She heard faint melodic strumming before she saw the sign above the door:
NÄ MELE HAWAI‘I MUSIC SHOP.
At the sight, she gasped and froze in place, staring: gold letters on a red background,
the same size, same typeface as the sign that had once hung above the door to Grandma’s
Attic. Then she blinked and shook herself. It was not exactly the same, only similar.
This sign was a bit smaller than hers, and the rustic quality to the letters had a
Polynesian look whereas hers had been quaintly country.

She missed her quilt shop, so naturally, painfully, she caught
glimpses of it everywhere, just as she sometimes thought she recognized the faces
of absent loved ones in a crowd of strangers. Sights, smells, sounds—any of her senses
could be triggered, reminding her of the shop she had built from the ground up and
lost. Even in Maui, completely new and unfamiliar, she risked the pull of memory.

Instinctively she dug into her purse and checked her cell phone—no voicemails, battery
fully charged as she had known it would be. Chiding herself, she took a deep breath
and entered the store just as a young man about the age of her younger son was leaving,
a ukulele tucked under his arm.

She entered and discovered that the shop was unexpectedly small, a little wider than
the front door and storefront window, with shelves of books and sheet music near the
front, where a few curious tourists mingled among serious shoppers. Behind the long
counter at the back of the room hung ukuleles of various sizes and wood grains, dark
and light, graceful, gleaming, and beautiful. A white-haired man with skin the color
of caramel sat on a tall stool near the cash register, strumming a dark ukulele while
three customers listened, enthralled. The poignant melody tickled Bonnie’s memory,
and after a few measures she recognized not a traditional Hawaiian tune, but one of
her favorite songs, the Beatles’ “Here, There, and Everywhere.”

She smiled.

As the last notes faded, everyone in the store burst into applause. The man good-naturedly
waved off the praise, carefully placed the ukulele into a case lying open on the counter,
and rang up the purchase. As the customer left with his two companions, carrying the
ukulele case as if it cradled something rare and precious, Bonnie approached the counter.
She tried to catch the man’s eye, but he had
already turned to take down another instrument from a shelf beside a closed door.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Hinano Paoa?”

“The one and only.” When he turned around to set the ukulele on the counter, Bonnie
realized the thick white hair was misleading. He looked to be no older than she, with
only a few lines around kind, intelligent eyes that quickly sized her up. “You Bonnie?”

“Yes,” she replied, surprised to be recognized.

“Eh, howzit, Bonnie? My aunt told me to expect you.” He smiled quizzically, folding
muscular arms over a broad chest. “So, you want me to give your quilting friends ukulele
lessons?”

“Well, no,” she said, flustered. How exactly had Midori explained the reason for her
visit?

His brow furrowed. “So you don’t want them to learn to play?”

“Maybe, I suppose. I mean, I haven’t ruled it out.” Wishing she could start the conversation
over, Bonnie shook her head slightly to clear it and briefly explained the purpose
of evening programs at quilt camp—to offer entertainment, relaxation, and socializing
for their guests after a busy day of quilting. For Aloha Quilt Camp, she told him,
she wanted to provide guests with a unique Hawaiian experience, something they would
find only in Maui, something no other quilt camp could duplicate. “We—Claire and I—want
our guests to experience Hawaii beyond the usual tourist spots,” she said. “Your aunt
recommended you. She said you’re very knowledgeable about Hawaiian culture and could
advise me about excursions, lectures, or other events for our quilters.”

To her astonishment, Hinano laughed, a deep, rich laugh tinged with irony. “Auntie
Midori recommended me?” he asked, shaking his head. “She hasn’t always appreciated
my
opinions about the state of Hawaiian culture, especially when it comes to serving
it up for tourists.”

A blond man bending over to peer through the glass counter straightened indignantly,
but when Hinano gave him a disarming shrug, he smiled uncertainly and resumed browsing.

“Our campers aren’t tourists in the usual sense,” Bonnie explained. “They’re coming
to Maui to learn, not to loll around on beaches working on their tans. Not that there’s
anything wrong with that.”

“Your quilting friends aren’t interested in the real Hawaii,” said Hinano. “What you
need are the brochures you can pick up at one of those visitor information kiosks
outside the big hotels. Your quilters could do a little snorkeling, go to a luau,
maybe take a boat ride out to Molokai. That’s enough for most kine folks.”

His tone was so charming and patronizing all at once that Bonnie bristled. “How do
you know that my quilting friends aren’t interested in the real Hawaii?” she demanded.
“You don’t even know them. Quilters are passionate about art, about history, about
community and family—How can you just dismiss them as superficial tourists? Sorry,”
she added automatically to the blond man at the counter, who scowled and left the
store.

Hinano sighed. “You just cost me a customer.”

Bonnie dismissed his complaint with a wave of her hand. “He wasn’t going to buy anything.
I’ve run a store myself. I know the signs. Anyway, you’re the one who lost him, with
your condescending remarks about tourists.”

The door behind the counter opened while Bonnie spoke, and a young man entered, grinning
as he caught her last words. “That’s part of my dad’s charm,” he said, reading from
a receipt as he punched keys on the cash register. “You know. Sweet native
guy full of the aloha spirit. He used to drape
leis
over every customer who came in, but we made him stop. All our profits went to buy
flowers.”

Bonnie expected Hinano to rebuke his son, but instead Hinano snorted as if trying
not to laugh. “Don’t go making up stories about me, Kai,” he said. “The truth is bad
enough.”

Bonnie was inclined to agree with him for a change, and she wondered why on earth
Midori had recommended her nephew. Was it another test of Bonnie’s commitment to discovering
the real Hawaii, whether quilts or music or culture? If so, Bonnie had failed. She’d
find another, less patronizing advisor. Somehow. “This was obviously a bad idea,”
she said, turning to go. “I’ve wasted enough of your time. Excuse me.”

At that moment, her cell phone rang.

She fumbled around in her purse as the ringtone grew persistently louder. She could
have sworn she had set the phone to vibrate. She saw Hinano and Kai exchange a look—tourists
and their ubiquitous cell phones, it said—but any embarrassment she might have felt
swiftly vanished with one glance at the caller ID.

It was Darren Taylor.

Bonnie felt as if the breath had been squeezed from her body, but she took the call.
“Hello?” she said, turning her back on father and son and taking a few steps away.
“Darren?”

“Hello, Bonnie. How are you?”

“Oh, fine, I suppose.” Her heart was pounding. “It must be late there. Do you have
news?”

“Yes. Last Friday the detective followed Craig to Penn State. He stayed at the Hotel
State College all weekend.”

“Oh.” Was that all? That was nothing. “Craig’s a huge Nittany Lions fan. He’d make
that trip every home game of the season if he could.”

“A woman met him for dinner at the Allen Street Grill Friday evening at seven o’clock.”

“Oh,” repeated Bonnie in a small voice.

“The detective took pictures of them holding hands, kissing across the table, feeding
each other, the works. Bonnie, I know this must be painful to hear. Should I stop?”

“No, no, go on,” said Bonnie, desperately wanting him to say no more.

“Afterward, the detective tailed them to a club where they drank and danced. From
there, they returned to the hotel, where the detective snapped a great shot of them
kissing while Craig fumbled to unlock the door.” In the background was the light tapping
of computer keys. “They didn’t come out until morning. They ate breakfast at the Corner
Room, strolled around campus, stopped by an alumni association tailgater, attended
the football game, and shared the same hotel room that night as well.”

“I see.” Slowly the facts of the tryst sank in. Bonnie had agreed to let Craig keep
their season tickets in exchange for their family photo albums. Some strange woman
had sat in Bonnie’s seat in Beaver Stadium, beside
her
husband, cheering on
her
favorite team, enjoying a meal in
her
favorite restaurant, and spending two nights in
her
favorite hotel. It was as if Craig had designed the weekend to inflict as much insult
and injury upon Bonnie as possible. Imagining the lovers’ weekend, picturing them
in all those familiar places, Bonnie knew she could never enjoy any of those favorite
things again.

“The good news is that we already have enough to make a strong case for divorce on
the grounds of adultery.”

“You’re right. This is good news.”

“Do you want me to email you the photos?”

“No,” said Bonnie vehemently. “I don’t need to see the pictures.
Just—just do what you have to do to get me out of this marriage as soon as possible.”

“Understood. I’ll wait for the detective’s final report and I’ll contact Craig’s lawyer
on Monday.”

Bonnie thanked him and hung up. Ducking her head, she flung her phone into her purse
and angrily flicked away the two tears that had betrayed her and were slipping down
her cheeks. Her gaze fell upon Hinano and Kai, who had heard her every word and were
watching her in astonished sympathy.

“You said ‘This is good news,’ ” said Kai uneasily, “but you sure don’t look it.”

“Kai,” said Hinano, a quiet warning.

“That was my lawyer,” said Bonnie as more tears threatened, shrugging, smiling as
if it were no big deal. “Really, it’s nothing. My husband met some strange other woman
for a big romantic date, you know, but it’s okay because the detective got pictures
and so now I’ll be able to get my divorce, which really is for the best, and it’s
what I want—” Bonnie forced herself to stop babbling. “I have to go.”

Hinano studied her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Perfect! Great. Never better.” She dug around in her purse for Midori’s directions.
“I just have to find my way back to the inn and I’ll be fine.”

“Hold on.” Hinano came around from behind the counter. “You want to get a cup of coffee
or something first?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“One cup of coffee.” He gave her a disarming smile not unlike the one he had given
the disgruntled tourist. “My favorite coffee shop’s down the block.”

“Well—” It would give her time to clear her thoughts so she would be less likely to
get lost on the way back to the inn and stumble into the ocean or an active volcano.
And she needed
the information Midori had assured her Hinano could provide. It would be a shame to
go away empty-handed. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Sure. Why not?”