After thirty-two minutes, the long-awaited green road sign appeared: Lahaina Town—1 Mile.
* * * *
Dark clouds gathered above Lahaina, and a sudden tropical wind sprang up. Sandi turned off Prison Street onto Front Street. Tall palm trees bowed, and warm rain fell onto the tin roofs of the little whaling village. It was easy to see why the Toyota smelled like a musty locker room. Water dripped in through the half-open windows, staining the gray upholstery. Sandi downshifted into second gear and fumbled for the windshield wiper switch.
There was hardly any traffic through the narrow lanes of the village. On the boardwalks of Front Street locals moved through the downpour in an unhurried, unperturbed gait. A schoolkid riding his bike through the overflowing gutter wore a T-shirt declaring Maui’s motto: No rain, no rainbows.
It was easy to spot visitors from the mainland as they covered their heads with real estate brochures and hustled to take shelter. Sandi decided she would accept the rain like a local. She cranked down the driver’s side window and stuck out her hand, palm up, to catch the drops.
The enormous banyan tree covered about an acre of land in front of the pale yellow courthouse on her left. The dark green, plantation-style Pioneer Inn was just across the street. The partially assembled whaling ship for tourists that Gramma Leda had mentioned was moored at the dock in front of the inn.
Sandi sighed with relief. “Thank You, Jesus.” Never mind that the engine lugged when she forgot to downshift. She slowed and coasted into a parking space in front of the hotel. From behind the white rails of the lanai bordering the Pioneer seven locals—men and women from midthirties to elderly—sat and smoked, observing her arrival. Leaving the Toyota in second gear, she popped the clutch, killing the engine. Smiles and nods from the audience prompted her to give them an amused thumbs-up as she climbed from the car.
“Aloha!” called a silver-haired, leather-skinned Polynesian man in a faded yellow and red Hawaiian shirt. A Lucky Strike dangled from his lip. Broad, flat feet overlapped worn-down flip-flops. Everyone on the Pioneer’s lanai wore rubber flip-flops. Sandi decided she would buy some and stash her mainland footgear.
“Aloha! This must be the place.” Sandi grinned and dragged her bag from the hatch. “The car died.”
“We’ll put up a tombstone. Checking in?”
“Yep.” Sandi pretended not to notice as the downpour increased.
The Polynesian snuffed out his smoke and stepped into the rain shower to take the suitcase from her. “Here, miss. I’ll take it.”
“Thanks. Great storm.” She raised her face.
“No rain, no rainbows. You don’t act like no tourist.” He flashed a half-toothed smile. “I’m Joe.”
“Pleased to meet you, Joe. I’m Sandi Smith.” She searched the second-story lanai for some sign of Auntie Hannah. Just like Gramma Leda had described, two empty rockers marked a spot on the upper corner of the building. Was Auntie Hannah behind the shuttered windows observing her arrival?
“Auwe, Sandi.” He called to his companions, “She the one from the mainland. Come to talk story with Auntie Hannah.”
“That’s me.”
“Old Auntie Hannah tellin’ everyone about you comin’ to talk to her. Learn history.”
“I’m excited to meet her.”
“She sleepin’. Always after lunch.”
“I’ll just check in. Change. Take a walk.”
“Shu-ah. Sandi, huh? We didn’t know from your name if you was a boy or girl.”
“Definitely a girl.”
“Pretty, too. And younger than we thought. Auntie Hannah show us your letter. UCLA History Department, the letter say. Sounds important. We think you would be smart and old. You smart and young and pretty, eh?”
“Not too old to enjoy Lahaina, anyway.”
Approving laughter bubbled from Joe and the audience on the porch. A chorus of Alohas welcomed her.
Joe was chief bellhop, desk clerk, maintenance supervisor, and unofficial manager of the Pioneer Inn. The team that had greeted Sandi at the door was his family and staff.
There was a single pay phone in the lobby. No TV. No credit cards were accepted at the Pioneer. Cash payment for one week in advance and a quick signature on an old-fashioned register were all that was needed to secure Sandi’s room. She was situated on the opposite end of the hotel from Auntie Hannah’s apartment.
The Pioneer had changed little since the l920s. It was open to the breeze and smelled of tropical flowers from the grounds below and lemon oil polish. A broad flight of stairs with teak wood banisters led up to the second floor. A long, high-ceilinged corridor was decorated with vintage prints of whaling scenes.
As the door swung back, Joe remarked over his shoulder, “You get your own bath. Auntie Hannah say you get the best room in the house. So you get Lokelani Rose Room. Bridal suite.”
Sandi smiled and shook her head with delight. It was as though she had stepped back in time.
The room was trimmed like the cabin of a sailing ship. The floor was tight teak planking covered by a woven bamboo mat. Walls were paneled in teak beadboard. An enormous, antique, four-poster bed, topped with carved pineapples and a matching armoire, dominated the space. The dark wood grain of the headboard seemed almost three-dimensional and reflected the light as if it were illuminated from within.
Joe said proudly, “Koa wood. Lots of kama’aina kids begin in this place. Nobody carve beds like dis no more.”
An exotic quilt, handworked in green stitching, with red roses on a white background, was a work of art.
“Look at this!” Sandi exclaimed, running her hand over the petals of the appliqué roses.
“Every room different. Lokelani Rose.” Joe inclined his head toward the bedcover. “Auntie Hannah teach the young ones how to make ’em over at The Mission House.”
There was a chair beside a small round table, also koa but inlaid with ivory. The table was crowned with a blue Oriental vase filled with an arrangement of red torch ginger. Sunlight glowed on the polished wood tabletop, a perfect place for her to work. The bathroom was good-sized with a 1920s vintage pedestal sink, a chain flush toilet with the water tank above, and a large, clawfoot tub with bright brass fixtures. Shuttered doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea, Lahaina Harbor, the courthouse, and the massive hundred-year-old banyan tree planted to commemorate the arrival of the missionaries.
Rain danced on the roof. Fresh water gushed from the rain gutter downspout like a mountain stream.
Joe set her suitcase on the stand, spread his arms, and beamed. “You like?”
“No words. I’m breathless. Just, well, I may never want to leave.”
“Yeah. Dat’s the idea. You take your time. I’ll tell Auntie Hannah you’re here when she wakes up. ’Bout an hour.”
Sandi tipped him. “Aloha and—Maha-lo. Did I get it right?”
“Pretty good!” He laughed. “Alooh-ha!” He closed the door quietly behind him.
She did not look at the bed. Would not let her mind wander to John. Best room in the house. Bridal suite. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Alone.
Sandi stood at the window and gazed out at the newly scrubbed world. Far across the channel she spotted the mysterious island of Lanai swathed in clouds and floating in a mist.
She popped open her suitcase and pulled out Hawaiian history books, lining them up, spine out, on the table. Research material was the most important thing she had packed. She had a list of questions and felt well prepared to interview the oldest woman in Hawaii. Sandi’s professor had likened the eyewitness interviews in the Fifty States History Project to climbing into a time machine. Thorough research was the travel guide that would help Sandi recognize the historical landmarks and know which follow-up questions to ask Auntie Hannah.
As for packing personal belongings, Sandi had heeded the advice of her older sister, who had traveled to the Islands years earlier. “Maui’s a real undiscovered backwater. Laha
ina isn’t exactly the social center of the Pacific. You could live your entire life in your bathing suit. Travel light.”
Sandi had packed light for her journey. Her bathing suit and underwear had gone in first, followed by three pairs of Bermuda shorts, cotton blouses, two summer dresses, and a skirt. Her sister had told her about the freezing wind she had encountered visiting Haleakula Volcano. Just in case, Sandi had thrown in a jacket, her UCLA sweatshirt, socks, and one pair of 501 Levis. The thought of driving the Toyota all the way to the top of the mountain made it unlikely she would need the cold weather gear.
Sandi hung the lei over the bedpost and stripped off her damp travel clothes, draping them over the tub to dry. Pulling on her pale blue plaid shorts and blue cotton blouse, she ran a comb through her wet hair and stretched out on her stomach across the Lokelani Rose Bridal Suite quilt.
Alone.
Downstairs, in the Whaler’s Bar, ukuleles strummed as mellow voices harmonized love songs of old Hawaii. Within minutes, the soft Lahaina wind and the drum of raindrops on the roof lulled her to sleep.
* * * *
A chorus of myna birds perched in the massive banyan tree chirped Sandi awake. A rapping on her door followed.
“Who is it?” Sandi sat up and noted the beaming late afternoon sun. The storm had passed.
A woman’s musical voice replied, “Aloha, miss! Miss Sandi? Auntie Hannah see you now. Room 12.”
“Mahalo!” Sandi called as footsteps retreated down the hall.
Tying back her hair, she donned skirt and sandals and her plumeria lei. Briefcase and tape recorder in hand, she checked herself in the mirror for first impressions. The serious eyes in the reflection affirmed: “Official. Capable. Scholarly.” The lei indicated a readiness to immerse herself in the culture.
Trekking down the long corridor, she passed a couple coming out of their room. She tried on a smile and mouthed the word, “Aloha.” The man glanced at the lei and then the briefcase and nodded a mainland hello. Perhaps Sandi’s skin was too pale to look like a real local.
The countdown of room numbers ended at 12. Auntie Hannah’s door was slightly ajar. Sandi hesitated a moment before she knocked on the doorframe. “Aloha? It’s Sandi Smith.”
Auntie Hannah answered with a gentle voice. Her words were surprisingly colored by a British-tinged accent reminiscent of a Greer Garson movie. “Aloha. Come in, and welcome, my dear. I have been expecting you.”
Sandi nudged the door open, taking in the room. The layout was identical to that of the Lokelani Suite, but the furnishings and adornment were nothing like a hotel. Teak floors were covered by rich Oriental carpets. The carved koa canopy bed, neatly made up with an intricately patterned quilt, was positioned to face the open French doors overlooking the harbor. Against the wall behind the old woman, a delicate spinet piano was open. Three music stands were filled with sheet music and open hymnals, suggesting that musicians were frequent visitors. Nearby, a walnut phonograph and bookshelf was devoted entirely to old record albums, including a stack of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas.
The ceiling-high double armoire was carved with the royal crest of old Hawaii. The matching chest of drawers was topped by a crowd of faces gazing out from old photographs. Beadboard walls were hung thick with portraits and paintings of old Hawaii.
In the center of it all was Old Auntie Hannah, looking much like the blossom of a hibiscus in her red and yellow muumuu. She was erect and alert in one of two overstuffed red floral chairs flanking a Victorian reading table. The table was crowned with a Tiffany lamp with bronze peacocks for the base and a multi-colored shade of leaded-glass peacock feathers. Beneath the lamp was a thick Bible with faded pages detached from the spine. The cracked leather cover was open to the Psalms. Different colors of ink underlined passages. Handwritten notes and dates crowded the margins.
Auntie Hannah’s silver hair, done up, was crowned with a woven wreath of flowers. Around her neck she wore a fresh tuberose lei that filled the room with a powerful, sweet aroma, something like gardenias. Deep brown eyes smiled at Sandi from a face lined with nearly a century of memories.
Auntie Hannah extended her arms, inviting Sandi into her embrace as though she were a family member. “Alooha, my dear girl.” Auntie kissed her cheek.
“Aloha,” Sandi replied, suddenly made shy by the great dignity in the mannerisms of the centenarian. “I have so been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Sit. Sit.” Auntie Hannah disarmed Sandi’s uneasiness as she gestured to the empty chair. “Very pretty. Very pretty.” She leaned forward and winked. “There was a wager among the staff as to whether you were a kane or wahine.”
“Sandi with an i. Wahine.”
“Of course. And your signature. Lovely handwriting. I won the bet, though I had not guessed you would be so young. It’s a good thing we did not wager on the year of your birth.” The old woman’s glance grazed Sandi’s wedding ring.
“I’m twenty-five. A bit older than the other researchers in the project.”
“And I am nearly four times that, but I still feel surprisingly young. I dream the dreams of a young girl sometimes: see myself among childhood friends, running down to the water to catch a wave, or dancing with a beau on the Parker Ranch. A century passes quickly.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s what we—I—don’t want to miss.” Sandi felt a surge of excitement as she fumbled with the tape recorder. “Do you mind? I just have to set up.”
Auntie Hannah observed her with quiet amusement. She did not speak again until Sandi pushed the record button. “Have you taken tea yet? West Coast time is much later. Are you hungry?”
Sandi’s growling stomach replied for her. She had missed lunch. “I am a bit, thank you.”
Auntie Hannah glanced out the window as if the time were written on the sky. “It is almost four o’clock. Joe’s wife, Emma, has prepared a little something for your arrival. She will serve tea shortly.”
As if on cue, Emma, a smiling, heavyset Hawaiian, knocked once, then entered pushing a tea trolley with plates heaping with sandwiches and pastries. “Aloha, Auntie! Aloha, Sandi!”
Auntie Hannah greeted Emma with a regal sweep of her hand. “And this is Emma. Emma, this is Sandi. Sandi with an i. A wahine, as you can see.”
“Okay! You win, Auntie Hannah. Extra jar of lilikoi jam. I bring it for breakfast tomorrow.” She patted Sandi’s shoulder. “Don’t make any bets with Auntie Hannah. You never win. She knows the future.”
“I’m wise to her.” Sandi relaxed. “Mahalo.”
Emma addressed Auntie Hannah. “She’s pretty good, eh? Already knows the lingo.” Emma spread the feast. “Bet you’re hungry. Come all the way from the mainland to talk story! Okay. Leave you girls to it!” She exited with a wink.
Auntie Hannah surveyed the meal and the delicate hand-painted teacups. “Sandwiches and scones.” She lifted the lid of the teapot and inhaled. “I am particularly fond of jasmine white tea. Emma has discovered a source of tea buds from China’s Fujian province. There is a Chinese fellow with a teashop on Prison Street. We don’t know how he manages to import real Chinese tea, but it is the best I’ve tasted since I left England.” She poured the tea with a flourish like a scene from My Fair Lady.
“England. Yes. Your accent. I was under the impression that you were born in the Islands.”
“I was.”
“But you spent some time abroad?”
“My education was in British schools. Eight years in Europe in the company of the Crown Princess Kaiulani.”
“And when did you come home?”
Auntie Hannah sipped her tea thoughtfully and raised her eyes to meet Sandi’s probing gaze. “Shall I tell the end of the story before the beginning?”
“Just conversation.”
With a nod Auntie Hannah indicated a carved wooden correspondence chest on the top of the spinet. “I’ve written it all down. It’s in the stationery box. Fetch it for me please, my dear.”
Sandi retrieved the
carved box and placed it in the old woman’s hands.
Auntie Hannah opened the lid to reveal a stack of spiral-bound notebooks. “It’s all here for you.”
Sandi was breathless. “You wrote it down?”
“Based on diaries and letters. A summary. All there.” She inclined her head toward the bed. “The original documents are prepared for you in boxes under the bed. When I knew you were coming, I wrote what I know and heard about events, friends, enemies—and what we felt. It is surprising how much of our lives revolved around love. And friendship. The kind of love that would make a friend lay down her life.”