Sisterchicks Do the Hula (12 page)

Laurie sat hunched over, finishing her creation. She had carefully strung one tender pink rosebud after every four tuberose all the way around her lei. At the beginning and at the end she had fastened a stunning purple orchid. Both of the orchids were fastened properly, with their faces forward. When Kapuna Kalala showed Laurie how to knot them together, the vanda orchids looked like twins growing out of the same stem.

Turning to me with a radiant expression, Laurie said, “Hope, I made this for you. This is your story. Do you see? Between the firecrackers I tucked a little pink Emilee Rose, and I anchored the circle with two rare beauties facing forward. That’s us. You know who the four firecrackers are.”

I could barely move. It was so beautiful. This work of art was my story.

“Laurie …”

No other words followed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She slipped the lei over my bowed head.

“Aloha,”
Kapuna Kalala said. “
Aloha nui loa
. With much love.” Coming from her deep voice, the words sounded as if they were rising like an ocean swell.

Laurie picked up the camera and took a picture of me, sitting there, speechless, with my story adorning my neck like a garland of hosannas.

Now that Laurie had the camera, she redirected her passion. Kapuna Kalala continued her lesson for us, appearing unaffected by Laurie’s picture taking.

“Hawaiians love to talk story. We love to give story. Every lei holds a story, and everyone who wears a lei holds on to that story.”

“How did you learn to make leis?” I asked.

“From my mother. She used to make flower leis and sell them to the tourists who came in on the ships at the Aloha Tower. Sometimes she would spend two hours making a lei and sell it for one dollar. Then she would watch the ship go out to sea, and the people would throw the lei into the water.”

“I’ve heard of that tradition,” Laurie said. “If the lei floated back to you, didn’t that mean you were supposed to return to the islands one day?”

A patient smile played on Kapuna Kalala’s lips. “Yes, but this is not a Hawaiian tradition. A Hawaiian would not throw away something that was made for her. She would not toss aside one gift to wish for another.”

Kapuna Kalala held up the lei she had finished. Using both hands, she held it gingerly, the way one would hold a special treasure.

“In ancient times, leis were used in worship. Now that I
know the true God and Creator of all, I always offer up to Him the fragrance, which is the firstfruits of my gift.”

She held the lei silently for a moment. Laurie snapped a picture. I wished she had used her digital camera because that one wouldn’t have made a noise and interrupted the sacred moment.

The rain started coming down furiously, and the wind blew sheets of water into the alcove where we were seated. Laurie quickly covered her camera, and the three of us scampered to gather up everything of value and move deeper into the hotel lobby. Our lei-making lesson had come to an abrupt conclusion.

“Thank you.” I placed my hand on Kapuna Kalala’s shoulder. “Thank you so much. Thank you for the song yesterday morning and thank you for the lesson today.”

“Ho’omaika’i.”
She looked at me tenderly. “Blessings on you.
He Akua Hemolele
.”

“What does that phrase mean? You sang it yesterday.”

“It means ‘God is holy or perfect.’ ” The dear woman reached over and lightly touched my abdomen. “May I say a
pule
for you and your baby?”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what a “poo-lay” was. I guessed it was a blessing or a prayer.

Drawing in a deep breath, she leaned close and breathed out the heart-melting words, whose sound I was beginning to adore.
“Ka Makua-O-Kalani. Mahalo, mahalo.”
The words came out carefully strung together, cascading from her lips like an exquisite and fragrant lei, encircling Emilee Rose and me.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” I listened to my own voice and hated the small, tight, nasal sound of my words compared to hers. I didn’t know until that moment that the English language doesn’t easily melt or soothe the soul.

Laurie didn’t say anything until we were through the lobby and standing in front of the elevator. “That was incredible.”

“Yes, it was.”

“What are we doing now?”

“I don’t know.”

The rain had knocked out any possibility of outdoor activities, and our amazing time with Kapuna Kalala had put both Laurie and me into a stupor, not knowing where to go next.

“Shopping?” I suggested.

“You wanted to visit a teahouse, right? We could find a place now for lunch; it’s a good day for tea. Let’s go up to the room so I can grab a sweater.”

I decided to leave Laurie’s special lei in our room. I didn’t want to wear it in the rain and watch it disintegrate. We checked with the concierge, and he recommended the Winterbourne Tea Parlor at the Mission Houses Museum for our rainy-day tea. Sliding into a cab, Laurie and I rode through the dense traffic on soggy Kalakaua Avenue.

We had only gone about three blocks when Laurie said, “Wait! Stop the car. Is that the Wilson Roberts Gallery?”

“Yes, that’s the main one,” the taxi driver said. “There’s another one at the Ala Moana Shopping Center.”

“This is the one I want. Could you let us out here at the
corner?” She pulled a few dollars from her wallet to pay him for the short ride.

I followed Laurie, not sure what was going on. “I’m guessing this has something to do with art or with Gabe,” I said, as we hurried from the cab into the gallery.

“Right there,” Laurie said quietly. She nodded at an entire wall filled with Gabe’s artwork. Across the top of the paintings reigned a sign in gold and black that read, “Gabriel Giordani—Painter of Hideaways.”

I stood in silent appreciation. They were beautiful paintings. All of them. Gabriel often painted vine-covered cottages or garden scenes, but what set his work apart from others was that each of his paintings included a subtle “hideaway” that was just the right size for children. Some paintings showed a tree house or a playhouse discreetly hidden to the side. In his more recent works he had painted pint-sized, fortlike hideaways that appeared to have been created out of cedar branches by an imaginative eight-year-old. The unspoken message of each painting was that a child had just been there, innocently at play, in the imaginary castle or impenetrable fortress of twigs.

Laurie stood close and whispered, “Gabe told me to try to stop in at one of their locations while we were here. They just started to carry his work a few months ago.”

“It’s really wonderful, Laurie.”

She looked wary as a young couple stopped in front of Gabe’s largest painting.

In a rather high-pitched voice, the young woman said, “I don’t get the big attraction. I mean, why is his stuff everywhere?”

“He’s Italian,” the guy said.

I could feel Laurie cringe.

“I know, but who keeps buying his pictures?”

“People who enjoy financing his villa in Rome.”

“Seriously, doesn’t the American public realize this kind of nostalgia is nauseating?”

“Or at best annoying,” he agreed.

I began to take a step forward when Laurie grabbed my arm. “Art is subjective,” she muttered under her breath. “Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. Didn’t you remind me of that yesterday?”

“Yes, but—”

The young woman spoke again. “He obviously isn’t in touch with what speaks to the postmodern generation. I think this Italian guy should go back to art school.”

“He’s probably too busy living the life of a capitalistic playboy,” the guy said.

That does it!

Holding up my index finger, I scrunched up my nose and said, “Just one minute, Laurie. I’ll be right back.”

“Hello there.” I approached the opinionated couple as if I owned the gallery.

“Not buying. Just looking,” the curt young man said.

“I’m not employed here.” I tried to keep my voice low and
controlled. “I happened to overhear some of your comments, and I just wanted you to know that your assumptions about Gabriel Giordani are all wrong. Terribly wrong. Completely. Just wrong.”

The couple looked at my set expression, then down at my belly and back at my faintly orange-tinted face with the exotic stripes running across my neck. I’m sure they had never seen such an extraordinary combination of guts and glamour.

I was not to be deterred. “Gabriel Giordani does not live in a villa in Italy. He is an American. Third generation. He and his family have lived in the same three-bedroom house for almost twenty years and—”

“Do you really know him?” The woman’s interest was piqued. “Have you actually been to his house?”

“Yes.”

Two more rainy-day gallery strollers stepped close. Laurie had withdrawn to the corner of the room and was trying to appear interested in a sculpture of a barnacle-crusted blue whale. I caught every cautionary expression she sent my way, but that didn’t stop me.

“How did you meet him?” a woman wearing a purple visor asked.

“I met him when I was in college,” I answered. “I worked at a restaurant, and he used to come in. Often.”

“How fascinating! What is he really like? I’ve seen pictures, and he’s very handsome.”

“Yes, well, he’s a wonderful man and…” I raised my voice but not my gaze, “he has a really wonderful wife and family.”

“Does he ever give you any of his paintings?” the purple-billed woman asked.

“No.”

“Too bad. They’re worth a lot, you know,” the young man said.

“No kidding!” his wife agreed. “If you had some of his earlier works and if he had signed them back then, can you imagine what they would be worth now on eBay?”

The purple visor looked at me closely. “Do you really know him personally, or did you just meet him once?”

“No, he’s a good friend.”

“And he never gave you one of his paintings?”

I couldn’t believe how smothered I felt. I had boldly stepped forward in an effort to defend Gabe and protect Laurie, but now I was defending myself. The reason I had never accepted one of Gabe’s offers of a painting was because Darren and I agreed we didn’t want to appear as if we were abusing our friendship. But I wasn’t going to explain that to this mob.

A salesman suddenly appeared and stepped up to do his job. I’ve never been so thankful for an aggressive salesman as I was at that moment.

Making my exit, I found Laurie waiting in the corner of the gallery. “Sorry about that. I thought I was being so noble.”

“I know. It’s okay. Let’s just get out of here.”

I followed Laurie out to the street where she hailed a cab.

“Winterbourne Tea Parlor,” she said. “At the Mission Houses Museum.”

“Certainly,” the driver said. “And how is your day going?”

Laurie and I looked at each other. Neither of us seemed to know what to say.

A
nother bucket of water tipped over and spilled from the heavens. Gigantic blobs of rain pelted the cab’s roof as the vehicle sloshed its way through the Honolulu streets.

“I appreciate what you tried to do back there, defending my husband like that,” Laurie said quietly.

“It didn’t go the way I thought it would.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I can see what you meant yesterday about opening yourself up for criticism when you put your art on display. It can be brutal.”

“Yes, but so is giving birth to a baby—any baby. You were right, Hope. You said I have to just give birth and trust God for the rest.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, you did. See? I told you the wisdom would roll in as soon as you turned forty.”

“Don’t rush me. I still have a few more days in the season of beauty. ”

Laurie looked out the window and back at me. “Maybe you’re getting a jump start on the wisdom era because I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. I’ve been carrying around this 259-pound baby for too long.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If you start having contractions, I’m here for you. You know that. I’d love to be your midwife and get this baby out of you.”

Laurie grinned and nudged me with her elbow. I looked up and saw the driver giving the two of us the strangest looks in his rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry,” Laurie said more for his benefit than mine. “I don’t plan to go into labor right away. At least not today.”

“Me neither,” I said, trying to offer him double reassurance.

The driver pulled up in front of a low stone wall and pointed to the amount due on his meter. I handed Laurie some money and peered out the window. The rain had subsided temporarily, and I had a clear view of a lovely, white two-story clapboard house that graced the center of the grounds. It was as if a bit of New England had popped up in the middle of this tropical island. Mature trees sheltered this charming frame house and adjacent buildings, making it feel like an oasis in the center of the city.

“Do you know who built this house?” I asked the driver.

“The Protestant missionaries.” He turned and looked at me, as if checking to see if I wanted more information.