Kainoa sank down on a pile of scorched wood, his head bowed. Without taking time to think anything through, I went over and put my arms around him. I couldn’t smell pleasant after my run, but Kainoa was in about the same state. He held on for a minute and then released me. He shook his head. “The whole thing, it was the worst mistake of my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me give you a ride back to your place,” Kainoa said. “You shouldn’t run across that field again without having water.”
KAINOA’S DIRTY WHITE Toyota Tacoma trunk was packed to overflowing with files and boxes of things he’d saved from the shop. I caught a glimpse of the espresso maker on its side, deflated beach toys, and lots of balled-up clothes-bikinis like the one I’d bought, and board shorts in the same pattern that Braden wore.
Kainoa dug around and found a lone Fiji water for me and a Budweiser for himself. It was pretty early to be drinking, not to mention drinking while driving. But I didn’t say anything until we were heading toward the border of the old sugar cane field and were about to turn on to Farrington Highway.
“Do you want to get rid of the bottle?” I said, shifting uneasily on the seat’s bright floral cotton cover.
Kainoa looked at me as if I were insane. “I can’t throw a bottle out of this car.”
“I’m not suggesting littering, but you don’t want to have to explain what you’re doing if you get pulled over by a cop.”
“Well, if he sees the bottle and connects it to me, it’s arson, baby.”
We heard the sound of a vehicle at that time; fortunately, it wasn’t a police car, but a black truck turning off Farrington Highway and heading in our direction, kicking up ash as it traveled. Kainoa seemed to stiffen, and threw the empty bottle into the backseat and told me to throw something over it. I did, and my nervousness accelerated.
“Who could that be, driving across Pierce lands?” I asked.
“The obvious. Albert Rivera, the guy I told you about.”
The dreaded land manager. My stomach dropped when the black truck began honking, then cut squarely across our path and stopped. A tall middle-aged man in jeans jumped out of the truck. Kainoa rolled down his window, hung out his head and beckoned for the man to come toward him.
“Aloha, Albert,” he called out in the boisterous, happy-go-lucky tone I’d heard him use often in the coffee shop. But Kainoa’s right hand remained in a death grip on the steering wheel, as if he was ready to take off at any second. “You cleaning up after the fire, too?”
The luna wore a baseball cap, so I couldn’t see his hair, but his flinty eyes had an Asian crease, which could make him anything. But Rivera probably had some Portuguese blood, because of his name. In pidgin as thick as Great-Uncle Yoshitsune’s, he roared, ‘Kainoa Stevens, what you think you doing? And who’s in there with you this time?”
“My name is Rei Shimura. I’m staying at Kainani,” I added, because I was on the verge of concocting an excuse about being a lost tourist who Kainoa was helping home.
He snapped his fingers. “The running chick. You went across the field the last couple mornings. So, Kainoa, you got an explanation for this trespass or what?”
“Just trying to get a lost runner out. You got a problem with me helping this girl?”
“I went out to the coffee shop, and he’s bringing me home,” I said, my heart starting to thud. I’d noticed an ominous bulge under the thin woven shirt that Albert Rivera wore.
“Pierce Holdings don’t like vehicles carving up their land. You know that, Kainoa.”
“This land’s in pretty bad shape to even think about my truck making an impact,” Kainoa said. “Anyway, the Pierces got no trouble carving it up for Kikuchi.”
“You watch what you say,” Albert said. “Mr. Kikuchi’s in the truck. I’m giving him a tour of the damage.”
I’d been nervously focused on Alberto Rivera, so I hadn’t noticed a passenger in the truck. But now I saw a silhouetted figure in the passenger seat.
“Just a minute,” Kainoa said to me, putting the truck in park and swinging down. He strode over to the red truck’s passenger side window and stood there until the man inside rolled it down.
Albert stared at the two of them, and then stomped over to join the gathering. Feeling left out, I slid out of my seat and followed, figuring that I might employ my Japanese to smooth things over.
The passenger door opened now, and Mitsuo Kikuchi stepped down, with a hand from Alberto Rivera. He needed it; he was a very small man, about five feet tall, with thin white hair and wrinkles. Despite his age, Mr. Kikuchi wore surprisingly childlike clothes-a pink golf shirt, and pink and orange checked Madras cotton shorts. He wore his glasses on a red string around his neck, and soft white loafers were turning gray around the edges from the ashy field.
“Welcome to Hawaii,” I said in Japanese. When Mitsuo Kikuchi remained stern, I made a deep bow and began my personal introduction, which quickly segued into thanking him for building such a beautiful resort, where I was staying with my family. It was all polite nonsense, the kind of thing that was de rigueur when you met somebody in Japan.
“Do you live there all year?” Mr. Kikuchi’s voice was polite, and he spoke English without much of an accent. It was a clear signal to switch languages.
“Just a month this time, although I’m sure I’ll be back. It’s such a nice community. I already met your son and his physician.”
“My son is the resort CEO.” Mr. Kikuchi had noticeably stiffened.
“Yes, I’ve heard that. I saw him at the pool on my first morning.”
“He rarely leaves his office; you must be mistaken,” Kikuchi said, turning his attention to Kainoa. “Have we met?”
“Yeah. My name is Kainoa Stevens. You visited my coffee shop to talk last February.”
“Oh, yes. The place made out of an old general store. I hope it’s all right after the fire?” Mr. Kikuchi’s voice lowered to a suitable, pitying level.
“The whole plantation village burned and that coffee shop with it,” Albert Rivera put in. “All the old tings gone.”
“I guess it looks more likely that I’ll consider selling.” Kainoa spoke in a firm voice, but his eyes were on the ashes, not any of us.
“Is it true, then? Your building is destroyed?” Kikuchi pressed.
“Everything except the espresso machine.”
“I’m afraid I must make a new price. Now that there is damage, it means more work for my company. When you count in the plantation village, it’s really a tragedy, all those important historic buildings gone.”
“But you were planning to tear down the village! Everyone knows that.” Kainoa sounded testy.
“You are almost correct. I wasn’t going to use those buildings for my project, but I had been told by the government that the buildings are important, so I planned to transport them. These days, you can make a small hotel village from old cottages.” Mr. Kikuchi shook his head. “Your coffee place was a very nice, authentic plantation general store. That could have been a centerpiece building for a historic resort somewhere else, like Molokai.”
“I can’t see where a rickety old plantation store from Leeward Oahu would fit on a neighbor island with its own buildings,” Kainoa retorted.
“I’m quite sorry about your loss.” Kikuchi’s slight smile belied his words. “If you are honestly ready to cooperate, Stevens, call my office tomorrow. It will be your last chance, so think carefully. Right now, I must resume my tour of the Pierce property.”
I COULDN’T BRING myself to look at Kainoa after the red truck had disappeared in a cloud of choking black smoke. It was just too depressing. Kainoa hadn’t said much to me, just fished another couple of bottles of Budweiser out of the back of his truck. I’d shaken my head at the beer that he offered me, so he drank one bottle after the next as he drove off the Pierce lands and on to Farrington Highway.