They weighed anchor just inside the harbor entrance, near a small island — Quarantine Island, Margaret told them, where ships believed to be carrying contagious passengers were detained and isolated. The reason for the stoppage was a routine quarantine inspection. Shortly a launch arrived from the island with a doctor to perform the examination; it did not take long for him to clear the passengers and allow the ship to proceed.
The Alameda took her designated place among a number of other vessels — steamers, three-masted barques, a quartet of gunmetal-gray American naval battleships and troop ships — moored at the long line of piers. Passengers disembarked into a shed where they waited for their baggage. It was stifling hot in the shed; the simple act of drawing breath made perspiration flow from Sabina’s pores. The Pritchards, happy to be home, seemed not to mind the heat or the waiting.
The baggage was soon carted in and separated. Lyman assigned their trunks, and hers and John’s, to a pair of native porters. Immigration was a mere formality; the Pritchards were well known to the inspector, and when Lyman stated that the Quincannons were to be their guests, they were swiftly passed through.
When they emerged from the shed, they and the other arrivals were greeted by a brass band playing Hawaiian music, by young girls (somewhat scantily clad, though not in grass skirts) who draped fragrant hibiscus-flower leis around their necks, and by a handsome, smiling Hawaiian of indeterminate age who proved to be the Pritchards’ houseman, Alika. The family equipage, a Studebaker carriage with a calash folding top, drawn by a sturdy sorrel horse, awaited them.
Not a single motorcar was in sight. Sabina asked Lyman if horseless carriages had made their appearance on the island.
“No, not yet,” he said, “but they will surely be here by the turn of the century. Some residents feel that the machines will spoil this peaceful paradise of ours.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, “and we are two of them.”
Alika saw to the loading of their trunks into a trailer cart attached to the buggy, and they were soon under way. The drive to the Waikiki district was on a well-graded, packed earth roadway, Kalakaua Avenue, that followed the curve of the shoreline. Sections on both sides of the road had a swampy look relieved somewhat to seaward by groves of coconut palms; inland, beyond a line of trolley tracks, were taro patches and rice fields in which Chinese laborers stood toiling in knee-deep water. The sweltering heat was unrelieved by even a slight breeze; the palm fronds and other vegetation hung limp and lifeless. John appeared to be suffering its effects more than Sabina was — he kept shifting position on the leather seat, wiping his brow, tugging at the collar of his white shirt — but he made no verbal complaints.
The swampland eventually gave way to the residential district of Waikiki. Even though it was three miles from the city proper, it was not at all isolated. In addition to the streetcar tracks paralleling Kalakaua Avenue, here, too, were arc light standards and poles strung with electrical and telephone wires. Clearly this was where a portion of Honolulu’s wealthy citizens resided; most of the homes visible here and there were large and set on well-landscaped parcels. The Pritchards’ was one of these, a square, two-story waterfront house surrounded by an abundance of tropical flora. Access was along a crushed-shell carriageway that looped across the front of the house, then opened into a parking area at the end of which was a shed-like lean-to and stable.
A young bronze-skinned Hawaiian woman dressed in a bright floral-patterned garment appeared as Alika halted the buggy. When they had all alighted, Margaret embraced the girl, spoke to her briefly in her native tongue, and then performed introductions. She was Kaipo, Alika’s wife “and the finest cook on Oahu.” The girl smiled shyly and said to Sabina and John, “E komo mai. Welcome.” After which she hurried off on a path that led into the gardens to their left.
“I asked her to prepare the guesthouse,” Margaret said. “Alika will bring your trunks. Meanwhile we’ll have something cool to drink on the lanai.”
The guesthouse was invisible from this vantage point, its location hidden by the lush vegetation. The plantings on both sides made Sabina catch her breath; it seemed that shades of every vivid color in the spectrum were represented. Their mingled scents were as heady as expensive perfume.
The main house was composed of large, airy rooms comfortably furnished in native koa woods, the walls decorated with Island paintings and tapestries. The lanai opened off the living room, separated from it by a bamboo curtain; long and wide, screened on three sides, it extended down a slight slope toward the sweep of beach below. The four of them sat out there on rattan chairs and drank iced fruit punch that Kaipo had prepared.
The drinks and the relative coolness of the enclosed lanai relieved some of Sabina’s torpor. John looked less wilted, too, but he was still fidgety and his preoccupied expression told her he was thinking of the two swindlers. He confirmed it when Kaipo entered to inform them that the guesthouse was ready for occupancy.
He was the first to stand, after which he rather rudely consulted his watch and then said to the Pritchards, “My apologies, but as I mentioned on the ship there is a business matter I must see to in the city.”
Lyman blinked his surprise. “You mean now? But you’ve only just arrived. Can’t the matter wait until Monday?”
“I would rather attend to it today. If you’d direct me to the nearby trolley stop...”
“Alika can drive you into the city.”
“The trolley will suit me,” John said. His reason for declining the drive offer, Sabina knew, was to keep his destination private. “What is the fare?”
“Umi keneta Hawaiian, one dime American. You intend to leave right away?”
“As soon as possible.”
Margaret said, “At least come see the guesthouse first. Lyman will show you to the trolley stop. Then you’ll be sure to find your way back here when you return.”
John agreed to that, after which they all trooped outside with Margaret leading the way.
The guesthouse proved to be a simple thatch-roofed structure with a narrow screened porch facing seaward. Purple and red bougainvillea decorated its walls, and it was shaded by a poinciana tree whose wide, spreading branches and flaming red blossoms put Sabina in mind of a gaily colored parasol. The little structure had been built close to a low fence that separated the Pritchards’ property from that of their immediate neighbor. Sabina had a glimpse through shrubbery and across an expanse of lawn of the neighboring house. It was not of Hawaiian design, but surprisingly and rather closely resembled one of the Queen Anne homes prominent in San Francisco.
Two spacious rooms comprised the interior of the guesthouse — sitting room with rattan furniture, bedroom whose two beds were covered by mosquito netting. Like the main house, it had been wired for electricity. A large outdoor rain barrel provided fresh water. Sabina found the accommodation charming and said as much. John made a favorable comment as well, but more out of politeness than with any genuine feeling.
When he and Lyman departed, Margaret asked her if she would like to rest or perhaps go for an ocean dip. Sabina opted for the latter; the prospect of a cooling swim was appealing, the more so when Margaret indicated that that was her intention. She unpacked and donned her bathing costume while her hostess went to change. Margaret’s costume, white with an orchid design, was more attractive than Sabina’s rather plain one. More revealing, too. Some of the women who frequented the California beaches would probably find it scandalous.