The Paradise Affair

4 Sabina

The island of Oahu shimmered in dark green splendor as the Alameda neared a point of land Margaret identified as Koko Head, once around which Honolulu would be visible. The shimmer was a thin heat haze. As early as it was, the morning was hot, the air humid and breathlessly still, the sky threaded with milky streaks. John had grumbled about the sticky heat while they were dressing in their lightest attire. Where were the soft blue sky, the balmy trade winds she had touted?

Margaret provided the answer when they joined her and Lyman and several other passengers at the starboard deck rail. “Kona weather,” she said.

“It comes two or three times a year when the winds turn westerly.”

One of the other passengers, a tubby little man in a white linen suit similar to the one Lyman wore, overheard this and saw fit to add, as if delivering a lecture, “The kona winds are actually blown-out typhoons that have come up across the equator. They bring heavy rainstorms and now and then cause volcanic eruptions. The Polynesians believed them to be ‘sick winds,’ that kona weather is ‘dying weather.’”

“The Polynesians had many superstitions,” Margaret said.

“Yes, and some of them are justified.”

John, who was perspiring freely, muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Sabina remained prudently silent.

The steamer rounded Koko Head, slowed as it approached the channel entrance to Honolulu Harbor. Sabina was impressed by her first view of the city. Beyond piers and warehouses lining the waterfront, buildings sprawled in a wealth of tropical vegetation backed by a section of higher ground that Lyman identified as Punchbowl Hill. In the far distance stood a majestic mountain range, Tantalus, whose jagged peaks were like a row of sentinels. The shoreline swept southward in a wide crescent, the extinct volcano known as Diamond Head standing guard at its far end.

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.

The beach was a short distance down the gradual slope. This section of the garden was dominated by mango trees heavy with fruit, and by one bearing long strands of vivid yellow flowers that Margaret identified as a golden shower tree, one of Hawaii’s most common and most attractive.

As they neared a gate that gave access to the beach, Sabina spied a man and a woman beyond a low fence bordering the neighboring property. They stood near a similar gate on that side, facing each other, the man with both hands tightly gripping the woman’s arms. He seemed to be in the midst of a heated scolding of his companion. She stood stiffly, her blond head tilted to one side as if she disdained looking at him.

When the man heard Sabina and Margaret approaching, he quickly released his hold, squinted in their direction, then said something to the woman that turned her around and sent her back up the incline without a sideways glance. Sabina had a clear look at her then — young, attractive, Junoesque in stature, dressed in a light-colored blouse and skirt.

The man hesitated, looking after her, then walked over to the fence. He was about sixty, tall and spare, with a long saturnine face and a liver-spotted scalp beneath thinning gray hair. Despite the heat, the beige suit he wore was immaculate.

“Hello, Margaret. So you and Lyman are back.” His smile was a mouth-stretch that did not reach his eyes. “How was San Francisco?”

“Cold and wet, I’m afraid.”

“Better than this miserable heat and humidity.”

“Has the kona weather been on us long, Gordon?”

“Three days.”

“Oh, drat. I was hoping it was nearing an end.”

“We’re in for another four or five before the trades begin again.” His gaze shifted to Sabina in an appraisal she found too bold for a man twice her age. “Who is this attractive young woman?”

Margaret introduced them. He was Gordon Pettibone, owner of the neighboring property. He allowed as how it was a pleasure to make Sabina’s acquaintance, a statement she pretended to share. Her years of detective work had taught her to trust first impressions, and there was something about Mr. Pettibone that left her cold.

Ever polite, Margaret said to him, “We’ll be having tea on the lanai at five o’clock with Mrs. Quincannon and her husband. Would you and Philip care to join us?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, his eyes still on Sabina. “Philip is out somewhere but he’ll come if he returns by five.”

“Miss Thurmond is welcome, too, if you would like to bring her.”

“I think not. She will be busy.” He essayed a slight bow, then followed the path the young woman had taken toward the Queen Anne replica.

Sabina said as she and Margaret stepped down onto the white sand beach, “You seemed surprised that Mr. Pettibone accepted your invitation.”

Margaret nodded. “He isn’t the most social of men. Or very fond of our island, I’m sorry to say.”

“Is that why he had his home built to resemble one in San Francisco?”

“It is. He’s not a bad neighbor, though he can be standoffish at times. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him and his nephew to tea.”

“Not at all.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth.

Mr. Pettibone, Margaret explained then, was the minority owner and head of the Honolulu branch of Great Orient Import-Export, a large firm that dealt in silk, foodstuffs, and other goods from China and the Far East. Philip was Philip Oakes, his nephew and an employee of the firm; the blond woman he’d been scolding was Miss Thurmond, his secretary. Both lived with him. Earlene Thurmond’s duties included cataloguing Mr. Pettibone’s large collection of books on Chinese history and assisting him on a scholarly tome he was writing on that nation’s ancient dynasties. Sabina thought she detected a faint note of disapproval in Margaret’s use of the word “duties,” as if she suspected the relationship between the two to be more than just employer-employee. The little scene by the gate suggested the same to Sabina.

The white-sand beach was sparsely populated, most of those present children of various ages, and the shade cast by tall palms kept it from being unbearably hot. The cream-tipped rollers were gentle, the water warm and gloriously soft. Sabina’s only regret, while she and Margaret bathed, was that John was not here to share her enjoyment. She hoped he had made contact with George Fenner and it proved fruitful, and that he would return before five o’clock. She did not relish the thought of having to socialize with Gordon Pettibone without him.