Mr. Family. Margot Early
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said gently, but not enough universal appeal for a print series. How about something with people in it?
Erika was painting people now, but nothing she could sell: Six similar paintings, not just in watercolor but also in acrylic and oil. Two of the subjects had come from an incomplete photograph. The third eluded her and stood ghostlike on the side.
Maka, she thought, who are you?
She had shaped each different Maka using pictures of hula dancers from Hawaiian travel magazines, which now lay all about her studio. She had used no one model but had combined different characteristics.
What had Maka been doing? Was her other arm behind Kalahiki, holding him? Was her face turned up to his? What was she wearing? How tall was she? Her right arm was medium-size and well-toned—
The phone rang.
Erika had trained her heart not to leap at that sound, and now she debated letting the machine pick it up to prove her self-control. Ever since she’d received Kalahiki’s letter—and answered it—she’d been unsteady. She shouldn’t care so much. But she did. About a broken-hearted man she didn’t know. Twenty times a day, Erika laid those feelings aside, put them in the place where she put her reaction to his picture, a reaction that was all wrong.
Kal’s grief was his business, not hers.
That he looked like an engraved invitation to come to Hawaii and fall in love was irrelevant.
A celibate marriage was exactly what she wanted. A husband. A child. And no physical complications, no difficult intimacy.
She could keep her head, not get involved. It was easy when she remembered what doing otherwise could mean. Sex.
Yuck.
So he was hung up on his dead wife. Good. He could have his hang-ups; she’d keep hers.
The telephone rang again. She should answer. Adele was back from Hawaii. This might be something about work. Like what? She’s already rejected all my paintings.
The phone rang a third time. Erika set down her brush, dropped down to the shadows of the galley and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
There was a silence, like a punctuation mark. Then, “Hello. This is Kal Johnson calling. Is Erika there?”
She sank down on the steps of the companionway. With a slight breeze from the open hatches blowing her oversize T-shirt against her back, she clutched the receiver. His voice was low and resonant. Masculine. Unique.
God help her.
Sexy.
“This is Erika.” She was in a vacuum and her insides were being sucked out of her. She heard the engine of a cabin cruiser crawling past in the harbor, and a slow wake rocked the junk at its berth.
“I’m not sure if you know who I am, but—”
“I know who you are. You’re Kalahiki.”
Across the Pacific, in the sun-dappled morning shadows inside the bungalow, Kal heard her say his name for the first time. At the same moment he saw Hiialo outside beating Pincushion against the porch. “Bad Pincushion! Bad! No talk stink!”
What had Pincushion said?
“I thought we should talk on the phone.” Brilliant, brilliant, keep it up, Kal.
Erika bit her lip. There was a bellows stuck in her throat, and it was opening and closing with each beat of her heart. Talk, she thought. Say something that will make him…
Oh, she wanted it. They could settle into permanencepermanent celibacy, permanent family—and her life would not change again. Safe.
“Your daughter’s beautiful.” The ensuing pause was so long that at last she asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I…Erika…”
Silence surrounded her name. Silence…and feeling. It was so dark in the galley she didn’t know why her eyes burned that way, why she felt so—
“I just wanted to tell you some things,” he said. “I’ve thought a lot since I got your letter. Are you serious about this?”
Erika swallowed. This. As though he couldn’t say it himself.
“Yes.”
“My house is small. It’s a bungalow. I could fix it so we’d have our own rooms, but it’s still cozy. It’s not right on the beach, either. Close, though.”
Erika tightened her fingers on the phone. Was he saying he wanted her to come?
“I don’t make a lot of money. I’m buying the house from my folks. They have a gallery, by the way. Actually they have three. I went into the one in Hanalei and looked for your prints. They have some.”
Parents. Did his parents live near him? The thought was reassuring. Mr. Family.
She asked, “What’s the name of their gallery?”
“The Okika. It means ‘orchid.’”
His voice was both warm and sandpaper rough. It made her want to hear him talk more.
But he was quiet.
Erika asked, “What does Hiialo do while you work?”
“Um…she goes to a day-care center.” Actually, she’d been to a few. One in a church basement with forty other kids. One with an elderly woman who had made the mistake of saying Hiialo needed a firm hand. The latest situation was a home with an unhappy dog tied up outside.
“My nephew used to be with me while I worked, when he was Hiialo’s age.” As soon as she’d said it, Erika wished she hadn’t. She sounded too eager. Desperate.
But an opportunity like this wouldn’t come again. Normal people wanted sex. Kal and his grief were her only hope.
“Hiialo is…” His voice startled her. “Well, she’s moody. In fact, she can be a bugger sometimes.”
“All kids can.” The dock made its endless aching cries.
“I’d like to…” On the lanai, Hiialo was making Pincushion and her stuffed lion, Purr, shake hands. Kal remembered proposing to Maka. At Waimea Beach. Kissing. I love you…“You could come over here,” he said. “I’ll buy your ticket. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll buy you a ticket home, too.”
“I’ll buy my own ticket.” Somehow. Her hand was deep in her hair, tearing at it. She felt like crying. What if he didn’t like her? What if he didn’t think she’d be a good stepmother for Hiialo? What if…“When do you want me to come?”
“Not right away. I have to figure out some things. About the house.” About how to tell his parents.
How to tell Hiialo.
“I’ll call you again, yeah?” he said. “And I’ll send pictures of the house. Maybe you could come in June?”
“That sounds great. I’m boat-sitting for my brother’s business partner. He’ll be back in June.” Oh, she sounded flaky. Practically homeless.
“Good,” said Kal.
Her worries evaporated. She was wanted—by a stranger. Why was he doing this?
He said, “Let’s get off the phone for now. I’ll call you again soon. Do you have any questions before we hang up?”
“Yes.” With a presence of mind that astonished her, she asked, “What’s your phone number?”
Moments later she set the receiver back in its cradle. Still sitting weakly on the steps, she leaned against the side of the counter and wept.
“DADDY, PINCUSHION’S stuffing is falling out.” As Kal hung up the phone, Hiialo