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“Peace,” I say, though it’s been so long that Makani probably forgot I’d started a sentence only to never finish it.“I’m looking for peace.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, one hair on his balding head flutters up with the breeze coming in through the open roof. ‘You don’t have to be looking. Lana‘i sees you, and love will find you anyhow.”
“Love won’t find me. I am MIA when it comes to love.”
Makani chortles as if I’m the newest comedic act in town. He walks around the check-in counter. “Come. I’ll show you your room. My wife would like you. She would say you’re mana wahine.”
“Mana what?” I follow Makani down a bright hall on this bottom floor and then to the very end of the building. “What does that mean?”
“That means you are a powerful woman. You do not need a man to make you happy.”
I swallow. “That’s me, the almighty, powerful kindergarten teacher.”
A loud laugh belts from Makani’s lips. “Powerful and patient.”
We stop at a wooden door with a carving of a palm tree sprouting from an island on the front. At the center of the palm is the number seven.
“Here we are. And you, mana wahine, get our best room. Bottom floor, on the end. All bottom-floor rooms have a fenced-in back porch. But you have a gate from the side of that fence, leading to the beach right in your backyard.” He winks. “You’re welcome!”
“Oh.” I bobble a nod in agreement rather than say what I’m thinking. This beautiful room with a gate to the beach will be wasted on me. “Yes. Very nice. Thank you.”
Makani holds out his large tanned fist, dropping a key card into my hand. He takes two steps back and waves before bellowing, “You’re welcome, mana wahine!” And then he disappears down the hall.
7
Kal
I hate pants. Why would anyone willingly wear them? There’s nothing good to be said about them. I mean, I suppose if you live somewhere the sun doesn’t shine every day of the year, you might have to—but then who would do that? Not me.
Pant people, that’s who.
I’ve lived on the island of Lana‘i my whole life. I’ve never even been off the island of Hawaii. Why would I voluntarily leave paradise?
No one has to wear pants in Hawaii. Enough said.
And yet—I’m in pants. And loathing every second of it. But my once-a-year, in-person, teacher meeting with the Dean of the college is now complete, and I’m headed back to the beach.
Aw. Life is good.
My pants will return to the darkness of my closet, never to see the light of day for another three-hundred-sixty-four days.
I park my jeep at the back of the Polihua Resort. A family friend works for the place and clued me in that while this space is reserved for employees only, the vehicles aren’t tagged, and no one checks that they belong to only employees.
It’s perfect because Polihua is my favorite beach in all of Hawaii. I can park at the resort and find my sweet spot down by the water. I can hide in the shade of the resort’s fence and the palms to teach and then make my way down to the water just a few feet away.
I left my chair and things at the back of the building, knowing I’d be back after the meeting with my dean, ready to celebrate the beginning of another perfect summer.
Sometimes I bask alone, and other times I celebrate with friends. Tonight is still up for grabs. Anything goes.
I kill the engine of my jeep and head to my favorite palm where my chair is folded and leaning against the resort’s wooden fence.
I grab my fold-up backpack chair and swing it over my shoulder just as—
“What am I supposed to do here for a week, Autumn? A week! Do you have any idea how much gardening time I’m missing out on,” a distraught girl from the other side of this fence rants.
“Oh no,” someone on speakerphone says. “Whatever will you do?”
I smother a laugh at the droll, bored tone of the girl on the phone.
