The Maui Effect (Man-Made Trilogy #1)

The Tourists

‘Iwa

What the actual hell? The traffic was backed up again on the Hana Highway, mostly rental cars. Not only that but they were parked on both sides of the road, blocking driveways and making a big mess of things. A lady two cars up decided to pull a U-turn in the middle of it all, and ‘Iwa pressed her hand on the horn and didn’t let up. Tourists thought that no one actually lived on Maui. That everyone was on vacation and you could walk down the middle of the road staring at your phone for directions to the nearest waterfall, drive five miles an hour in a thirty mile an hour zone and wear hideous aloha print wear made in China. The No Trespassing or Kapu signs meant nothing to them.

Coming back to Pā‘ia after a few days of work in the forest always seemed to magnify the issue. The absolute definition of culture shock was going from time spent alone with trees and rare plants, swimming in mossy rock-filled streams, and listening for vanishing birdsong to the overcrowded roads and beaches and stores. She rarely ever went to Kīhei or Lahaina anymore, it was too disheartening. If she had her way, she’d live in a tree house high on the eastern slopes of Haleakalā. Maybe come down every few weeks or so to see her dad and get provisions. But her dad needed her and she had a life.

A few minutes ago, she’d passed the old cane road down to Pe’ahi, and seen the mud tracked out onto the main road. A big man in a black shirt had been standing at the entrance of the red dirt road, arms crossed like a human gate, and a bunch of trucks filled with surfboards were backed up on the side of the road to get in. Pe’ahi must have been breaking. She’d caught glimpses of huge surf along the way. Driving past, she thought nothing of it, mind bent on getting to the restaurant on time, but this was worse than usual. The driver’s side window was stuck closed and the afternoon sun turned the cab of her old Toyota truck into a steam bath.

Back at the trailhead, she had rinsed off in the stream, knowing she would just make it in time for her shift. Now she’d be at least ten minutes late. When she hit Pā‘ia, all of the parking spots were taken, even the one reserved for Uncle’s, home of the best food on the island. After searching for five minutes, she hopped the curb and parked up the road under Mr. Kinoshita’s mango tree. It was winter, so her truck was safe from falling fruit. She’d bring him a piece of pie after work and he would forgive her, like he always did. Scrambling over the gear shift into the passenger seat, she pulled on her jeans and work shirt and slid out the door as quietly as possible.

Sundays were usually quiet, but when she walked in, half the tables were already full. She dipped into the bathroom, smoothed down her hair and tied it in a low knot, dabbed some lipstick on and poked her head in the kitchen.

“Sorry I’m late, Pe’ahi traffic and there was no parking. Again. What’s the special?” she said.

Uncle’s was one of those hole-in-the-wall places that didn’t look like much from the outside, but pleasantly surprised you when you walked in. Streetside, it might have been any old little plantation house with faded green paint and a rusted tin roof, but step through the door and you entered a warmly lit room with board and batten walls painted a fresh white, a tall ceiling with exposed trusses and an open-air lānai out the back shaded by a big milo tree. The tables were handmade and each one had an old bottle with a fern sticking out of it. The menu was written on a chalkboard wall, but most people who came here didn’t need a menu. They already knew what they wanted—one of Uncle’s famous bowls.

But on a day like today, there was bound to be more tourists than locals, and she was already annoyed at their intrusion into her life and town. She had to remind herself to be nice, that the tourists helped keep the town afloat now that sugar was gone.

Within an hour of her arrival, every table in the place was taken, and she picked up on fragments of the day’s events at Pe’ahi, which pretty much everyone in the surf industry just referred to as Jaws. The room was buzzing with surfing tales—the bomber set that broke on the outer reef, Petey Jones’s spectacular wipeout, the sheet glass conditions and that final wave. But the thing was, she just wasn’t interested. Everyone here was obsessed with the ocean, but give her a mountain any day.

A man across the room waved her over. “Miss, excuse me, miss!”

She was in the middle of taking an order and purposely ignored him. When she finished and headed to the kitchen instead of toward his table, she saw him stand and hold up his glass out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey, pretty waheenee, we need refills over here, pronto.”

Mila, the other waitress, a windsurfer from Holland, glanced over at ‘Iwa from across the room and gave her an eye roll and a shake of the head. The man in question was sitting with two other guys, all sunburned and beer-bellied.

‘Iwa held a finger up, and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Built like an aging football player, the man stood there in his too-tight T-shirt with dark circles around the armpits, looking pissed. “Bring us two more rounds, then, will you?”

After serving fish bowls to one of her regulars, she went to the register and wrote up the red guy’s check and walked as slowly as she could to their table.

“I think what you meant to say was wahine ,” she said, sounding out the Hawaiian word for woman correctly, and setting the check down. “But here’s the thing, we just ran out of beer, so I’ll take the check when you’re ready.”

The guy frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

His friend chimed in. “We’ll take three margaritas then.”

“We’re out of tequila, too,” she said, glancing at the door as a string of surfers walked in.

Linebacker raised his voice. “I see how it is. Do me a favor, though, and let the cook know that my meal tasted like cat food.”

His friends laughed.

“Please see yourselves out,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

By now, she could feel the looks of the other customers. There was rarely any trouble at the restaurant other than the odd whiny customer. This fish is raw was the number one complaint, even though it was precisely what they had ordered. Thankfully, the bearded friend threw down some bills, scribbled something on the check and they filed out the door. ‘Iwa realized she had been holding her breath and let out a big sigh once they were gone. She counted the money. Eighty dollars on a $79.86 check, and some genius advice: Grow some tits if you want a tip.

She shredded the paper and pocketed the money as her eyes filled with tears. She went about clearing and wiping the table so she wouldn’t have to look at anyone. On any other day it would have rolled off her back—rude customers came with the territory, but today she was just plain over it. Over everything. Before she could escape to the bathroom to compose herself, Mila brought over a group of surfers to sit at the table. ‘Iwa forced a smile, then ran off without a word.

Fortunately no one was in the tiny bathroom, and she splashed her face and took a few deep breaths, overwhelmed by the mess this world was becoming. For the last few days, she’d been out searching for tiny forest birds only found on Maui that quite possibly were extinct in the wild. The kiwikiu. Someone had reported possibly hearing one on a remote trail, and she’d been so hopeful. But after three days in the area, she’d found nothing. The idea of yet another species disappearing from the planet gutted her. And then she’d had to come back to cover a shift at the restaurant.

When ‘Iwa walked back out, the crowd of surfers had doubled and now took up two tables. Strong and wiry, and various shades of tan, most of them were wearing flannel shirts. As soon as the January sun went down, the temp cooled fast. Mila was delivering drinks already, and more people were still spilling in. ‘Iwa went to the kitchen to warn Eddie.

“We just got slammed, get ready.”

“Mat and Reeny should be here any minute. I had a feeling it would be busy, with the contest and all.”

Mat tended bar and helped in the kitchen, and Reeny waited tables like an old pro.

“How come no one told me it was on?”

“I know how you get when you’re in the back valleys. One-track mind. There’s hardly service anyway, so why bother?”

Bother came out botha in his pidgin.

“It would have been nice to know, is all.”

The next hour passed in a blur of taking orders, answering random Maui questions and reciting the beer menu, which included a long list of local brews. Big Swell IPA, Bikini Blonde, Aloha Spirit, Overboard IPA. It was making her so tired and thirsty, she did something she hardly ever did: poured herself a beer. Between all the running around and the last few days of hiking, her body felt like it had caught fire. She went into the kitchen, leaned on the cool stainless steel fridge and took a big swig.

Eddie looked up from the grill. “What the heck are you doing?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Put that down and get out there. It’s five past six.”

She groaned. “I’m fried. Win can play on his own tonight.”

“You’ll feel better once you get out there, you always do.”

He was probably right. She downed the beer, went to the office and changed into a long-sleeved brown palaka shirt tied at the waist, and grabbed her old Martin guitar. They had a little spot on the back lānai where she and Winston played music on Sunday evenings. ‘Iwa on guitar, Winston on ukulele, and taking turns on the vocals. Winston was already out back.

“How were the birds, any sightings?” he asked, as he tuned his ukulele.

She shook her head. “You know I would have told you.”

Winston headed Maui Forest Recovery Project, the small organization where she worked, so he knew as well as anyone the predicament they were in. He remained looking down, still tightening his strings, and it felt like he was avoiding eye contact.

“Is everything okay, Win?”

She had known him forever—their moms had taught music together—so she could read him well.

He let out a big exhale and met her gaze. “The eco resort got the green light.”

“What are you talking about?”

“On the Hana‘iwa‘iwa land. The county approved it.”

Her body went cold. “No,” she whispered.

“I got a call from the deputy this afternoon, as a courtesy.”

Using the words eco resort had become the new underhanded way to build things you weren’t supposed to build. Resorts or condos or cheaply constructed strip malls that branded themselves as environmentally conscious, while consciously ruining the land and wiping out entire ecosystems.

“Some courtesy. Why do we allow this kind of thing?” she said, fingers moving up and down the neck of her guitar.

Winston rubbed his fingers together. “Money.”

The Hana‘iwa‘iwa land covered a huge swath of forest and stream systems near where she’d been the last few days. Her day job sometimes took her there. Home to towering ‘ōhi‘a lehua trees and native forest birds, Hawaiian snails and happy-face spiders, and a waterfall that meant the world to ‘Iwa for reasons of her own.

The old landowner had recently sold it to a developer, Murphy Jones, in a quiet deal that was done before anyone knew. In effect, selling off some of the most pristine land on the island. ‘Iwa knew all about Jones from her mother, Lily, who had been a big part of the Save Hanameli coalition fifteen years earlier, fighting to keep a white sand bay from being built on. The coalition had lost, and now the bay was graced with a big ugly hotel, the beach lined in beach chairs and umbrellas. Island residents had to fight for beach access.

“We can’t let him do it,” she said, with a hard strum.

“He’s already doing it.”

It was suddenly hard to breathe. The waterfall would forever be tied to her mom. Going there for the first time had been a rite of passage, a doorway into another world. Before starting off on the hike, Lily had taught her E Hō Mai , a Hawaiian chant asking for permission to enter the forest. To ‘Iwa, who was only ten at the time, it felt like being inducted into a secret club. Not many people knew about Waikula.

That moment at the trailhead came back to her vividly. Standing under a canopy of kukui and guava, breathing in overripe fruit and decaying leaves. Her mother tightening the straps on her pack. The morning had been a bright one, and sunlight crisscrossed through the branches. ‘Iwa’s mom sang the words first, and ‘Iwa followed. They repeated the lines several times and when they were finished ‘Iwa could have sworn a few birds joined in and the trees were standing taller. Her mother smiled her vibrant smile and they set out on the long hike to the falls.

“We have to figure out something. I have to,” she told him.

Her mother’s memory depended on it.

“Don’t worry, we will.”

Ten minutes later, the whole group of surfers started spilling out the back door, crowding around the two small empty tables right in front of ‘Iwa and Winston. There wasn’t enough room for them all, so a few stood off to the side, leaning against the tree limb that was growing across the lānai . At that moment, ‘Iwa wished they would all just go away. Or maybe she should. At the rate things were going, this night was not bound to end well.

One of the problems with surfers was that they were mostly all good-looking and well-built. Wide shoulders and finely carved arms, hair streaked with sunshine, and always a healthy dose of confidence, as if they knew that what they did was the coolest sport on earth, and they were in on some secret with mother nature herself. ‘Iwa’s only two boyfriends had been surfers. Now she avoided them for the same reason she was attracted to them: with a surfer, you would never be number one. The ocean was always their first love and first priority, and that was nonnegotiable.

Winston nudged her arm. “You ready?”

She nodded.

Winston leaned into the mic, slowly strumming, and spoke in that soft way that he did. “Aloha. I’m Winston and this is ‘Iwa,” he said, emphasizing the w in her name as a v , as in so many Hawaiian words. “Our island’s best-kept secret. Also, a big shout out to our Pe’ahi surfers in the crowd.”

They started with “Hi’ilawe.” Old-school slack key. The beauty of playing at Uncle’s was that they could play whatever they wanted, which usually turned out to be mostly Hawaiian with a smattering of folk rock that made you feel like you were sitting on a beach around a bonfire, breaking waves and crackling flames as a backdrop. His voice was smooth and old-fashioned, hers deep and husky.

When ‘Iwa was onstage—if you could call the little platform a stage—she did one of two things: disappear completely into the songs and zone out, or play on autopilot and observe the guests in great detail. Tonight, as much as she wanted to zone out, she found herself studying the surf crew. She recognized a few locals, Billy Rothburn, Lucas Hoapili and Kama Mizuno, a mainland surfer whose grandparents lived on Maui. With them was a tallish blond guy wearing a maile lei, long strands of sweet and tangy vine. He looked familiar and was probably someone , but she couldn’t place him. He seemed a little old to be a pro, maybe thirtyish, but you never knew. Big wave surfing had its own set of rules. It attracted a much wider range of men—and a handful of women.

After a few songs, a woman who had been sitting at the other table came over and sat between Kama and the stranger, her butt on the edge of each of their chairs. She slung an arm around maile lei guy and leaned her blond head against his neck. He messed up her short blond hair with one hand and squeezed her knee with his other. Big, strong hands. The two made a handsome pair, and yet, there was something untouchable about him, something that said he belonged to no one.

At the end of the song, Reeny came out with a round of tequila shots and a bald man stood up and made a toast. “There aren’t too many men in the world who ride mountains, and even fewer who slay them the way you did today. Well played, my friend,” he said, lifting his glass. “To a new era of big wave surfing!”

Cheers.

Aloha.

Roger that.

Everyone on the lānai was looking directly at maile lei guy, who offered up a one-sided smile, downed his shot, and slammed the glass on the hardwood table with a tan and muscled forearm. “Thanks, brah. Humbled to be here,” was all he said.

Interesting. People from the mainland usually said bro , not brah .

“Speech!” the girl next to him said, waving a fist in the air.

A few others chimed in. Dane-O! Speech! Cheehoo!

And then it hit her. This was Dane Parsons. A well-known big wave surfer. He had always had long hair, but now it was shorter and tousled, almost as though he had cut it himself. She had encountered him a few times over the years—a party at Kama’s grandparents’ house, out surfing at Honolua Bay, a barbecue in Spreckelsville. Usually with a hot girl on his arm.

He shook his head. “No speech.” Then looked up at Winston and said, “Don’t stop on my account.”

Winston nodded at ‘Iwa and they started up again, ‘Iwa singing and working out the cobwebs in her voice. For the first time, Dane turned her way and seemed to notice her. He didn’t smile, but his blue-eyed gaze stuck for a few moments. She didn’t smile either, then forced herself to look away.

Voices at the table were getting louder as more rounds were consumed, and everyone was talking over everyone. They continued playing on in the background, and then took a water break. The deck was so small that they were almost bumping knees with the closest table, and ‘Iwa listened to the guys talk about a surfer put in a coma by a freakish wave off Portugal.

“He was in critical condition for a week,” one of them said.

“I thought it was a month,” said another guy.

“I heard he was under for ten minutes.”

It reminded her of the fishing tales her dad and his friends spun after a long day on the water. Where at five o’clock the fish was forty pounds, four hours and a twelve-pack later, it had morphed into a hundred-pound beast.

Kama’s forehead scrunched up. “No one can hold their breath for ten minutes and come out alive.”

Dane seemed to disagree. “It’s the cold water. Remember The Perfect Storm ? We need to get over there and ride that thing.”

None of them had even noticed the music had stopped, which irked her. ‘Iwa picked up her guitar, ready to give it one more go. She smiled at Win and started plucking the chords to “Angel from Montgomery.” It had been one of her mom’s favorites and the two of them loved to sing it together—always a crowd pleaser.

Winston smiled and said, “Good choice.”

They played together often enough that they had their own internal language. He knew this song meant she wanted to get the crowd’s attention, maybe even impress someone.

‘Iwa leaned into the mic and spoke softly. “This song is for all the waterfalls out there that need saving.”

The words poured out, dripping with emotion and sung with as much passion as she could muster. She kept her voice slow and measured, and a little rough around the edges. Where usually this was when the people on the patio went quiet, no one even glanced their way. These guys seemed drunk and full of themselves and clueless. What a waste of her time. Midsong, she just stopped. Winston looked at her, lifting an eyebrow.

She waited a few moments, then spoke into the mic again, louder. “Raise your hand if you know what the word haole means.”

That seemed to get their attention. Kama and Dane and most of the people at the closest table glanced around at each other, looking uncomfortable. Kama finally raised his hand. As did Dane. Hands shot up here and there, and everyone stopped talking, clearly wondering where this was going. ‘Iwa wondered, too, but she felt this simmering anger under her skin that pushed her onward.

“You, guy with the maile lei, why don’t you tell us,” she said, unwilling to acknowledge that she knew who he was.

“A haole is a white person,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Is that your final answer?” she asked.

A hint of a smile. “Yup.”

Lucas spoke up. “Brah, let me help you out. It means without breath , and the Hawaiians used it to mean the missionaries who refused to greet them by sharing a breath, nose to nose.” He looked to ‘Iwa. “Am I right?”

“That’s one school of thought. But more likely, it meant outsider, someone of a foreign kind who doesn’t understand your ways,” she said.

Like you guys.

“Thanks for the education,” she heard a man say to his friend at a nearby table, as he rolled his eyes.

‘Iwa’s cheeks heated up. “In Hawai’i, when you’re out somewhere and people are playing music for you, you usually show them just a tiny bit of respect. My friend Winston here is one of the best musicians on the island and not one of you has so much as acknowledged him.”

For the second time that night, tears welled in her eyes. She had been having angry and unexpected emotional outbursts like this more and more lately. And now, knowing her reaction to a bunch of clueless surfers was irrational but unable to help herself, the words of her Uncle Tutu popped into her head.

Grief bites out of the blue.

Kama gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry, ‘Iwa, big day on the water and everyone is jacked.”

Dane, who was sitting with his side to her, turned. “What makes you think we aren’t paying attention?” His voice was deep and full and resonant. ‘Iwa noticed voices.

“It’s pretty obvious. Every one of you is yelling over the other to be heard. You’re like a bunch of mynah birds in a banyan tree at sunset time,” she said.

“I heard you. You dedicated that song to all the waterfalls that need saving. One in particular.”

Shit.

“Okay, so a point for you, congratulations,” she said.

Winston nudged her knee with his. Fighting with guests was not a brilliant business strategy, and Eddie would be pissed, but she could not rein herself in.

“What song were we playing?” she asked.

He didn’t miss a beat. “John Prine. ‘Angel from Montgomery.’”

The look on his face said he knew he’d won—was probably used to winning. But even if he had been paying attention, no one else seemed to be. Then he whistled through his fingers, loud enough to shut everyone up fast.

“Hey, can we get some quiet? The lady would like your attention for this next song,” he said, turning toward her and leaning back with his arms crossed, a look of amusement on his face. “We’re all ears.”

Now she felt stupid and self-conscious. She glanced over at Winston, who had developed a sheen of sweat on his forehead even in the cool evening air. The smart thing to do would be to just go. Call it a night and leave Win here to finish off the set. But that would mean these people had won, wouldn’t it?

“Pick a song, any song,” she said.

Dane rubbed his chin and thought for a few seconds. “What about Guns N’ Roses. ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’? Is that in your repertoire?”

She tried to suppress a smile. “That old eighties band? We’ll do our best,” she said. “Won’t we, Win?”

A quiet stillness filled the night. The leaves on the big milo tree had stopped rustling, traffic noise had all but ceased and the whole side of the mountain was holding its breath. ‘Iwa started the opening riff softly and intimately, fingers picking up and down the fretboard, working deftly. Then she took it up a notch. She knew the song inside out and backward. Could have played it in her sleep. As her hands did their thing, she channeled her mother’s voice and began singing, eyes on the guitar.

He’s got a smile that it seems to me...

After the first verse, in which she changed the words from she to he , she dared a peek at the audience. All smugness had been wiped from Dane’s face, and he was watching her intently as a night heron—an auku’u —waiting for a fish. She felt a swoosh on the inside, something warm and dangerous.

He’s got eyes of the bluest skies...

She continued on, this time disappearing into the song until the outside world fell away. Her voice caught a few times, but her guitar was flawless and Winston was doing a fine job of matching her on his tenor uke. For good measure, she drew out the ending, and by the time they’d finished, her fingers ached and her throat burned. Around the lānai , claps and whistles and cheers arose.

“Well played,” Dane said, and she could tell that he meant it. His eyes really were blue. More deep sea than sky. Not that she had been singing about his eyes, but they were hard not to notice.

Breathless, she smiled. For the first time, she noticed Eddie leaning against the door frame. Dane must have followed her gaze, because he swiveled around to see what she was looking at. Eddie was backlit and it was hard to read his expression, but he wasn’t clapping. Then he turned and went back inside. Just then, the fairy lights went out. Which meant closing time. She checked her watch and saw that closing time wasn’t for another forty-five minutes.

“Hana hou,” someone yelled.

“Sorry, the boss says it’s closing time. Aloha,” she said, turning off the mic, grabbing her guitar, and beelining it across the lānai and into the kitchen.

Eddie was wiping down the stainless steel counter and didn’t look up when she entered. Obsessive about his kitchen, he made sure the place was sparkly clean every night before leaving. You had to or the bugs moved in and took up residence.

“Hey,” she said.

“What was that out there, ‘Iwa‘iwa?” he said in his angry boss tone.

And using her full name.

“The man requested it, what was I supposed to do?”

She watched his thick arm go round and round with the white rag, polishing one particular spot to death, and felt a rush of fondness for him, even though she was high on his shit list right now.

“You can’t keep getting into it with the customers. First those tourist guys and now the surfers. No more beers for you while on the job,” he said.

“It wasn’t the beer.”

“Whatevah. And by the way, the man happens to be a legend.”

“So, are you going to fire me?” she asked, undoing her bun and shaking her hair out. It was still damp with stream water.

Suddenly, there was movement behind her. She stepped to the side, expecting Reeny or Mat, but it was Dane, looking flush in the bright lights.

“Please don’t fire her on our account,” he said.

Eddie stopped the polishing and stood upright, dropping the rag. “It wouldn’t be on your account, trust me. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t fire her.”

“And why is that?”

“She’s my daughter. I’m Eddie Young,” he said, holding out his hand to Dane.

Dane shook it, studying Eddie for a moment, and then ‘Iwa, causing a warming tingle on her skin. He let out a small laugh. “I see the resemblance, clear as day.”

Eddie, as usual, had more to say. “‘Iwa means well, but when she gets a notion in her head, she’s like a pit bull. Sorry about the haole lecture. Her mother was full-blooded haole , Irish. I’m Hawaiian-Chinese and Norwegian.”

‘Iwa tried to stick up for herself. “I was just trying to make a point, and technically—”

Her dad held up a hand. “Dane was right, nowadays we use the word haole to mean white person, so let’s leave it at that.”

“I don’t mind being put in my place now and then,” Dane said.

“Brah, you just won the Pe’ahi Challenge. You did not deserve my daughter acting like a brat.”

Dane shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well—”

Eddie beamed at Dane. “I was born and raised just up the road and been long-boarding my whole life, and tell you what—there’s only a handful of guys in the world who could go out there and do what you did today. You earned my respect and then some. Actually, you already had my respect, but now you moved up a rung.”

Dane shrugged. “I had some help from the ocean, no doubt about that.”

He was close enough now that she could smell a spicy aftershave mixed with salt water and see the true magnitude of his long-lashed cerulean eyes.

“Paddling into a wave like that takes a special kind of nerve,” Eddie said.

‘Iwa gave Eddie a look that said, enough, Dad . At this point, all she wanted to do was take Mr. Kinoshita his liliko‘i pie slice, head home and curl up under the blankets with Koa.

Dane cleared his throat. “Speaking of nerve, how about I make up for my rude behavior by taking your daughter out to dinner tomorrow night?” he said to Eddie, then shot her a look.

Eddie stood up taller, chest out and chin up. “You’re even braver than I thought.”

“I...uh...well...”

Eddie laughed. “Just kidding. But you gotta ask her, not me. She’s the boss.”

Dane turned to ‘Iwa. “What do you say?”

‘Iwa’s heart skipped a beat, but her head quickly took over and spun out a list of reasons to say no— mainland and surfer topping the list, with distraction and dangerous coming in a close third and fourth.

“Thank you but I can’t,” she said, offering up no further explanation.

Dane wilted a little, then said, “Lunch, maybe?”

“I appreciate you coming back here to apologize, and I’m flattered, but I must decline.”

I must decline? Where on earth had that come from? This whole thing was throwing her off. Five seconds later, a big brown moth flew in through the open back door and fluttered erratically around Dane’s head.

He ducked and swatted and hopped around, before it found a spot on the beam above him. “You have bats in Hawai’i?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“It’s a black witch moth, not a bat,” she said.

Eddie was watching the moth, a beautiful lacy pattern on her wings. A knowing look passed between them. ‘Iwa willed the moth to fly off and find another place to rest, but she seemed content to remain on the dark beam. Ascalapha odorata. This one appeared to be a female, with the telltale white stripe, and blue in her spots, especially iridescent. If the lore was true, the moths were lost loved ones returning for a visit.

‘Iwa made her escape. “Excuse me, I have some pie to deliver. Safe travels,” she said, leaving them standing there as she went to the bar fridge and took out the last slice of pie. The back of her head burned where she imagined Dane’s gaze following her.

Of all things, a black witch moth over his head.