Kaua'i Me A River Part 4

Hatch pulled into a parking spot at the Ching Young Center. "Hey," he said. "You want to look around or have you had enough?"

"I had enough of this place thirty years ago." Where had that come from? As soon as it was out of my mouth I felt like I'd disrespected my mother's memory. "I didn't mean that. What I meant was..." I stopped, unsure of what to say next.

"Hey, no worries," he said. "Let's head back to Poipu. You'll be back here soon enough."

I nodded.

That night as we got ready for bed, Hatch leaned over and kissed me. "It's been great hanging out with you," he said. "I, uh..." He didn't go on.

"Are you okay?" I said.

"Yeah, I just like being here with you, that's all."

We got into bed and, as usual, he was his loving, tender self. But I could tell something was on his mind. I had my own stuff rattling around my head, but I'd promised myself I wouldn't allow it to take over. Farrah would've been pleased I'd finally taken her advice about *staying in the present.' Distracted or not, Hatch and I both managed to *stay in the present' for more than an hour.

CHAPTER 6.

Wednesday dawned overcast and cool for an end-of-June day. If I'd been working I'd probably be trying to convince a tearful bride that rain on her wedding day meant good luck in the marriage. I don't have any evidence it's true, but I've used that line more times than I can count since island showers occur much more frequently than the Hawaii Tourist Bureau will own up to.

Hatch got up and made coffee. While I was finishing my shower he brought a cup into the bathroom. I wrapped a towel around my head and put on my new lotus flower kimono which I'd already dubbed my *lucky kimono.' Without a word he took me in his arms and I nuzzled into his chest. All I could hear was the drip, drip, drip of the shower and his strong slow heartbeat.

"You gonna be okay today?" he finally said.

"Yeah. I'm good. How about you? What are you going to do while I'm gone?"

"I called the fire station up the road and they've got a softball game against some off-duty cops from Lihue. They said they'd loan me a glove if I wanted to play."

"Will you be finished in time to make our flight at five?"

"It starts at ten-thirty so even if it goes to extra innings we should be done by one. Then we'll probably grab some pizza. Worst case, I'll be back here by three."

I bit the side of my lip.

"I know, it's not fair," he said. "Me playing while you suffer. But the offer's still open if you want me to go up there with you."

"Mahalo, but I'll be fine."

While I got dressed Hatch made breakfast. Fresh papaya with lime, scrambled eggs and Hawaiian sweet bread toast and guava jelly.

I pushed the eggs around on my plate for awhile but couldn't bring myself to actually take a bite.

"You really ought to eat something," he said placing the plate of toast in front of me. His own once full plate was now nearly empty.

"I know, but I'm so nervous."

"That's why you need to eat something. Nothing worse than bad news on an empty stomach."

I forced down a few bites of toast and then checked my watch. It was nearly eight-thirty.

"I should get going," I said. "The meeting starts at eleven."

"That's two and a half hours from now. It doesn't take more than an hour and a half to get to Ha.n.a.lei."

"But there could be traffic."

He laughed. "On Kaua'i?"

"Remember that construction at the Ha.n.a.lei Bridge?"

"All right. You're probably better off driving than sitting here stewing. Call me when you get there."

I promised to call and then leaned in for another long hug. "I'm sorry to be acting like such a baby," I said. "I'll make it up to you."

"Good. I'm counting on it." He gave me a quick kiss.

I went out to the car and had to shoo a chicken away so I could back out of the parking spot. I drove out of the resort and made my way to Highway 520. The highway goes through a tunnel of eucalyptus trees on the way to Lihue. In the cool green of the tree tunnel I began imagining how good it would feel to just drive wherever the road took me and forget about going to the lawyer's office. If I made a left once I pa.s.sed Lihue I could go up and see Wailua Falls. Or I could head south and visit the harbor at Nawiliwili. The cruise ships come in at Nawiliwili so there would probably be shops and restaurants I could poke around in while I bided my time pretending to be at the meeting. I'd tell Hatch the meeting had been uneventful and that Valentine Fabares hadn't told me anything new.

But as I continued past the turnoff to Nawiliwili and then past the road to Wailua Falls, I knew I wouldn't be playing hooky after all. As Farrah had wisely observed, "The truth shall set you free." I guess I wanted freedom from the nagging questions about my mom more than I was willing to admit.

I arrived in Ha.n.a.lei a few minutes after ten. It was too early to show up at the lawyer's office so I found a parking spot and sat in the car. I put in a call to Hatch but he must've already left for his game because I had to leave a voicemail. I did some deep breathing exercises I'd learned in martial arts to take my mind off agonizing over the meeting ahead but it was useless. Had my mom been so selfish she hadn't given a diddly-d.a.m.n about me or my brother and had taken her own life? Or had she chosen feeding her drug habit over feeding her kids? What if I learned she'd died from a gruesome genetic condition that I'd probably inherited?

As I sat there dreaming up morbid scenarios, I felt the weight of not knowing gnawing on me like an insect burrowing underneath my skin. I became desperate to find out what happened. I got out of the car and took the stairs two at a time. The sign on the door said, "R. Albrecht and a.s.sociates, Attorneys-at-Law." No mention of *esquire'. Looked like the a.s.sociates had overruled Albrecht on the signage but he'd refused to budge on the letterhead.

I went inside and a smiling receptionist looked up from pecking on her computer.

"Aloha. May I help you?" she said. Her teeth were blindingly white. In order for me to get teeth that white I'd have to give up coffee for the rest of my life. Nice teeth, but no dice.

"Aloha. My name is Pali Moon and I'm here for an appointment with Valentine Fabares at eleven."

"Certainly. Please have a seat in our waiting room. Would you like coffee or tea?" She started to get up, but I declined anything to drink.

"Then go on in. Most of the other family members are already here."

Family members? What family members?

I went through a doorway into the small waiting room. Chairs were positioned around the walls. Four women were waiting; none seated next to the other. In the far corner a pimply-faced teen-aged boy muttered into a cell phone.

I sat in the only remaining chair that wasn't next to someone. I tried to discreetly check out the other women, but they were busy checking me out so eye contact became awkward. I picked up a magazine from a stack on a low table in the middle of the room. It turned out to be a months-old copy of People with a cover photo showing a smiling Sandra Bullock and her bad boy ex-husband, Jesse James. In my business I'd seen plenty of goody-goody women desperately in love with guys they thought they could *make over.' By the time the couple showed up at my door, the guys had been house broken enough to agree to the concept of marriage-most notably the benefits of having someone to do their cooking and cleaning and the promise of s.e.x every night-but it was easy to spot the guys who'd already mentally deleted the vow about "forsaking all others" before they'd even taken it.

I flipped through the magazine, not focusing on either pictures or words. Instead I used it as a blind to peek over while I scoped out my so-called *family' members. Who were these people? None of them looked even vaguely familiar nor could I detect any family resemblance. Did my mother have step-sisters? Maybe cousins?

By the time eleven o'clock rolled around the tiny waiting room held six women, including me, and the one sullen teen-age boy.

A door on the other side of the room opened and a woman stepped into the doorway. She was definitely someone Farrah-or probably my hippie mother-could relate to. She had waist-length brown hair, parted in the middle. The hair looked a bit oily; like it got washed once a week and this was day six. The woman wore a long orange Indian-print cotton wrap skirt and a plain white scooped-neck tee. I looked down and expected to see worn rubba slippas on her feet but instead she wore bright yellow Crocs; those clunky molded-plastic shoes that look like something Minnie Mouse would wear on a date with Mickey. But unlike Farrah, the woman standing in the doorway wasn't curvy. In fact, she looked like she hadn't eaten a decent meal in weeks.

"Aloha. And mahalo to everyone for being so prompt." Her wide smile pulled her cheeks taut against well-defined cheekbones. "Let's move into the conference room, shall we?"

The teenager stayed put while the rest of us trooped down a short hall. We entered a room with an oval wooden table with eight chairs around it. On one wall, a wide window faced the mountain dubbed "Bali Hai" in the old movie, South Pacific. In the far corner sat a small flat-screen television on a rolling cart.

While everyone found seats around the table I gawked out the window. By the time I turned to take a seat the only chair available was the one at Croc-woman's left. I sat down. As we settled in, a guy in more-or-less professional attire-starched beige cotton aloha shirt, tan slacks and brown leather loafers-came in. He closed the door and stood in front of it with his arms crossed like a bank guard trying to look official.

"Again, aloha, and mahalo for your presence here today," said Croc-woman. She smiled at the guy standing by the door and he gave her an *atta-girl' nod of the head. "Please accept my special mahalo to those of you who took time off from work and traveled to be here today." From the looks of things she was talking to me. The other women looked like they'd taken time off from retail therapy at Honolulu's Ala Moana Shopping Center and then a fifty-dollar girls' lunch at the Royal Hawaiian.

"My name is Valentine Fabares. My surname is French so it's p.r.o.nounced, *Fah-bray,' but I'm born and raised here on Kaua'i. I'm the attorney of record for the estate. I'm joined here this morning by my colleague, Tim Abbott, the CPA who a.s.sisted me with the financial reports." The guy by the door raised his hand as if the teacher was taking roll.

"Is this everyone?" said one of the women at the table. She had a prominent mole at the side of her upper lip and it was hard not to fix on it. Also, she looked older than the others by at least a decade. But it was hard to judge ages. As I scanned the group I guessed there'd been a fair amount of nipping and tucking, not to mention Botox. The lip mole woman went on, "I mean, are there others who aren't here today?"

"Just one," said Valentine. "But besides her, the people sitting at this table const.i.tute the entire group representing the named heirs. There may be unnamed heirs who come forward later as a result of public notification, but I doubt it. But please, let's agree to hold all questions until after the reading of the will, shall we?"

Reading of the will? My mom had a will? Why had it taken thirty years to unearth her will? And why isn't my brother here?

"Let's begin." Valentine Fabares cleared her throat and began reading the last will and testament of one Phillip James Wilkerson, the Third. The will started off stating his birthdate, place of employment and addresses of various homes he claimed to own. The guy must've been loaded. He had three homes on various islands in Hawaii, two on the mainland, and an apartment in Portofino, Italy. Then Valentine read a line that stopped me cold, "I have used other names during the course of my lifetime, including the names Jim Wilkes and Coyote Moon."

I sucked in a breath. For a few moments I held it in. It was as if a cog in my brain had frozen up and shut the whole thing down. I had to consciously remind myself to do stuff that was usually automatic, like breathing and blinking.

So, this meeting wasn't about my mother or how she died. This meeting was about my father, Phillip James Wilkerson, the Third. He'd taken off when I was just a baby, but not before claiming me as his child. I'd often pondered my parents' names on my birth certificate and wondered if they were fake. My mother's name was listed as Martha Warner. The name typed on the *father' line was Coyote P. Moon, of Ha.n.a.lei, Hawaii.

CHAPTER 7.

Valentine Fabares kept on reading, but for the next few minutes I didn't take in much of what she said. I was otherwise occupied, listening to a seash.e.l.l-like rush of sound that blotted out the world around me. I'd long ago given up any hope of finding my father so being invited to the reading of his will was about as shocking as being fingered for a crime I hadn't committed.

"...and my fourth wife was Linda Gardner Wilkerson, by whom I had two children, Kali Elizabeth Wilkerson and Nathaniel Robert Wilkerson. Their last known address was 2025 Apu'a'a Street in Honolulu, Hawaii. The children's social security numbers are..." At that point, I tuned out again. How had Wilkerson gotten everyone's addresses and social security numbers? Had Valentine already read my address and social security number? How had I missed that?

She went on reading, "My sixth wife was Susanne Marie Beatty Wilkerson. This union produced no known children. Her last known address was..."

I looked up at a clock on the wall. Valentine had been reading for more than five minutes. She ended with, "This is my last will and testament, hereby sworn to and witnessed on this day, Thursday, the fifth of August, 2010."

The room was hushed. The youngest-looking of my father's former spouses dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Two others looked as if they were dying to dig out their smart phones and update their Facebook status. The blousy blond sitting next to me glared as if daring anyone to say a good word about the deceased.

"So that's it?" said Lip Mole Woman. "What about the money? And if Phil had six wives and one of them isn't here, why are there seven women, including you of course, sitting at this table?"

It seemed to take a couple of the gals longer than necessary to do the math.

"I'll take your last question first," said Valentine. Her voice sounded like she'd gone to the same Homeland Security hostage negotiation cla.s.s I had. We'd been taught a voice tone referred to as *CLC'-calm, low, and clear. We did a series of role plays learning to speak as if we were discussing the weather when we knew perfectly well the guy we were talking to had a loaded gun shoved to the temple of a terrified hostage. My negotiator voice had come in handy more than a few times in dealing with overwrought brides. A blue ink spot on the bodice of a four-thousand dollar wedding gown? Use the CLC voice to talk her down off the ledge. Or how about dealing with a trophy-wife stepmother showing up in the same dress, three sizes smaller, as the mother-of-the-bride? Again, go with the CLC voice to review the options.

Valentine smiled as she looked around the table and then she nodded to the guy standing by the door. "Pardon me. I was remiss in not asking everyone to introduce themselves. Shall we do that now? I think after all the introductions are made, you'll see why we have six people here this morning instead of five."

Valentine gestured for the woman on her right to begin. I pulled out a little notebook and pen I keep in my purse. I had a feeling I may need to remember who was who later on. The first woman said her name was Linda Gardner, formerly Linda Wilkerson, and she'd been Phil's fourth wife.

The lip mole woman introduced herself as Phil's first wife, Margaret Chesterton. She said she went by *Peggy' and she was the mother of Phil's two oldest children. She said her father had been chief of police for the Kaua'i Police Department before becoming the mayor in 1982. She went on to say she'd known Valentine Fabares for years, even decades.

"I remember when you first pa.s.sed the bar exam," she said. "Daddy introduced you at a Chamber of Commerce event and you inadvertently referred to him as *Chief Chesterton' instead of *Mister Mayor'." She shot Valentine a smug smile that wasn't returned.

Next to her was the young blond who'd dabbed at her eyes during the reading of the will. She looked to be my age, maybe even a little younger. When she spoke, her voice was low and breathy. She said her name was Susanne Wilkerson, but she liked to be called Sunny. She said she was not only Phil's sixth wife but also his widow. She was with him when he died and she'd still be with him if he'd been able to beat the cancer. Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat. In the momentary silence I studied her appearance. Her skin was smooth and clear, her short blond bob perfectly coifed. I wouldn't venture to guess the ages of most of the women in the room, but I'd bet money Sunny was at least ten to twelve years younger than the others.

"I know you all have different memories and experiences of Phil," Sunny said. "But he was my entire world. Every morning when I wake up I thank G.o.d we had the time together that we had. I just wish it could've been longer."

At that, the first wife-Peggy-piped up. "Be careful what you wish for, honey. As you can see, Phil wasn't so good when it came to the long haul. The good news is, at least he never got off cheap."

The women around the table nodded.

"Amen," said one.

"You got that right, honey," said another.

Valentine broke in. "Ladies, let's try to keep this to introductions only. We still have a lot of ground to cover."

The next woman spoke with a slight lisp. She said her name was Rita O'Reilly, formerly Rita Wilkerson, and she'd been Phil's second wife. She said that her marriage to Phil had been a short one but they'd managed to stay together long enough to have one child. She finished by saying she had no idea why she, and not her college-age daughter, had been summoned to the reading of Philip's will.

The woman sitting to my right was the blousy blond who'd asked about other heirs before Valentine had had a chance to lay down the ground rules. She introduced herself in a booming voice as Joanie Bush, Phil's third wife. She said she and Phil had been blessed with twins. She said even though they were grown now, she knew the twins missed their father every day.

She said she'd never taken Phil's name when they married because she wanted to keep her professional name. Her cutesy name, stupendous b.o.o.b job and spikey ma.s.s of white-blond hair made me wonder exactly what profession she'd been in.

Finally, it was my turn. I looked around at the a.s.semblage of nuptial train wrecks that had graced my father's bed and said, "My name is Pali Moon. I guess I'm Mr. Wilkerson's daughter. I didn't even know who my father was until just a few minutes ago." I looked across the table at Peggy. "And, I think I'm actually his oldest child. He was only twenty when I was born."

The room began buzzing with side conversations. Joanie Bush, the blond to my right, practically spat at Valentine. "What the h.e.l.l's going on here? You said Phil specified wives only; no kids."

Valentine put up her palms in an apparent effort to deflect Joanie's anger. "Yes, I know. But that brings us to your earlier question, Miss Bush-"

"It's Mrs. Bush," Joanie interrupted. "I remarried, although G.o.d knows after Phil it was a miracle I found it in my heart to ever trust a man again."

"Yes, well, Mrs. Bush," said Valentine. "As I was saying, we're now ready to address your question regarding the distribution of a.s.sets. The information will be provided by means of a video that Mr. Wilkerson made at the time he drafted his will. Of course there's a formal written bequest as well, but he asked me to play the video before making copies of the bequest available."

Valentine went to the corner of the room and fiddled with a DVD player on the TV cart. Then she asked Tim Abbott, the guy standing by the door, if he'd lower the window shades. Tim's upper lip was moist and when he reached up to pull the shade release I saw an underarm sweat patch. Valentine also seemed a little shaky, but I attributed it to calorie-deprivation and working under the scrutiny of a gaggle of greedy women.

When the TV sparked to life I blinked at the brightness in the darkened room. The first image was a vivid blue background with the words "Last Will and Testament of Phillip J. Wilkerson III" on it. Hawaiian slack key guitar music played in the background as the words faded and were replaced by the date *August 2011' and then the words *Peace of Paradise, Hawaii' were added.

The blue t.i.tle slide was replaced by a sweeping view of lawn, cityscape, ocean, and sky. Judging from the city skyline I determined the shot must've been taken from a hill overlooking Honolulu.

The camera panned to reveal a man sitting in a wheelchair on a ground level lanai. Behind him was a wall of gla.s.s and to his right a pool of water, probably a fish pond or a reflecting pool.

As the camera zoomed in, I got a good look at my father's face. He had a high forehead with thinning brown hair. His features were pretty average except for a thin, sharp nose. His steely eyes stared back at the camera as if challenging it to judge him. On a small table at his side was a cut-crystal highball gla.s.s with a wedge of lime perched on the rim.