by Frankie Bow
“Sure.” Medeiros made a slight head motion. The photographer appeared, focused his camera on the glass, and circled the chair as the automatic shutter clicked and whirred. When he had finished, a young woman in a light blue shirt and dark blue trousers spirited the glass away in her purple-gloved hands.
“Molly,” Mrs. Masterman said, “you were the only one sitting next to her. And I made the tea.”
“I...it was just an idea. Sorry.”
Detective Medeiros turned his head to watch Mrs. Masterman go back into the house, and then returned his gaze to me as if he expected me to say something.
“Um, Detective, was there anything else?”
He studied me for a few more seconds.
“Not right now.” He hefted his bulk up off of Mrs. Masterman’s wooden folding chair and lumbered into the house.
Mrs. Masterman returned without the tea pitcher, and sat down in the chair recently vacated by Detective Medeiros. The sinking sun lit up her magnificent mane of white hair, the kind that inspires younger people never to touch a bottle of hair dye. With her dark eyelashes and warm complexion, Mrs. Fontanne Masterman needed no makeup.
At half her age, I made liberal use of all kinds of cosmetic enhancements. Donnie assured me I didn’t need makeup, claiming I looked better without it. I would smile patiently when he said such things. Donnie had never actually seen me without makeup. What he really meant was he preferred fawn eyeshadow and peach blush to black winged eyeliner and scarlet lipstick.
I did go out in public barefaced once. My car had broken down, requiring me to make the forty-minute walk to campus to get to class in time. No one said anything, but later that afternoon I found a get-well card in my mailbox, signed by my students.
“Well,” Mrs. Masterman murmured. “I must say, this has been quite a day.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Masterman. This must be awful for you.” I watched the camera flash again and again as the photographer walked in a slow circle around Melanie’s body, then squatted to take close-ups.
Mrs. Masterman closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself, or perhaps saying a little prayer.
“It’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened in this house. And please. Call me Fontanne.”
“Fontanne. Your house is so beautiful.” I immediately felt like an idiot. What kind of thing was that to say when we had just watched someone fall to her death?
“It is beautiful. I agree. But it’s a lot to take care of, now I’m here by myself. Are you sure you want to take this on?”
I blinked, taken off guard. “Sorry?”
“You’re here to look at the house, aren’t you?”
“I—I mean, um—”
She held up the little thorn-stripper gizmo, and handed it to me.
“What it the proper way to hold it?” she asked. “Can you show me what I just demonstrated?”
“Oh. Well, I would guess you just—it’s spring-loaded, right?”
She took the device back. “You weren’t paying attention at all. You were staring at my house the whole time.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“You’re the one Leilani was telling me about.” She smiled.
“Leilani Zelenko? Yes, she’s my real estate agent. She said you might be interested in selling, so I hope I wasn’t too—”
“I would love to sell.” Mrs. Masterman, I mean Fontanne, leaned forward. “I have a condo right outside of Waikiki, next to the largest outdoor shopping mall in the world. My daughter and my grandchildren are minutes away. My dearest wish is to move over there.”
“Really?”
I felt a brief surge of excitement, immediately quashed by guilt. I glanced over to see a covered stretcher being loaded into the ambulance as the various police officers, photographers and technicians packed up.
“The upkeep is getting to be too much for me. Roof repairs, repainting, refinishing, weeding, replacing the water heater, and now I’m going to have to get someone to come in and power wash...” Fontanne Masterman glanced over at the spot where Melanie had landed. “Are you married, Molly?”
“Not yet. I’m engaged, though.”
“Oh yes, of course. To Donnie Gonsalves. I heard he’d found himself a...yes, that’s lovely. One doesn’t customarily congratulate the bride, but our Donnie is quite a catch.”
“He is. So you haven’t found the right buyer for the Brewster House?”
“No.”
“What, uh, what qualities are you looking for?”
“A large suitcase full of cash.” My obvious confusion earned me a tolerant smile. “The Brewster House happens to sit in both a tsunami zone and a lava hazard zone. No loan underwriter will come near it. I only found out when I tried to take out a home equity loan.”
“I don’t have a suitcase full of cash,” I said wistfully. “I’m a college professor.”
“You seem like a smart young lady. I imagine if you and Leilani put your heads together, you’ll find a way. Leilani Zelenko is one of the top real estate agents on the island. She’s very good at her job. Let’s not give up yet.”
As I drove over the bridge from Russian Road, I probably should have been mourning Melanie Polewski. But the thought running through my mind was, Fontanne Masterman wants me to buy the Brewster House!
CHAPTER THREE
I ARRIVED AT DONNIE’S right on time for dinner, bursting to share the news that Fontanne Masterman wanted to sell the Brewster House to me. Us. She wanted to sell it to us.
If I was going to get married, I really had to start thinking in terms of us, something that as an only child I had never had to do. My only experience that approached having siblings was sharing a dorm room in college.
I’d moved out into my own apartment as soon as I had a chance.
As I walked up to Donnie’s front door I cast a benevolent eye on the ugly stretch of chain link fence surrounding the backyard, much as one might look with tolerance upon an annoying student who will finally be graduating and moving to North Dakota. I won’t have to be looking at this much longer, I thought.
(A note to any former student who might be reading this after having taken up residence in North Dakota: I was not talking about you. I was simply using North Dakota for the purpose of illustration. In fact, after assessing the local employment situation, many of our best and brightest have decamped to the Upper Midwest upon graduation to work in the fossil-fuel industry.)
I knocked on Donnie’s front door and waited. Donnie had given me a key, but I never used it. I only kept it in case of emergency. I didn’t want to get used to coming and going, leaving a toothbrush here, a spare jacket there, and before I know it, there I’d be, living in Donnie’s house. That would kill any momentum we’d built up toward buying our own place, and I could kiss the Brewster House goodbye.
At this point you may have concluded that I have liquid nitrogen in my veins and a chunk of flint where my heart should be. (Indeed, you would find wide support for this hypothesis among my less-promising students.) In fact, I was in shock. Melanie’s death hadn’t registered yet.
Donnie opened the door and my heart fluttered a little, as it usually did in his presence. Donnie Gonsalves was quite easy on the eyes. He did a lot of physical work managing Donnie’s Drive-Inn, and it showed; the sleeves of his polo shirt strained over his biceps as he held the door open.
“How was the Garden Society?” He looked past me. “Where’s Melanie?”
I stepped out of my shoes and placed them next to the front door.
“Right. About Melanie. Let’s go inside and sit down.”
I seated myself on Donnie’s genuine Ettore Sottsass sofa and patted the cool leather. The couch was from the mid-eighties, built on minimal lines, upholstered in shades of black and charcoal. I pictured it in the Brewster House’s expansive living room. It would be perfect on the gleaming eucalyptus wood floor, I thought. An eclectic look.
Donnie brought over two glasses of red wine and sat next to me. I took a sip or tw
o before I related the events of the afternoon. I would save the news of the house for later, I thought. It would be the tactful thing to do.
“Terrible you had to see it, Molly.” Donnie squeezed my hand. “It’s hard to get over witnessing something like that. I had a fry cook once, at the Drive-Inn, the old location, before I met you...I better not tell you the details. You’ll never go near the teriyaki beef again. I’m very sorry about Melanie.”
“At least I don’t think she suffered. It was so fast.” I felt my eyes stinging and blinked back tears. Donnie sat quietly beside me, holding my hand, for a long time.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” I said, finally. “By the way, did you ever hear back from the Maritime Club about the reservation?”
Donnie nodded, visibly relieved to shift to the mundane details of wedding planning.
“They just called. If we want our reception there, I have to put down the deposit now. They fill up fast with Christmas parties. Now, are you sure you want the Maritime Club?”
“I like the Maritime Club. The ocean view is amazing, and if it’s raining, the guests can stay inside the clubhouse.”
The Maritime Club wasn’t terribly fancy, but nothing in Mahina was fancy. Thanks to the salt spray and frequent rainstorms, the shabby little clubhouse always looked like it needed a new paint job. What the Maritime Club did have was a magnificent oceanfront location. At high tide, sparkling waves broke on the black lava rock, misting the diners on the outdoor lanai. At low tide you could walk down the grassy bank to view the tide pools. And when it wasn’t raining, you could see clear out to the curved blue horizon.
“And Molly, did you ever decide whether you wanted to have the ceremony there at the Maritime Club so everything’s all in one place, or at St. Damien’s?”
“Well, my parents would probably prefer a church wedding. But whenever I’m a guest I hate driving from one place to the next. You know what? You and I are the ones getting married. What do you think?”
“Whatever you like. Really. Doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“Let’s do the whole thing at the Maritime Club, then. I don’t think my parents will be too upset. Oh. And here’s something I wanted to mention. Donnie, you know what we’ve never really talked about?”
“What?”
“Children. Kids. I mean, we’ve talked about it a little, but we’ve never really settled on a definite plan.”
“Well, you’ll inherit at least one,” Donnie smiled. “Davison.”
I did not return Donnie’s smile. As it happened, I had some history with young Davison Gonsalves. Before he transferred to his fancy college on the mainland, Davison had been a student in my Intro to Business Management course, where he’d distinguished himself as a brazen cheater and a lying suckup. Of course Donnie thought his demon spawn was the bee’s knees.
“Do you want more?” Donnie asked. “More children? It should really be up to you. Because, I mean, you know...”
“I know what you’re saying. I think the important thing is that we agree how we’re going to set limits.”
Donnie and I had already had some conflict over young Davison. Donnie let him get away with murder, but whenever I pointed this out, all he had to say was, wouldn’t your parents do the same thing for you? And he would win the argument, because of course my parents always tried to protect me from the worst consequences of my actions. The difference was they had the decency to make me feel guilty about it.
“Do you want more children?” I asked.
“I would like to give Davison a little brother. Or sister. But really, Molly, it’s your choice. Of course, I’ll support you if you want to stay home. If you want to be a full-time mom.”
“Donnie, I went to school for over a quarter of a century to train for what I do. Why on earth would I quit my tenure-track job, just to—”
I stopped myself. Donnie was clearly proud of his ability to provide for me, and I didn’t want to make him feel dismissed. Donnie’s old-fashioned attitudes had shocked me at first. But his upbringing had been as chaotic as mine had been comfortable. He never spoke about his parents; I didn’t even know whether they were still alive.
Betty Jackson from psychology had told me I shouldn’t be surprised that Donnie found comfort in traditional gender roles. Also, Betty had explained, Mahina wasn’t exactly the most progressive place. As she put it, when it’s 9AM in Los Angeles, it’s 1952 in Mahina.
“I don’t have the temperament to be a stay-home parent, Donnie. I know some people do, and more power to them. Me, I could stand it for maybe a week before I went full Sylvia Plath.”
“But doesn’t your job stress you out?” Donnie asked. “You always seem to be complaining—I mean, you seem to be under a lot of pressure at work.”
“I should probably focus more on the positive. Oh, here’s something positive. Donnie, I think we might have a chance to buy the Brewster House. Fontanne Masterman—”
“Molly, after what happened today, are you sure you’re still interested in the Brewster House?”
“Yes. I am.”
“It might not bother you, but if we ever have to resell it, it might put buyers off.”
“Why would we want to resell? You’re not planning on us getting divorced right away or anything, are you?”
Donnie chuckled. “Of course not. But we should be careful about taking on a house of that age. It’s a big responsibility. Tell you what, Molly. There’s plenty of room here. Move in whenever you like. You like this place, don’t you?”
“Of course I like your house, Donnie. Who wouldn’t?”
Donnie had flown in the most famous interior designer in the state to transform his formerly unremarkable ranch house into an understated masterpiece. The spare and perfectly-staged rooms had recently graced the pages of a fashionable architectural magazine.
“And Davison already has his room all set up here, just the way he wants it,” Donnie added.
Young Davison’s room had not been not one of those featured in the magazine. Presumably, the editors didn’t think the red plush carpet and black light posters would resonate with their readers.
“But Donnie, the Brewster House! And you should see the kitchen. You could move everything over from your kitchen, and there’s room in the back to put in a propane tank for your gas stove.”
“What about your kitchen things?” he asked.
“I’m not really attached to any of that stuff.”
I couldn’t claim to be much of a chef. My refrigerator contained little more than vodka, mustard, and cream for my coffee, and my oven was currently used for overflow shoe storage. The only appliance that got any regular exercise was my microwave.
“Maybe we should include Davison in this conversation. Where we live is going to affect him too. And when it comes to kids, Davison might even want to babysit. You never know.”
“Isn’t he staying in California for the summer?” I asked.
“No. He decided to come home. He’s flying in tomorrow night, in fact. Molly? Molly. Are you okay? You’re crying!”
CHAPTER FOUR
PATRICK FLANAGAN AND Emma Nakamura were at my front door the following morning. Emma pushed in first, and plunked down on my couch. Pat followed her in, and quietly eased his lanky frame into an adjacent chair.
“Easy on the furniture, Emma. I’m going to want to sell it when I move into the Brewster House.”
“This stuff? Whaddaya think you’re gonna get, fifty bucks for the whole set?”
“I’m not going to get anything for it if you break it.”
I’d bought my leather living room set when I first arrived in Mahina with almost no savings and a hefty student loan payment due each month. The pieces were serviceable and easy to clean, but the leather was stiff and cheap.
“Eh, you still gonna go after the Brewster House?” Emma asked. “After the tsuris yesterday?”
“I’m sure any house that age has had people pass away in it, Emma. I’m not goi
ng to let what happened change my mind.”
“Did you say tsuris?” Pat asked.
Emma gestured at my window, with its view out to my wildly overgrown backyard. “You’re gonna let their famous garden turn into a big mess. You can’t even keep this under control.”
“That’s because I only have the guy out here once a month to cut things back and mow. But if Donnie and I move into the Brewster House, we can use Donnie’s yard service.”
“Yeah, Donnie’s place always looks nice.”
“I hate the idea of hiring other people to pull your weeds,” Pat grumbled. “People shouldn’t have a lifestyle that requires servants. I don’t.”
“Pat, not everyone can be as dedicated an anti-capitalist as you.”
“Everyone should be like me. The world would be a better place.”
“Oh yeah?” Emma challenged. “What, cause you think paying for a haircut is a bourgeois waste of time and money, we all gotta shave our heads?”
“Yes. I think that would be a splendid solution.”
“You still have to buy razors, Pat.” I gazed out onto my ragged garden. “Personally, I’m fine with putting a few dollars into the local economy now and then. Anyway, no one pulls weeds. All they’ll do is spray.”
“That’s even worse than pulling weeds,” Pat groused.
“So I guess we’re down to you, now, Molly.” Emma clapped her hand onto my shoulder.
“What about me, now?”
“Melanie was gonna paddle with us, and now we’re one down.”
“Me, paddle? That’s hilarious, Emma.”
“I know you’re not in very good shape, Molly, but having you on the crew would probably better than having an empty seat.”
“Absolutely not. I get seasick, and besides, I’m not sure I could actually wedge my backside into that narrow canoe.”
I’d come to realize I had to be firm with Emma, who could be shockingly bossy. Her problem was that her non-threatening appearance emboldened her. As a fetchingly curvy five-foot-nothing with big, brown eyes, Emma could get away with pushing people around.
