“Good.” Libby hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Um, Jean—who is just Jean, by the way, not Jean-Colleen… or whatever—is an artist. She did the big painting. In the living room.” In case they thought Lillibet had filled the whole house with naked pictures of herself.
“Your Me Tree?” Hildy gasped. “I love your style. I’m giving serious thought to commissioning illustrated covers for my magazine. I don’t suppose you’d be interested?”
“Reckon I jest might—I mean, yeah. Totally.” Jean corrected her accent midsentence, sending Libby a look that said,Did you hear that? Ka-ching.
They spent another half hour on the island, Jean and Hildy chatting strategy while Jefferson took pictures and Libby kept an eye on the tide—and tried to look like she wasn’t coming apart at the seams. As soon as they got back, she’d text Keoki to see if they could do dinner at Tutu’s house tonight. Tomorrow she would… think about later.
One step at a time, Libby reminded herself as they picked their way back to shore. The water rose higher by the minute, swirling over their feet and sucking at their ankles. It was a precarious position: wobbling along spiny ridges of rock, halfway to dry land, but Libby was only part there, her mind spinning off in a dozen directions.
What was she really moving toward right now, beyond the safety of the beach: A job? A better life? The truth?
All Libby knew for certain was that turning back was no longer an option. She had to keep inching forward, hoping the next step wouldn’t send her plunging onto the unforgiving reef.
Chapter 18
lovelillibetWhat is poi? A root, a starch, a paste, a beginning, a salad dressing. Like so many things, it becomes what we choose to make of it. Poi is a blank canvas, waiting to be transformed, in the same way that each sunrise offers a fresh start. Will it be a gluten-free superfood loaded with probiotics or a humble poi-zza crust? Only you can decide what to make of today.
Food for thought!
Love, Lillibet
Image: Pale purple taro roots surround a plate stacked with poi pancakes.
#superfood #sweetorsour #poundit #getstarchy
Jefferson leaned back in his folding chair at the edge of the lawn, sipping an excellent local porter. The air had stayed balmy as dusk eased into darkness, the first stars winking overhead. There were torches staked into the grass, their flames shifting in the light breeze. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this peaceful.
He was no stranger to beautiful places, the kind that drew tourists by the busload. What was different here was that the best parts weren’t hidden away in a tower or a penthouse or behind a fence, where only the rich and connected could gain access. The fruit, the weather, the flowers, the beach: it was part of normal life. He doubted anyone at the resort down the road was enjoyinga better meal or more appealing company than what was on tap here. Keoki’s grandmother had welcomed them into her home with a warmth that put everyone at ease, insisting they call her Tutu. Uncle Richard was immediately smitten, gluing himself to Tutu’s side. Even Hildy had mellowed out, dropping her energy level from an eleven to a six.
Everything felt easier now that they’d come clean to Libby about their non-relationship. A weight Jefferson hadn’t realized he was carrying was gone, leaving his entire body lighter—until he filled that space with kalua pork and greens, slow-roasted in a pit behind Tutu’s garage. Now he was well-fed, under the open sky, with a beer in his hand, enjoying the soft layers of laughter floating from the picnic table where Tutu and Cici were being waited on like queens.
It was traditional for the men to handle the cooking, he’d been told, and not only because Keoki’s slight Japanese girlfriend had what looked like a rubber ball under her shirt. Jefferson had helped unbury the meat from its nest of ash and banana leaves, which was the most they would allow a guest to do.
The screen door swung open. Libby stepped outside, wiping her hands on her hips. She’d been carrying dishes in and out of the kitchen as if she lived there, more comfortable at this modest one-story than her own home. It wasn’t only the teasing of Keoki’s brothers, who communicated mostly via headlocks and noogies, or Tutu treating her like a granddaughter. Her movements were looser, her face more relaxed. The fancy dresses with their stiff fabrics and fussy embroidery had been replaced by a faded cotton skirt and one of those shirts that tied around the neck, baring her shoulders. She looked younger and softer, more Libby than Lillibet.
Jefferson wondered how much her husband’s absence was contributing to her mood. He hadn’t missed the undercurrent of relief when she announced Mr. L would not be joining them.The artist/ex-roommate/not-Irish non-housekeeper was also otherwise engaged, news that seemed to disappoint several of Keoki’s brothers.
Hildy caught his eye, blowing a kiss that Jefferson grudgingly pretended to catch in one hand, tucking it into his pocket. Since her uncle’s attention was split between Tutu and his plate, this performance was almost certainly for Hildy’s personal amusement. Jefferson had drawn the line at letting himself be reeled in by her invisible fishing pole.
The whole thing was ridiculous, and yet he was right there in the thick of it, unwilling to let this interlude end—even if it meant playing ventriloquist’s dummy. Allegedly, Uncle Richard suffered from a condition Hildy had diagnosed as “estrogen deafness,” so if there was something she particularly wanted him to hear, she fed the line to Jefferson first.
“Everyone has flaws, JJ,” she’d patiently explained. “My uncle isn’t going to suddenly shed his chauvinist tendencies at his advanced age, so we have to work around his limitations.”
Things he had been instructed to pass along so far this evening:
Tutu Lua has led a fascinating life.
It would make a great story.
You’d need the right person to tell it.
I bet Lillibet could do it.
Jefferson made a mental note that the next time Hildy proposed a plan, he should assume the wheels were already in motion.
“Is this a luau?” Hildy’s uncle asked in a booming voice. “Is that what makes a luau a luau? Eating squid luau?”
Tutu slid the bowl of creamy spinach and squid closer to his plate. “Less talk, more eating.”
