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The house is a simple structure, built before the war. Its thick walls are fashioned from whitewashed stone to withstand the storms pounding ashore during the wet months. The foundation is chiseled into an ancient bed of lava; and the roof, made of corrugated tin, is covered with palm thatch dried brown from the tropical sun. A wide covered porch juts out from three sides and overlooks the bay and the reef beyond. That, Garrett thinks, is a man's house, weathered and sturdy.
He stands at the window of the realtor's office that nestles in the town on the south side of Neue Bay. The tiny office seems a bit stuffy, but everything is neat and clean and bright. Sunlight pours through the front windows, keeping the room uncomfortably warm even though the overhead fan keeps the air circulating.
He adjusts the dial on his binoculars to bring the house into sharp focus. It seems to be a natural part of the landscape, built into the point at the northern tip of the bay, overlooking the reef where the bay meets the open sea. Well behind the house, the coconut palms, bent by the trade winds, begin sparingly and grow more numerous as his survey moves up the hills. Beyond the hills, the landscape becomes a dense tropical rain forest that stretches to the top of the far mountain.
The lava below the house, naturally sculpted into irregular mounds that make him think of jet-black taffy, borders a white sand beach that runs the length of the bay.
Garrett studies the secluded expanse of lava, and he is oddly fascinated by the house, drawn to its austerity. Perfect, he thinks, secluded and rustic as Thoreau's cabin. It's perfect.
"I'll take it," hesays, turning to face Audrey Snow, the Realtor. "As I said on the phone, I'll need the house for six months."
He had not expected that his first acquaintance on the island would be a white woman from the mainland. Audrey has a trim, shapely body and is almost as tall as he is. Her pale face is pretty, and her blond hair is held high on the back of her head with pins, showing off her long, delicate neck. Her light-green print dress opens wide at the neck, and looks cool and comfortable. He guesses her age to be a few years younger than his--twenty-seven or eight--and notes that she does not wear a wedding ring.
He turns back to gaze out the front window, examining this small out-of-the-way town. There are no tourists here. Newly-weds, Japanese men carrying golf clubs and retirees wearing floral print shirts do not frequent this place. It is miles off the tourist track.
Garrett doesn't exactly fit in, but he is no tourist. He hasn't come to toast his skin brown amid the cigarette butts, soft drink cans, pineapple rinds and suntan lotion bottles that litter the popular beaches. He has come here to work. He is a man with a purpose.
Audrey smiles patiently. "Mr. Davidson, you should at least see the interior before you decide. I can assure you it's rather primitive. No one has lived there in years. I'd even forgotten that our agency manages that place. I've done some research since you called, and I've found some bungalows on the Kona coast that may be more suitable. They're in better condition and closer to all the best beaches."
And they'll bring in five times the commission, he thinks.
"Thank you for your trouble, Ms. Snow. That was kind of you, but it wasn't necessary." Garrett looks out across the bay again. "That's the house I want. If you'll draw up the papers, I'll sign them and write you a check for the entire six months."
"Will Mrs. Davidson be joining you? If so, I can assure you she won't like this place." She pauses before explaining, "I noticed you wear a wedding band."
"I'm single."
"I wish you would let me drive you to the Kona coast and show you what's available. I want very much to find you a place where you'll be happy."
Garrett hears the warm tones in her voice and notes that her formal manner has relaxed. A current of annoyance runs between his temples. He turns to look out the window again. The town, the bay and the house are all calling to him.
"I've already found the perfect place, thank you. The papers?"
"As you wish, Mr. Davidson. I am curious about how you got the owners to rent it at just six hundred a month. I mean, yes, it's no-frills and secluded, but even so, that's quite a bargain. I'm shocked they would rent it so cheap. Do you know the family?"
"Never met them. I heard about it through a friend of a friend sort of thing." Garrett smiles. "And please call me Garrett."
"And I'm Audrey," she says, smiling back. "I do think you'll find that end of the bay rather desolate. The only people who wander that far down the beach are the local surfers."
A '62 Chevy pickup with a faded battleship-gray cab, a green driver's door and a blue hood rattles up from the wharf and parks directly across the street. The sound of the engine's burnt-out rods and rusted muffler makes Garrett cringe. The engine finally stops, and the street goes quiet. Only now, in the silence, does he become fully aware of how obnoxious the commotion was.
"Surfers? I was hoping to have the beach to myself."
"Those swells beyond the point are the best waves on the island. The local boys are out there every afternoon. And by the way, they don't like haoles--mainlanders, that is. They'll call you haole, or sometimes FOJ, for fresh off the jet. Please don't take it personally. Only a few tourists make it this far north, and that's too many for the locals."
He watches a white-haired man emerge from the pickup. The man wears only a pair of patched jeans and the rope belt that supports them. His dark-brown skin contrasts his shock of white beard and long hair, and his ample gut hangs well over his rope belt. The old timer appears to be as rusty as his pickup.
He watches the man dance across the hot pavement on bare feet, race down a half-flight of steps and through an open door. Beside the door, in a large, shaded window, hangs a neon sign: The Blue Parrot.
Audrey's manner becomes increasing warm. She leans towards him and tilts her head to one side.
"Most people come here to escape. They run from their dreary lives or stressful jobs. Some run from their nagging wives or cheating husbands."
"Are you sure it's not the other way around?"
She chuckles. "They come here to forget themselves. They hang out at the beaches, go to luaus and party till the cows come home, but I've never come across anyone who wants to run as far away from civilization as you. You must be one of those corporate executives on the run from the law or a scientist experimenting on embryo stem cells."
Garrett laughs. "Nothing so sinister."
"Oh? What kind of work do you do?"
He turns back to face her.
"Until two weeks ago, I managed the futures department at a San Francisco brokerage firm. Basically, I looked at computer screens all day trying to guess which direction the world was turning."
"Sounds like what my cousin Shar does with her crystal ball."
"I suppose you're right that I'm running away from that. It's not that life in San Francisco wasn't interesting. It just suddenly seemed so very ... small, and not what I wanted."
Her smile is genuine. It lights up every other feature of her face.
"Well, if you'll just have a seat, it will only take me a minute to type up the agreement."
Garrett eases into the seat across the desk and studies Audrey's efficient movements as she works. For the first time, he notices the soft music coming from a radio behind her desk. As he listens he recognizes the first few notes of the overture to Beethoven's Fidelio. Smiling, he closes his eyes and lets the music sedate him while his mind steps through the details of the last two weeks.
In just fourteen days, Garrett quit his job, sold his car, furniture and books, and gave away everything else that isn't with him right now. His belongings, accumulated over thirty-two years, have been reduced to the pile lying on the pavement outside the front door--a laptop computer, two boxes of books, his CD collection and CD player, one suitcase of clothes and an oil painting. Now there is nothing to go back to--no home, no family and no friends. Marc was the social butterfly, and Garrett lost touch with all their friends after the funeral.
He knows he will miss that magical city--its clean narrow streets lined with Victorian houses, the neighborhood cafes, the jazz clubs, the world-class opera company and symphony and the hundreds of fabulous restaurants. Most of all, he will miss reading the Sunday paper in his favorite cafe in the Castro district, drinking café-au-lait and eating brioche while he watches the stream of interesting people pass by.
The going-away party at his company had turned into a disaster. Garrett's staff had arranged an intimate get-together on his last day, but word of the party had spread to management and the gathering grew into a large gaggle of suits, all a little stunned and curious, like people watching a bright falling star in the clear night sky. Owen Lieberman, his senior trader, had gotten stumbling drunk on martinis and made a rather embarrassing scene. It still baffles Garrett, because to his knowledge, Owen never drank alcohol before that night.
Owen had stood at the back of the crowd with his usual posture around people--head bowed and examining his sneakers. Garrett couldn't fathom why someone so brilliant and so good-looking, with his shaggy blond hair framing his delicate facial features, could be so shy. For years he has been attracted to Owen, and he believes Owen is interested in him as well, but of course, Garrett couldn't date an employee in his own department.
But at the party, he was no longer Owen's boss, and the question had flashed into his head: Should I finally ask Owen out on a date? He toyed with the possibility as he calmly stared at Owen, his desire mounting. He imagined himself kissing those full lips, burying his face in that silky hair, drinking in Owen's kid-brother scent. He shook his head to chase away the thought. What's the point? A few nights of passion and then goodbye. That can't be right.
Owen had passed out cold, falling directly into the center of the buffet table. Platters of pink shrimp, miniature wieners on toothpicks and globs of green guacamole flew across the room, splattering everybody. That abruptly ended the party. Garrett took Owen home, put him to bed and left a note promising to call.
He had meant to call Owen before leaving but couldn't find the time, or at least didn't make the time. He had been too busy organizing the move. I'll write to him once I'm settled, he promised himself.
