House of the Hanging Jade (4 page)

I filled a large mug for him and he helped himself to cream and sugar while I handled the kitchen torch.

“That's cool!” he said as he watched me.

I smiled at him.

“Has Barbie eaten yet?” he asked.

“No. I haven't seen her this morning.”

He grimaced and took his oatmeal out to the table. I took him a glass of juice and a slice of toast made with my parents' bread as he opened the newspaper and began to read. He grunted when I set the plate and glass down next to him. I supposed that was his way of saying “thanks.”

It wasn't long before Mrs. Jorgensen came into the kitchen. “Good morning, Kailani!” she sang. “What's for breakfast?”

I recited the menu. Looking pleased, Mrs. Jorgensen went out to the lanai, where she sat across from Mr. Jorgensen, opened her own paper, and waited for her breakfast. I felt strange when I took her tray to her. It was completely silent at the table except for the rustling of newspaper pages and the wind whistling down the length of the lanai. Neither husband nor wife looked up as I set the tray on the table and quickly returned to the kitchen.

Before long Mr. Jorgensen brought his dishes and utensils into the kitchen. “Thanks. That was great,” he remarked, then left.

I didn't see Mrs. Jorgensen again that morning. When I looked out onto the lanai a bit later, her dishes were at her place. I cleared them and readied the kitchen for the next meal. I still didn't know who would be eating lunch, but I wanted to be ready with something just in case someone was hungry.

It was early afternoon when Mr. Jorgensen came into the kitchen again. “Is there anything for lunch?” he asked.

“I have a spinach salad with strawberries, red onions, and toasted almonds,” I offered. He didn't say anything right away.

“Any other choices?” he finally asked.

“I have chicken and soba-noodle soup.” There was some left from yesterday's lunch.

He sighed. “All right. I guess I'll have the soup.”

“Is there something special you'd like me to make for tomorrow's lunch?” I asked.

“How about a burger? With macaroni salad?”

“Would you like a veggie burger? I make a great veggie burger with mushrooms.”

He raised his eyebrows. That apparently wasn't what he had in mind. “Don't trouble yourself,” he answered. “A regular burger would be fine.”

I prepared the soup for him and carried it to his office with a piece of bread and a glass of tea. He was on the phone and mouthed the word “thanks” when I set the tray down.

Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons were waiting for me when I returned to the kitchen. They both chose the spinach salad for lunch and waited for me to serve it on the lanai. As I walked toward the table with their tray, I passed Akela. She raised her eyebrows and whispered “Yikes!”

I had no idea what she was talking about. I was back in the kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator, when Akela tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped and gave a little yelp. She put her finger to her lips.

“Has Mr. Jorgensen seen them?” she asked in a low voice.

“Seen who?”

“Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Doug.”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“Because he hates Dr. Doug.”

“Oh.”

“Don't you want to know why?”

I didn't care, but I answered dutifully, “Why?”

“Because Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Doug are sleeping together.”

It was none of my business, but I couldn't help being drawn into conversation. “You're kidding!”

“Nope,” Akela replied. “Been going on for a while now.”

“And she brings him to the house?”

“Right under Mr. Jorgensen's nose,” Akela replied, shaking her head.

“Does he know?”

“He must. How could he not realize what's going on?”

“How do you know all this?”

“It doesn't take a genius to figure it out,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

So maybe she wasn't really sure. Maybe she was just assuming the worst of Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons.

“We shouldn't be talking about it while they're out there,” I cautioned. She shrugged and went off to her own tasks.

I felt a little guilty having gossiped about the Jorgensens. My only impression of Mrs. Jorgensen so far was of a friendly, enthusiastic woman. My impression of Mr. Jorgensen was a little fuzzy—after all, he
had
referred to me as a food sergeant—but he had been pleasant and polite enough since then.

Is there something going on that Mrs. Jorgensen is trying to hide?
I walked out to the lanai and glanced toward the dining table. Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons sat comfortably across from each other, chatting amiably. It was quite different from the scene at breakfast, where Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen had sat across from each other, silent and preoccupied.

I hurried back into the kitchen to wait for them to leave so I could clear the table. Mr. Jorgensen came in.

“Is there anything else for lunch? I'm still hungry.”

“I can bring you some pretzels and a honey-mustard dip if you'd like,” I suggested.

“Sounds good.” He turned and went out to the lanai. But a second later he turned around and stalked past the kitchen doorway, his mouth set in a grim line. “I'll be in my office,” he told me brusquely.

He must have seen them,
I thought anxiously.
He must know.

I hurriedly put a large handful of pretzels on a plate and mixed together a small bowl of honey mustard, then took it quietly to his office. He was on the phone again, talking in a low voice, and he motioned me to leave the plate on his desk. I complied and left the room quickly and quietly. I noticed when I went back to the kitchen that Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons were walking out the front door together, probably to go back to work. I heard Mr. Jorgensen slam the phone down. I was suddenly nervous and edgy.

Just then Akela walked by the kitchen doorway. She arched her eyebrows at me. “Double yikes,” she whispered. I nodded.

It wasn't long before the kids came home from school. As they had the day before, they came to the kitchen in search of snacks. I had made a large plate of vegetables that I arranged in a starburst pattern, and there was a bowl of fruit salad. I offered those, then when the kids declined I offered pretzels. They both shook their heads. I told them to help themselves to whatever they could find, knowing they would opt for the chips and cookies in the cupboard. My plan was to wait until they had eaten every unhealthy snack in the cupboard and then offer only healthy snacks after school. If they were hungry, I reasoned, they would eat what I made. I made a mental note to discuss the issue with Mrs. Jorgensen next time I saw her.

“Is there any Coke?” asked Marcus.

“Not yet. I haven't had a chance to ask your mother about it. But I made a
lilikoi
puree and added it to the iced tea. It tastes really good.”

He scowled. “What is
lilikoi
, anyways?”

“Passion fruit. You're from Hawaii and you don't know what
lilikoi
is?” I asked in surprise.

“I'm from California, not Hawaii. And it sounds gross.”

This might be my chance to engage him, to get him to smile
, I thought.

“Oh? You're from California? When did you move to Hawaii?”

“We're from San Diego. We moved here five years ago because my dad wanted to move his company here.”

“Do you ever go back to San Diego?”

“Sometimes.”

He clearly did not want to talk anymore. He took a bag of mini-Oreos and left.

Justine watched him go. “He hates living in Hawaii,” she said, shaking her head in a very grown-up way. “He wants to move back to California.”

“Why?”

“He hardly has any friends here.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn't want any,” she answered. She seemed wise beyond her years.

“That's sad.”

“I know. I'm his friend, though.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Justine, suddenly melancholy, turned and walked slowly out of the kitchen. She even forgot to take a snack.

T
he entire family was at dinner that evening. I hoped Mrs. Jorgensen would address everyone, tell them she wanted them to eat healthier and that she had enlisted my help in her quest. I didn't want to continue to be at odds with Mr. Jorgensen and the kids over the food I prepared. For dinner I made sea bass and served it with garlicky broccolini and brown-rice pilaf. I chose sea bass because it was a happy medium between healthy and rich. Mrs. Jorgensen loved it, as I knew she would. She seemed quite happy with everything I had made. So far. The kids both protested, but Mrs. Jorgensen insisted that they eat half of what was on their plates. Mr. Jorgensen dutifully made a good example, but he clearly would have preferred lasagna or a steak. He told me as much after dinner.

“Kailani, the fish was good, though it wouldn't have been my first choice. My wife told us at dinner that she has asked for your help in trying to get us to eat healthier, so at least I now understand why you've been serving us foods we're not used to.” He made a pleading motion with his hands. “But can I still have that burger for lunch tomorrow? I'll even forget about the macaroni salad. But don't tell her.”

I relented. “Okay. Maybe I can make you a pasta salad that has vinaigrette instead of mayonnaise.”

“I'll try anything,” he said with a smile.

Later that evening I had opened my bedroom window to the sound of the surf when I thought I heard heated whispering outdoors. I peered through the blinds to see who was outside, but no one was there. It was then I realized the voices were being carried on the wind from the master-bedroom lanai, above and to the left of my room. I strained to hear what was going on.

“Why do you bring him here?” Mr. Jorgensen's voice hissed.

“Because he's a colleague and a friend. And he hates hotels. They're so impersonal. You're the one who insisted on coming to live here.”

“A colleague and a friend? Is that all?”

“Of course.”

“You're lying.”

“If you don't believe me, then why did you ask?”

“To see if you had the guts to tell me the truth!” Mr. Jorgensen's voice rose.

“Shh!”

Their voices lowered immediately and I couldn't hear anymore. It was clear that Mr. Jorgensen suspected an affair between Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons, but she hadn't admitted it. I suddenly felt sorry for Mr. Jorgensen.

The next morning when the kids came into the kitchen they were tired and cranky. I greeted them brightly and got stares and mumbles in return. They ate the breakfast I made them and grabbed their lunches as Mr. Jorgensen appeared in the kitchen to tell them good-bye. Marcus called to me over his shoulder as he left for school, “I hope this is better than yesterday's lunch.”

He was going to be disappointed.

Mr. Jorgensen told me not to bother with that burger that he had ordered for lunch. Something had come up unexpectedly and he was catching a flight to the mainland and would be there for a couple days.

Mrs. Jorgensen informed me that neither she nor Dr. Fitzgibbons were coming home for lunch either, so I had much of the day to myself. I spent part of the day tidying up my suite of rooms, then decided to go kayaking in the afternoon.

I had strapped my kayak to the roof of the car when I moved to the Jorgensens' house and it was stored in the garage. This was my first chance to use it. Carrying the kayak over my head, I wound my way down to the water in front of the house. A short, steep path had been worn into the lava near the
pali
, and I managed to lug my kayak down the path.

The lava at the shore was jagged and rough. I always marveled at the way lava looked soft and ropy from a distance, when up close it could be as sharp as broken glass. Small pulverized bits of the charcoal-colored rock led down to the water, which was crashing lazily against the shoreline. It was a perfect day for being on the water.

I put in between two swells and rowed quickly to get over the waves and away from the shore. Once I was out a short distance, I started paddling north, parallel to the coast, taking my time and enjoying the view. Maui was sixty miles ahead of me and to the left. I felt tiny. I watched the land slip by and savored the quiet lapping of the waves and the bright sunshine. My kayak dipped and rose with the waves and the effect was so mesmerizing I almost forgot to paddle. As I drifted closer to shore, I could see a faraway figure walking slowly down the main road to the Jorgensen house. It looked like Marcus.

My heart went out to him. He looked so small and alone on his way home from school. I wished he weren't so unapproachable and prickly, because I would be happy to be his friend. Justine skipped along behind him, swinging her backpack and taking time to stop every now and then to pluck flowers from the side of the road.

I didn't hurry back to the house because I had left food in the kitchen for the kids' snack. I was enjoying the freedom of being on the water, the warm trade winds whipping my hair. Eventually I turned back and headed down the coastline. The wind was kicking up the waves a bit so I couldn't relax much, but it felt good to be working hard. And it was certainly easier than fighting the bitterly cold wind in Washington. Close to the
pali
, I again waited for a lull in the waves and eased over to the rocky shoreline between two crests. I scrambled out of the kayak and onto land, hauling my boat up behind me before a wave could come and smash me into the rocks.

I made my way back up to the house, put the kayak back in the garage, and walked to the front door, marveling again at the vibrant turquoise jade vines hanging from the pergola above me. I wished I could see them from my bedroom window.

After I had changed my clothes, I found Marcus waiting for me in the kitchen when I went in to prepare dinner. Maybe this was my chance to reintroduce myself.

“Hi, Marcus. What's up?”

“Nuthin'. What's for dinner?”

“Pork tenderloin. You like pork, don't you?”

“I guess. Are you going to ruin it with vegetables?”

I laughed. “Yes, but maybe you'll like them.”

“Doubt it.”

“Did you get a snack?”

“No. I couldn't find anything good. There aren't any chips.”

“I know. Your mom asked me to stop buying them. There's a rice-cracker mix in the cupboard. Have you ever tried it?”

“No. It sounds gross.”

I pulled the mix from the cupboard and gave it to him. It was a crispy, crunchy mix of rice crackers, bits of dried seaweed, sesame seeds, and lots of spices. He looked askance at the bag.

“Just try it,” I urged. “I can't believe you live on the Big Island and you've never tried this stuff.”

He took a fistful of mix from the bag and ate a few pieces. I watched him, then asked, “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “It's not bad.” He ate another fistful. “It's actually pretty good.” He smiled. I felt a small thrill of victory.

“Go on. Take the bag,” I urged him.

“Thanks. I still don't want vegetables tonight, though.”

“Let's take one food at a time,” I said with a grin. “I didn't steer you wrong with the rice crackers, did I?”

That evening it was just the two kids at the long dining table on the lanai. Mr. Jorgensen wouldn't be back for another day or two, and Mrs. Jorgensen was still at work. I served Marcus and Justine their dinner.

“Why don't you sit and eat with us?” Justine suggested.

“That would be nice. Thanks,” I replied.

I got a plate for myself from the kitchen and sat down with the kids. “What grades are you in?” I asked. This would be a good chance to get to know them better.

“I'm in fourth grade,” Justine said, wiping her mouth.

“I'm in ninth,” Marcus said.

“Do you like school?”

“Yes!” Justine cried.

“No,” Marcus said glumly.

“Ninth grade can be hard,” I told him sympathetically. “The work gets much harder all of a sudden, plus there are all the pressures of high school.”

He nodded. I changed the subject.

“What do you think of those veggies?”

“I like them,” Justine told me. “I've never had this green stuff before.”

She was referring to the grilled bok choy with a soy glaze.

“Do you like them, Marcus?” she asked.

“Yeah. They're actually pretty good,” he admitted. I smiled at him.

“It's all in the way they're presented,” I said. “Grilled bok choy looks pretty cool, doesn't it?”

They both nodded, their mouths full.

“So what do you guys do after dinner?” I asked.

“I text with my friends,” Justine said happily.

“Homework,” Marcus answered.

“What do you do if you need help?”

“If Dad or Mom is here, I ask one of them for help. Sometimes Dr. Doug helps me with math.”

“I don't want to brag, but I'm not too bad at math myself,” I told him, grinning. “If you need help and no one is around, you can always ask me.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

With that, dinner came to an end and the kids left for their bedrooms. A while later, after I had cleaned up from dinner, I found Marcus at the dining table, books and folders scattered around him.

“Kailani, can you help me with math?” he asked.

“Sure,” I answered. I hadn't expected him to ask me for help so soon.

We spent the next half hour doing algebraic equations under the soft lights on the lanai. He seemed to be having some trouble understanding, and made slow progress. When he was done, he gathered up his supplies and turned to thank me.

“You're a good math teacher,” he said with a small smile. “Sorry I'm not a great student.”

“You are a good student,” I assured him. “You just need a little extra help, that's all. But don't worry. It may take a while, but you'll be surprised one day when all of a sudden you just get it. That's how algebra works.”

“My mom wants me to have a math tutor.”

“Do you think having a tutor would help?”

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I don't know.”

The wheels in my mind were turning. Liko needed a job, Marcus needed a tutor. I knew Liko taught Hawaiian language and culture, but I remembered him being a pretty sharp student in math too. He was also just the type of guy who could draw Marcus out of his shell, and it would be helping them both at the same time. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Jorgensen if she would be interested in hiring Liko as Marcus's tutor.

Later on that evening I heard noises in the kitchen. I went in to see if someone needed anything and was surprised to see Mrs. Jorgensen, still in her white coat, and Dr. Fitzgibbons rummaging through the refrigerator. They turned around, startled, when I coughed quietly.

“Hi, Kailani! We're
starving
! What did you make the kids for dinner?” she asked.

“Pork tenderloin with soy-glazed bok choy and roasted fingerling potatoes. Want some?”

“
Def
initely!”

I made up plates of food for the two of them and they ate in the small dining room next to the kitchen. They lingered over a bottle of wine, talking quietly. I could hear them from the kitchen. When I took a platter of sliced fruit out to them for dessert, they were gazing at each other with more than friendship in their eyes. It was not the time to discuss Liko's tutoring qualifications with Mrs. Jorgensen.

Their dinner together was none of my business, but I wondered uneasily how Mr. Jorgensen would feel about it.

Marcus told me the next morning that his father had called him late the previous night to tell him that he was on his way home. He expected to be home in time for lunch. I thanked Marcus for letting me know, and after the kids left for school I went to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients I would need to make a thick, juicy burger to welcome Mr. Jorgensen home. I got grass-fed beef, red onion, cheese, freshly baked rolls, and sliced pickles.

Back at the house, I prepared a macaroni salad with tomatoes, chickpeas, cucumber, feta, and a red-wine vinaigrette. After seeing the looks Mrs. Jorgensen and Dr. Fitzgibbons had given each other at dinner the previous night, I again felt sorry for Mr. Jorgensen and wanted to serve him something he would enjoy.

When he did arrive, he saw me, nodded a greeting, and went straight to his office. Shortly after that, I took his lunch to him on a tray. He was on the phone when I entered. He swiveled around in his chair, his face lighting up when he saw what I had made for him.

Later that afternoon, he came to find me in the kitchen. “That burger was great! I haven't had one that good in a long time.”

“Thanks. Now can I make a tofu stir-fry for dinner?”

He made a face. “If that's the price I have to pay for the burger, then I guess so.”

I smiled and turned back to my cooking when he left. That night I did, indeed, serve a stir-fry of tofu and vegetables to Mr. Jorgensen and the kids. Mrs. Jorgensen came home just as the rest of the family was finishing their meal.

“Kailani, is there any dinner left?” she called from the lanai.

I took a plate to her and she sat down with the rest of the family. It wasn't long before Mr. Jorgensen and the kids left the table. When I went out to check on Mrs. Jorgensen, she waved me into a chair.

“They all left me and Dr. Fitzgibbons is working late,” she said with a pout. “Come keep me company.”

I sat down across from her and waited for her to speak. I didn't know what to say.