“I have his artistic bent. My father can’t draw a square on a grid. But . . . how did you know about my uncle’s death?”
I stumbled; he steadied my arm as I tried to think of an answer. “The . . . the newspaper, I think it was.”
“Must have been a very old newspaper,” he said, looking at me sideways.
“I . . . yes. It was . . .” I tried to think past all the curse words. “It wasn’t the newspaper, I remember now. My father and yours are discussing a business venture, and he mentioned your uncle’s misfortune.”
“So you’ve met my father?”
“Well . . . no. It was a mutual friend who is making the introduction.” Damn damn damn. “I don’t know anything about their business,” I added in an attempt to forestall any more questions.
“Something to do with the captain’s excursion today, no doubt!”
“Difficult to say,” I said weakly.
But he was smiling. “Well. That’s good news, especially if it means you’ll be in Honolulu awhile. Ah, here we are.”
He pulled me into Nolte’s Coffee Saloon. Billie knew better than to follow; she wandered off after a departing patron holding a biscuit. Blake ordered coffee and scones, and we sat at one end of a long table occupied by a few other patrons: a young gentleman reading the paper, two sailors staring bleary-eyed into steaming cups, an old man warming his gnarled knuckles. Blake added enough cream to shade the brew the color of maple, while I took mine black and hot.
I blew over the cup and then stopped, reminded of my father, and tried to gather my thoughts for a new attempt. “So. Your uncle was an artist as well?”
“We have a great many of his paintings hung in the house. My mother admired his work. I can show you at the ball if you like.”
“Oh, yes, I’d love to see!”
“Are you a connoisseur of the arts?”
I laughed a little, remembering what Kashmir had said at Christie’s. “No, I am no expert.” He gave me a quizzical look and I cringed internally; I should have lied. Why else would I have sounded so eager a moment before? “I mean, I like art,” I stammered. “I just don’t know much about it.”
“Well,” he said with mock resignation. “I suppose that explains your kindness about my sketchbook.”
“Not at all!” I protested, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Your drawings really are lovely. Especially the maps. I know about maps.” I ran my finger along the chipped edge of the saucer; I’d seen my opportunity come back again. “Did your uncle also draw maps? As you do?”
He stirred his coffee. “Not that I know of.”
“Oh.” I tried to keep the disappointment off my face. We both reached for our cups simultaneously; the silence felt long.
“You’re very keen on maps,” he said when he set his cup down.
“Well, of course I am,” I said quickly. “They’re useful to a sailor.”
“To an explorer too.” He gave me that secret smile again, and I couldn’t help but return it.
“So . . . not only an artist?” I said, teasing. “Do you hope to follow in the footsteps of Dr. Livingstone?”
“And go to Africa? No. Hawaii has enough mystery to occupy a dozen Dr. Livingstones. At least for now,” he added, his eyes darkening.
Nervous, I picked up my cup again. It clattered on the saucer. “Times are changing?”
“That’s one reason I record what I see. Things disappear otherwise.”
Surprised, I looked up at him; my hands stilled. “I’ve noticed that very same thing.”
“Have you?” He tilted his head, studying my face, but even under this scrutiny, I wasn’t nervous anymore. “You must have seen a great many things in your travels, Miss Song, but having known nothing else, I can promise you this island is unique in all the world. And everything unique is worth preserving.”
“And worth seeing!”
“Yes.”
I stared at him, and the thoughts of reconnoitering fell away. What might I learn if I spent even a day on the island, instead of mining for information on this damned map? But my smile faded, and I swirled the gritty dregs in the bottom of my cup. “I never stay long enough to learn a place’s secrets.”
He sat back; his eyes seemed to reflect my sadness. Then he nodded, as though making a decision. “Finish your coffee and come with me.”
I pushed the mug aside as he stood. “And where are we going?” I asked, following him out the door.
“Miss Song,” he said, throwing a grin back over his shoulder, “I’m going to show you your country.”
An answering smile crept unbidden across my face. It fell away, though, at his next question. “Can you ride?”
I stopped in my tracks. The horse seemed much more intimidating than she had an hour before. “I don’t know.”
He laughed. “Don’t be nervous. I’ve named her Pilikia, but she’s quite gentle.”