Page 4 of Talk Story

“Two,” he said, without guilt.

“Three,” said a voice from behind us. That was Josie, resplendent in a deep-toned muumuu and a red-banded straw hat with a fresh heliconia bloom tucked in the brim. She gave Keone a wink.

“Mind your business, Auntie J,” he said pleasantly.

At the front of the room, Mayor Ilima Kaihale stood at the podium with every hair of her long thick braid in place despite the weather. Her peacock-purple muumuu was set off by the palm fronds and tropical foliage arranged behind her. This wasn’t coincidence; Ilima never left such things to chance. She was going to be a formidable mother-in-law.

I touched the ring on my right hand. Then stopped touching it because I’d noticed I was doing it again.

Uncle Kalani claimed a seat in the front row when we arrived. He sat bolt upright and perfectly still, his rigid demeanor radiating the disapproval of a man watching something wrong in a place he considered sacred. His ti leaf lei gleamed under the overhead light. Around him, neighbors and business owners shifted and murmured; the room’s mood was uneasy, the current pulling in one direction before the meeting had even started.

“The proposed land sale of Sacred Valley, currently held in trust by the Bishop/Aliʻi Trust, to Chang Development Enterprises, would bring significant benefits to our community,” Ilima said, her voice carrying that careful, neutral tone I recognized from previous controversial announcements—the mayoral register she deployed when she was required by her office to present information without prejudging the response. “In addition to community improvements, they have set aside a portion of the development for affordable housing, and Paradise Valley is planned as a self-sustaining, green neighborhood. As you’re already aware, they contributed to the paving of the post office and general store parking lot as a gesture of good faith.”

A ripple of reaction moved through the crowd. Not exactly negative, not exactly positive—more the sound of people recalibrating.

I noted that Pua hadn’t come. She’d stayed to cover at work; she’d been emphatic about it, actually, volunteering with a speed that I’d put down to her usual preference for being the hub of information rather than a node in the crowd. Pua knew everything faster when she was at the center of the network. Still, sitting here in the packed community center, about to have a Chang take the podium, something unnamed lodged itself in the back of my mind.

I’d ask her about it later.

A man in a lauhala hat paired with a white linen suit had risen from his seat beside the mayor’s podium. His gold Rolex caught the fluorescent lights as he gave the room a small, practiced wave, implying he’d done this many times and found it easy.

“Please welcome Mr. Victor Chang of Chang Development,” Ilima said.

“Aloha.” Chang’s smile was polished to the point of reflection. “Thanks for responding so quickly to your mayor’s call for this meeting.”

Behind me, Josie muttered something about overdressed men who’d never set foot on sacred ground. I didn’t disagree.

“Did you folks know Ohia is where our family got its start?” Chang said, settling into his rhythm at the mic. He had the unhurried confidence of someone who expected to be listened to. “We’ve been part of your community since the beginning. And we’re here to help bring this town into modern times.”

Uncle Kalani, visible over the heads of the front row, had not moved a muscle.

The ceiling fans continued their useless spinning. Chang dabbed his forehead with a pocket square—the linen suit was doing him no favors in this humidity—and pushed his hat to a less flattering angle without noticing.

“This development will be very different from New Ohia, the one that was slated to be built on these very grounds,” he continued, with the practiced lean of a man who knew the weight of a room. “New Ohia was a luxury project with outside investors. What we want to put into Sacred Valley will be for you—the people of East Maui. Here’s how it’s different: first, it’s centered around creating a walkable, self-sustaining neighborhood, with fifty percent of units designated affordable and tied to local family income levels. Second, it incorporates extensive green spaces and cultural preservation zones throughout . . .” He had a display board to one side: colorful renderings of neat buildings among palm trees and open lawns, everything pastel and optimistic.

Outside, through the streaky community center windows, I could see the street still wet from the shower, bougainvillea shaking drops from its papery blooms, a mynah investigating the shiny new asphalt with the proprietary air of a bird that considered all horizontal surfaces its personal property.

Keone’s jaw had gone tight beside me. “Mom will shut him down,” he murmured near my ear. “She’d never support development in Awawakapu.”

“That must be the Hawaiian name,” I whispered back.

“Awawakapu means Sacred Valley.” He gave me a gentle, affectionate eyebrow raise. “The place has a name. It’s always had one.”

“I know, I know.” I did know. Josie had told me, and Uncle Kalani had told me, and Keone had told me. I was still catching up on the accumulated history of a place that had a thousand years of stories before I’d arrived with my reluctant postal appointment and found my cat on the steps of the shack behind the postal building. “What’s the land trust situation? Can the Bishop/Aliʻi Trust actually sell to a private developer?”

“It’s complicated.” Which, in Ohia, usually meant very complicated, and getting more so by the minute.

Chang was still talking, but the room had divided itself the way East Maui rooms tended to: a cluster near the front who were listening with the open, cautious attention of people genuinely worried about housing costs and employment, and a larger contingent toward the back radiating the forceful skepticism of people who had already decided this wasn’t a good idea.

Edith Pepperwhite, small and purposeful behind Uncle Kalani, was taking notes on a yellow legal pad with the relentless efficiency she brought to all things legal and several things that technically weren’t.

“I want to assure everyone that the Chang Development board understands the cultural significance of Sacred Valley⁠—”

The screech of brakes outside cut him off.

Everyone near the windows turned. Through the glass I could see Pearl Yamamoto’s caregiver Lani sprinting toward the community center entrance, her nurse’s scrubs dark with stains that were not mud.

The double doors burst open.