I feel a little better now. I've confessed my guilt, and that's oddly comforting. I won't undermine that confession by attempting to justify what I did. I was weak, and too eager to please. But I can't leave this passage without returning to the image of Nicodemus, the night of the storm. He was a rare creature, no question of that; I think many sons would have put their service to such a father before their duties as a husband. The irony is this: that if I hoped to be like him, as I did, and that in letting him have Chiyojo I would gain his approbation, and come closer to him, I worked against my own interests with heroic thorough ness. In one night I lost my idol, I lost my wife, and-let this be said, once and for all-I lost myself. What little there was of me-a self separate from my desire to please my father-was trampled under the same hooves that took his life. It's only been in the last few weeks, as I've been writing this history, that my sense of a soul called Maddox, alive in my flesh and worthy of preservation, has appeared. I suppose the moment of my rebirth was the moment I walked out of the skyroom, leaving the wheelchair behind me.

Another irony, of course: the strength to do that was ignited in me by my stepmother; she's the architect of my resurrection. Even if she doesn't want payment for that service-beyond the words I'm writing-I know there's a debt to be paid; and with every sentence, every paragraph, the Maddox who will make that payment comes into clearer focus.

This is what I see: a man who has just confessed his guilt, and will make amends, in time. A man who loves telling stories, and will find a way to understand what he's telling, in time. And a man who is capable of love, and who will find somebody to love again-oh please God yes; in time, in time.

Rachel's first view of Kaua'i was tantalizingly brief; just enough to glimpse a series of bright scalloped beaches, and lush, rolling hills. Then the plane was making its steep descent into the airport at Lihu'e, and moments later a bumpy landing. The airport was small and quiet. She wandered through to pick up her bags, keeping her eyes open for the manager of the house where she'd be staying. And there he was, dutifully standing by the tiny baggage carousel, with a cart for her luggage. They recognized one another at the same moment.

"Mrs. Geary…" he said, forsaking his cart to come and present himself before her. "I'm Jimmy Hornbeck."

"Yes. I thought it must be you. Margie told me to look out for the best-pressed clothes on Kaua'i."

Jimmy laughed. "So that's my reputation," he said. "Well, I suppose it could be worse."

They exchanged a few pleasantries about the flights until the baggage arrived, then he led the way out into the sunshine.

"If you'd like to wait here," he said, "I'll go and fetch the car and bring it round for you. It saves you the walk to the parking lot."

She didn't protest this; she was perfectly happy to stand on the sidewalk and feel the ocean breeze on her face. It seemed as she stood there she could feel the grime and anxiety of New York ooze out of her pores. Soon, she'd wash it all away.

Hornbeck was back with the vehicle-which looked robust enough for jungle exploration-in two or three minutes. Another minute to load Rachel's bags, and then they were out of the little maze of roads around the airport and onto the closest thing the island had to a highway.

"I'm sorry about the transport, by the way," he said. "I had intended to pick you up in something a bit more civilized, but the road to the house has deteriorated so badly in the last couple of months-"

"Oh, really?"

"We've had a lot of rain recently, which is why the island looks particularly lush at the moment."

Lush was an understatement. Off to the left of the highway, toward the island's interior, were fields of rich red earth and green sugar cane. Beyond them, velvety hills, rising in ambition as they receded, until they became steep peaks whose heights were draped with sumptuous cloud.

"The problem is that the little backroads just aren't being taken care of the way they should be," Hornbeck was saying. "And there's a little tussle going on right now about who's actually responsible for the road to the house. The local council says it's really part of the property, and so I should be getting money from your people to get it fixed. But that's nonsense. It's public property. The council should be filling in the holes, not a private contractor."

Rachel was only half-attending to this. The beauty of the fields and mountains-and on the other side of the highway, the blue, pounding ocean-had claimed her attentions.

"So this argument has been going on for two years," Hornbeck went on. "Two years! And of course nothing's going to be done about the road until it's resolved. Which means it just deteriorates whenever there's rain. It's very frustrating so I apologize-"

"There's really no need…" Rachel said dreamily.

"-for the vehicle."

"Really," she said, "it's fine."

"Well just as long as you understand. I don't want you thinking I'm neglecting my duties."

"Hm?"

"When you see the road."

She glanced at the man, and saw by his fretful demeanor, and the whiteness of his knuckles, that he was genuinely concerned that his job was in jeopardy. As far as he was concerned she was a visiting potentate; he was afraid of making a mistake.

"Don't worry, James. Do people call you James or Jim?"

"Usually Jimmy," he said.

"You're English, yes?"

"I was born and raised in London. But then I came here. It'll be thirty years ago next November. And I said to myself: this is perfect. So I never went back."

"And you still think it's perfect?"

"Sometimes I get a little stir-crazy," Jimmy admitted. "But then you get a day like today and you think: where else would I want to be? I mean, look at it."

Rachel looked back toward the mountains. The clouds had parted on the heights, and the sun was breaking through.

"Can you see the waterfalls?" Jimmy said. She could. Silvery threads of water plummeting down from cracks in the mountainside. "Up there's the wettest place on earth," Jimmy informed her. "Mount Waialeale gets about forty feet of rain a year. It's raining right now."

"Have you been up?"

"I've taken a helicopter trip once or twice. It's spectacular. If you like I'll organize a flight for you. One of my best friends runs a little operation down in Po'ipu. He and his brother-in-law pilot these little choppers."

"I don't know that I trust helicopters."

"It's really the best way to see the island. And if you ask Tom he'll take you out over the ocean whale-spotting."

"Oh that I'd like to see."

"You like whales?"

"I've never seen any up close."

"I can arrange that too," Jimmy said. "I can have a boat organized for you at a day's notice."

"That's kind, Jimmy. Thank you."

"No problem. That's what I'm here for. If there's anything you need, just ask."

They were coming into a little town-Kapa'a, Jimmy informed her-where there were some regrettable signs of mainland influence. Beside the small stores of well-weathered clapboard stood the ubiquitous hamburger franchise, its gaud somewhat suppressed by island ordinance or corporate shame, but still ugly.

"There's a wonderful restaurant here in Kapa'a which is always booked up, but-"

"Let me guess. You have a friend-"

Jimmy laughed. "I do indeed. They always keep a prime table open each night, for special guests. Actually, I think your husband's stepmother invested some money in the place."

"Loretta?"

"That's right."

"When was she last here?"

"Oh… it must be ten years, maybe more."

"Did she come with Cadmus?"

"No, no. On her own. She's quite a lady."