Today I could use that same sense of belonging. In a few weeks my oldest son, David, will begin his freshman year at Kansas State, where Mary and I both still teach. Rachael Lehualani is four now. In my former life, Hawai`i was Mary's and my special place. She and the children are on the Big Island right now, after three weeks in a beachfront house in Waimanalo on the opposite side of the Ko`olau Mountains, which rise at the head of the valley before us. I haven't seen my children in a month, by far the longest period since the breakup. Their absence has left a hollow place inside me that even a Hawaiian honeymoon with the surprise love of my life cannot fill.
        “I can't wait to meet Phil,” Sheyene says.
        I nod. There's another reason we're going to see Phil Damon: I've asked him to tell Sheyene the story.
        At the corner of Lowery and Woodlawn we find the new UH faculty apartments. Phil is standing in front of his guest parking space, an amused look on his face.
        “Convertible, eh?” are his first words to me.
        “Hey, haole,” I reply. “This is Sheyene.”
        Phil gives her a smile. “Sheyene,” he says, pronouncing it correctly. The car may be a surprise, but Sheyene is not. Like all my old friends we will meet on this island, Phil already knows all about us. Phil's in his early sixties now, graying but in great shape. He's just returned from running a marathon on the Big Island, and looks the part in his blue T-shirt and short-shorts. Sheyene and I slip off our sandals before entering his first-floor apartment, and I feel myself relax.
        Inside, Phil laughs at the bag of taro chips we picked up at Safeway, but gratefully accepts the tortilla chips, salsa, and beer. Phil's apartment is decorated in Asian-Pacific decor, with rattan furniture, large unframed oil paintings of hibiscus and other flowers, and a Japanese-style room divider that softens the light from a floor lamp.
        “Sit anywhere,” Phil says. “Ann will be home in a little bit, then we'll all go out to dinner.”
        In the twenty-eight years I've known him, Phil has lived with several women, but only he and Ann have endured. Both of them admit it's been hard work.
        “So you want me to tell the story, eh?” Phil offers when we're finally all situated on the floor in front of the rattan sofa with big white pillows.
        “Sheyene's heard only my version. We both want to hear yours.”

                                2