him to Honolulu. “It’s a grand town.” Patrick said, “Unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Sure and I’ve sailed around the world and seen many different places. But Honolulu is special.” Patrick chewed on his pipe. “Honolulu is like a little hapa haole gal itching to lift her skirts and bob her hair like an American flapper. But I’m an old man. I’ll be sticking to the lazy, maiden Aunty Kohala, who grows old but refuses to change her ways. Honolulu wants to grow up too fast.”
“Why are we going there?” Sean asked.
“It be time for my annual report to the Ritchies.” Patrick looked out the bay windows behind his nephew’s head at the sun-yellowed tips of the areca palms outside. “The real lords of Kohala and many other plantations just like this one.” He smiled, grinding his teeth on the pipe stem.
“They must be very rich,” Sean leaned forward on his chair, gripping the arms.
Patrick nodded. “The Ritchies are as rich as kings, make no mistake.”
The circular driveway was hidden from the main road by a grove of giant monkey-pod trees that shaded the gently sloping grounds with a delicate lacy pattern. The driver pulled the car into the porte cochere. In the back seat, Patrick turned to Sean, who had a strange look on his face.
“Are you all right, lad?” Patrick raised his eyebrows.
Sean squirmed. “I’ve never worn a suit before.”
“Aye. Wearing a suit in this weather ‘tis inhuman! All them kamaainas want things just so. They put on such airs. They think they’re royalty.” Patrick shook his head and ambled toward the massive double doors. “Come on, boy.” He gestured toward the entrance. “It’s not the lion’s den, I promise you.”
Sean followed Patrick past the lily pond down the flagstone path to the ornate carved doors. Patrick lifted the heavy brass knocker clenched in the jaws of a brass lion and let it fall against the heavy door. It resonated hollowly. A few minutes later a little Japanese lady opened one of the doors and bowed.
“Mr. O’Malley to see Mr. Ritchie,” Patrick announced.
“Yes, yes.” She bowed. “Meesta Ritchie dis way.” Opening the door wider she let them into a marble-floored foyer leading to a great room lined on two sides with enormous paned-glass windows next to polished Koa -wood paneling. The windows on the right looked out onto a lily pond surrounded by lush gardens.
It was Sean’s first look at what real wealth looked like. He never forgot it. In later years, he could still conjure up the Ritchie mansion in great detail. As an adult, he was able to name all the beautiful things that now surrounded an awe-struck child.
Beyond the sweeping lawn, Sean saw framed in the window, a dramatic mountain that seemed to rise from the sea. Patrick pointed to windows on the left. “That be Diamond Head,” he said.
The room itself was coldly elegant. Classically designed rose, gold, and blue Aubusson rugs lay in rich repose atop warm, golden Ohia floors shining with evidence of constant care. The room was eclectic -- decorated with rare French marble-topped tables, silk covered Bergere chairs, brocaded Victorian sofas, Oriental lacquered tables, and intricately designed black and gold coromandel screens. The drapes were heavy-textured silk next to paneled walls, and the coffered high ceilings were elaborately carved. The room was as impressive as it was forbidding. Patrick had often told Sean he considered the kamaainas pompous.
Patrick and Sean followed the housekeeper up three wide stairs to a large hall with a magnificent staircase in the middle with rooms on either side. She entered an informal room lined with bookshelves and big, overstuffed chairs set around a claw-foot round table. Two men were seated and deep in conversation. The younger of the two rose when Patrick stepped into the room. He was in his mid to late thirties, slim, angular, and austere. His bony face was expressionless.
Patrick smiled. “Mr. Ritchie,
“Why are we going there?” Sean asked.
“It be time for my annual report to the Ritchies.” Patrick looked out the bay windows behind his nephew’s head at the sun-yellowed tips of the areca palms outside. “The real lords of Kohala and many other plantations just like this one.” He smiled, grinding his teeth on the pipe stem.
“They must be very rich,” Sean leaned forward on his chair, gripping the arms.
Patrick nodded. “The Ritchies are as rich as kings, make no mistake.”
The circular driveway was hidden from the main road by a grove of giant monkey-pod trees that shaded the gently sloping grounds with a delicate lacy pattern. The driver pulled the car into the porte cochere. In the back seat, Patrick turned to Sean, who had a strange look on his face.
“Are you all right, lad?” Patrick raised his eyebrows.
Sean squirmed. “I’ve never worn a suit before.”
“Aye. Wearing a suit in this weather ‘tis inhuman! All them kamaainas want things just so. They put on such airs. They think they’re royalty.” Patrick shook his head and ambled toward the massive double doors. “Come on, boy.” He gestured toward the entrance. “It’s not the lion’s den, I promise you.”
Sean followed Patrick past the lily pond down the flagstone path to the ornate carved doors. Patrick lifted the heavy brass knocker clenched in the jaws of a brass lion and let it fall against the heavy door. It resonated hollowly. A few minutes later a little Japanese lady opened one of the doors and bowed.
“Mr. O’Malley to see Mr. Ritchie,” Patrick announced.
“Yes, yes.” She bowed. “Meesta Ritchie dis way.” Opening the door wider she let them into a marble-floored foyer leading to a great room lined on two sides with enormous paned-glass windows next to polished Koa -wood paneling. The windows on the right looked out onto a lily pond surrounded by lush gardens.
It was Sean’s first look at what real wealth looked like. He never forgot it. In later years, he could still conjure up the Ritchie mansion in great detail. As an adult, he was able to name all the beautiful things that now surrounded an awe-struck child.
Beyond the sweeping lawn, Sean saw framed in the window, a dramatic mountain that seemed to rise from the sea. Patrick pointed to windows on the left. “That be Diamond Head,” he said.
The room itself was coldly elegant. Classically designed rose, gold, and blue Aubusson rugs lay in rich repose atop warm, golden Ohia floors shining with evidence of constant care. The room was eclectic -- decorated with rare French marble-topped tables, silk covered Bergere chairs, brocaded Victorian sofas, Oriental lacquered tables, and intricately designed black and gold coromandel screens. The drapes were heavy-textured silk next to paneled walls, and the coffered high ceilings were elaborately carved. The room was as impressive as it was forbidding. Patrick had often told Sean he considered the kamaainas pompous.
Patrick and Sean followed the housekeeper up three wide stairs to a large hall with a magnificent staircase in the middle with rooms on either side. She entered an informal room lined with bookshelves and big, overstuffed chairs set around a claw-foot round table. Two men were seated and deep in conversation. The younger of the two rose when Patrick stepped into the room. He was in his mid to late thirties, slim, angular, and austere. His bony face was expressionless.
Patrick smiled. “Mr. Ritchie,
Similar Books
