"Thanks, Brah." Rhiannon rolled down the window and turned her face to him. She held his eyes until the cab turned out into the street.
Joe walked up the stairs, feeling heavier with each step. Rhiannon's scent lingered in the apartment. He didn't want to bother Batman with his troubles, so he put on La Traviata and finished the Chianti. He felt terrible. He had denied love in order to protect himself and his precious writing. He was a selfish asshole with one foot in the grave. It was a good thing that he was out of wine.
In the morning, he returned to their cafe. If Rhiannon wanted, she could see him there without making a big deal about it. She did not appear. A week later, he arrived home in the afternoon to see a box by the door. He knew immediately that it was from her. He opened it and found an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He unwound the paper and found a doll. She was dressed in a kimono and had Japanese features, an eternal bittersweet look. She was gorgeous. A note read, "Her name is Sumoko. I made her for Batman. I'm leaving today. Love, Rhiannon." Joe took the doll and a Napoleon Bonaparte mystery out on the lanai.
"Batman, someone is here to meet you." He laid the book on the table and put Sumoko and Batman next to each other on their backs, with the book as a pillow, looking towards the mountain. We'll see what happens, he said to himself and to Rhiannon, who was probably at thirty thousand feet. What a sweetheart. He slid the lanai door closed and made himself sit at the computer and enter what he had written earlier. As he worked, he forgot about himself and Sumoko. He was pleasantly surprised, later, to see her with Batman. They seemed to be getting along.
Morgan's father, an historian, once told Joe that habits are a writer's best friends. Joe stuck to his practice of writing all morning in coffee shops and then walking home and entering the words into his computer. By mid-afternoon he had a clean printout ready for the next day. He exercised and spent quiet evenings reading, watching the news, and thinking about the next day's work. He stopped going to the cafe where he had met Rhiannon.
A month went by, and he made progress. He was feeling good when he happened to meet Mo one day at the shopping center. He asked if she wanted to have lunch. She consulted her little red book and turned over a page. "A week from Friday?"
"Too long. I can't live without you. How about a drink—under the boardwalk?" he said, bursting into song. "Under the banyan tree?"
She sighed and gave in. "Tomorrow?" she offered. "Five o'clock? A little after?"
"Good deal."
Joe arrived early and had a congenial visit with Gilbert. It was September and the beach was uncrowded. Joe felt, as much as a haole can, that it was his island, that he had a right to be there.