The Secret Daughter

“That’s your end, Jackson. Mine is to grow the best damned cane in the state. I’m doing that,” Casey said. “My hybrids are thriving.”

A wiry woman of undetermined age, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, stepped into the kitchen through a side door. “Y’all want any more food before I dish it up and stick it in the warming oven for those lay-a-beds?”

“No thanks, Betty.” Jackson spoke as he glanced around the table. “Noelani?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Betty, this is our…uh…Noelani Hana. You’ll be adding a plate for her, maybe until Epiphany, which is when we tally our tonnage at the refinery.”

“I don’t eat meat,” Noelani supplied, smiling at the woman.

“Well, I ain’t no short-order cook,” Betty returned, propping her hands on skinny hips.

“I didn’t mean…” Noelani scrabbled to rephrase her intent. “Don’t add extra for me if you’re preparing a meat dish.”

Everyone at the table skewered her with a glance. She glared back defiantly. “I’ll make do with salads and vegetables if you’re serving them, anyway. If none of you eat fruit, I’ll shop for some. I’m sure you must have a free corner in the fridge.”

“Not a problem,” Jackson injected smoothly. “Make a list. Betty can pick extra fruit up each week when she shops.”

Shelburne shoved back his chair. “Since you’re leaving Duke’s disbursements in limbo for now, I’ll be on my way. Good vittles as always, Betty. ’Course, my cardiologist won’t thank you.”

“If you’re gonna eat like that, you’ve gotta exercise,” she said, then withdrew.

Prescott clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Say, Harold Broderick might be in jail, but he’s some piece of work. Good thing Nick and Casey ID’d him as your vandal. I hear he’s not giving in, though. Seems he’s hired a pricey New Orleans defense lawyer. Who’d think selling a cane harvester on the black market would pay well enough to afford that kind of counsel?”

Jackson tugged at his lower lip. “Maybe Broderick got the proceeds from other robberies.”

“Yeah? Could be. Well, like I said, I have to hit the road. No, don’t get up, Jackson. I know the way out. I’m sure you have things to do.”

Casey stacked her plate and Nick’s. Reaching over, she added Shelburne’s. “Are you finished?” she asked her brother. “Time I made my rounds of the fields.”

Nick drained his cup. “I should’ve brought my car. I have an appointment with a company I may hire to do the interior of my next floating casino.”

Jackson went to the sideboard and refilled his travel mug. “I’ve got a growers’ meeting in town at eight. Afterward, several of us are taking a few of our D.C. lobbyists to lunch. We’d like them to bend somebody’s ear on the Beltway. Get them to raise the cap on the three cents we get for sugar on the world market. Either that or tighten controls on Mexico to make sure they aren’t shipping more than their quota.”

“You know they are,” Casey said with a snort.

“Apparently our friends in high places aren’t aware of that. Or else they don’t care.”

Noelani found their discussion interesting. But she didn’t want them to walk out and leave her twiddling her thumbs. “What shall I do today?”

“Your nails?” Casey said too sweetly.

Noelani displayed her short, efficiently clipped nails. “In Hawaiian, the name Hana means work. I’m not sitting on my butt for five months when I have thirty-three-and-a-third percent interest in your operation.”

Casey all but lost her grip on the plates she’d gathered.

“You and Nick shove off,” Jackson said quickly. “I have just the job for Noelani. What with the funeral, the wedding and the delay caused by the missing harvester, we put off our yearly cochon de lait. The workers are grumbling. So, Casey, I’m giving Noelani the file and putting her in charge of arranging a pigfest.”

“Like a luau, you mean?” Noelani straightened in anticipation.

“Brother!” Casey rolled her eyes. “This ought to be a farce and a half.”

Nick exchanged unreadable glances with Jackson, then aimed a kiss at Casey’s neck. He hustled her through the archway into the makeshift kitchen.

“Top off your mug and follow me, Noelani. Our cochon de lait is similar to a luau. It’s a party that usually kicks off harvest. Several whole pigs are roasted either on a spit or in a pit. We happen to use spits.”

“Then a pua’a? That’s a plain pig roast.” She shook her head. “Disgusting practice to a vegetarian—but I understand if it’s your tradition.”

“Whatever. It’s all spelled out in the file. But instead of ukuleles and hula dancers, we hire Cajun and Zydeco bands. We serve mint juleps.” He opened his office door, crossed the room and pulled an accordion folder out of a cabinet. “If you need help finding caterers or musicians, or wording the flyer, Aunt Esme can advise you.”

“Is there a place you’d like me to work on this?” She gave a sidelong glance at his cluttered desk.

“There’s a desk in the kitchen—the fire missed it. You can use it if you’re not in Adam’s way. There’s another in the family room upstairs. Tanya and Megan hang out there, reading, playing or watching TV. That may turn out to be a little noisy if you’re trying to talk on the phone. Oh, hey—speaking of Megan, I promised I’d get her up and read her a story before I leave for my meeting.”

“She’s sweet. Do you have her full-time or do you split custody with her mom?”

Jackson stopped abruptly. “Since you’ll be living here temporarily, you should know Megan’s history. Her mom and I were never married. Unfortunately, Janis fell in with a bad crowd. She’s doing time. If she phones, she’s not to talk with Megan. In fact, it’s better if no one discusses her mother.”

“As you wish.” Noelani put some distance between herself and Jackson. She’d been feeling more comfortable with him, but what now ran through her mind was like father, like son. Spawning illegitimate children seemed no big deal to the Fontaine men. No wonder Megan looked lost. Well, Noelani figured, she and the little girl had a lot in common. Still…Jackson tucked his daughter into bed at night and cared enough to read her stories. Perhaps he was a cut above his father, after all.

She hung back as he took the stairs two at a time. Turning left, she shoved open the door that led to the kitchen. As she stepped inside, she stumbled over Adam Ross. She dropped her folder and splashed coffee on Adam and a second man, who leaped away, but not fast enough.

“Did I burn you?” she gasped. Putting down her mug and hopping across a tape measure the men had stretched in front of the door, Noelani left her papers strewn everywhere and found a tissue in her shorts pocket. She dabbed at coffee splotches on Adam’s neck and arm. “Hold still.”

“Stop, you’re rubbing too hard.”

“Oh, sorry.” She stepped back, only to bump squarely into the fair-haired stranger.

“Hi. I’m Murray Dewalt. I live next door at the Woodlands plantation. If you’re one of Adam’s subcontractors, I’m seriously going to consider a new occupation.”

“Uh…I’m Noelani Hana.”

“Ah. The thorn in Casey’s side.” Blue eyes assessed her quite thoroughly.

“Excuse me?” Noelani said coolly.

“Murray, after that comment I think it’s time for you to go.”

“Ah…gotcha. See you later, Adam. And you, too, sweet thing.”

“Now you’ve really done it,” Adam murmured just as Noelani took a deep breath. “Run, Murray, and if you value your life, don’t ever call her that again.”

Their neighbor left, but instead of running he sauntered out, chuckling all the while.

Adam stopped to scrape together some of the papers decorating the floor. The Fontaine letterhead at the top of one sheet gave him pause. “What’s this? Are you making off with important family documents? Have I foiled your attempt?”

“Very funny. Ha, ha! Give me those. You and your friend are both too funny for words.”