Fifty-eightLahaina, 1847
The greenery, the flowers, were the same. Once he had inhaled their scent in lightness and joy, but now in angry disbelief.
All of them. Gone.
He’d insisted on coming, even though Archie Arnold had made it clear he was unwelcome. The thunderous faces of Archie’s missionary cronies when he entered the sacred hall made that plain. He was persona non grata here.
But as soon as he stepped inside the funeral chamber he knew why he’d come. He was taken back to his wedding day, celebrated here in the same green, forest freshness, the blending of oxygen and salt spray and earth with the fragrance of a dozen flowers—the glossy leaf-shine of the native maile, the fragrance of white-and-yellow ginger, the small, white pikake flowers with their big scent, and the bright re
