His white deck shoes made a gentle squishing sound, occasionally leaving behind their imprint in a small puddle as he meandered along the edge of the wave-lapped shore. The air was cool, but not the pull-on-the-hood-zip-up-the-front-and-stick-your-hands-in-the-pockets-of-your-sweatshirt cold like he had experienced at Berkeley. This was more of a preparatory cool, the kind that assures of warmth not far ahead. At this time of morning, when dawn had not yet broken the darkness of the night, the world was deserted and empty, appropriately reflecting the way he felt inside.
A small outcropping of black, lava rock was his goal and he stepped agilely over the large stones until he reached the perch he sought. Settling against the smooth, hard surface he folded his hands in his lap then took in a deeper breath of the salt-laden air. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think.
Danny Williams had only just heard about her passing, although in his heart he knew it was coming and shouldn't have been surprised. But he was just the same. He had met her at a writer's convention. He liked books and read voraciously, or at least as much as his crammed-to-the-gills schedule would allow. He had heard she was going to be there, so decided to attend. He was familiar with her work, but not a fan as many of the other people he had seen. He had gone out of a mixture of curiosity and respect. He wanted to say hi.
The rolling surf was not visible to his eyes as his mind traveled back to that weekend a mere six months ago. There were already a lot of people in the large, open center where the writers would be gathering. He had found the table that was assigned to her and stood next to it alone, wondering what it would be like to meet her. McGarrett had accompanied him, but was standing several yards away visiting with other people. He smiled to himself. Steve knew everybody, or at least everybody knew Steve. Suddenly he looked up, and there she was, standing not two feet away. Her blue eyes staring directly at him. Uncharacteristically, he was caught completely off guard.
"Good morning." Was all he was able to manage and could still hear his words hanging awkwardly in the air. He had no idea if she answered or not. He had been so surprised. Standing back, he watched as the writer and her assistant covered the table with books and photos in preparation of meeting the admirers who would soon form a small, adoring queue. A moment later Steve, along with a couple of friends, joined him.
He watched as the others introduced themselves, studying the interaction. He rarely felt uncomfortable dealing with people since it was, after all, his job, and he did it virtually every day. But this was different, he just wasn't sure why.
Joanie Madison had no sooner gotten seated when her fans began to arrive. They knew her life story and had read everything she had ever written. He had read a few things and knew some bits about her history, but that was it. The writer was the daughter of other famous authors and for the life of him he could not think of one thing her parents had written. How sad was that?
Steve hit it off immediately with Joanie's assistant. The tall, sometimes-intimidating man never seemed to feel out of place. Maybe that's why McGarrett was the head of the state police. Nothing ever rattled him. Joanie's assistant did not seem one that would be easily rattled either. His immediate take on Nancy was of a woman who was not only smart and capable, but also not a person to be trifled with. She was, however, cordial and, in his case, benevolent. Other people paid their respects, got autographs and left. He, for some reason, was allowed to hang around. He didn't know why she let him, but he was grateful. Perhaps this was one of the perks of being Steve's friend.
When the crowds ebbed, he found moments to sit next to Joanie and talk to her. Despite her fame, she was nice. Very genuine, very warm, very easy to talk to. She had a humanity that undoubtedly drew people to her. It drew him.
The room was filled with close to 100 writers, some famous, some not so famous, and the bustling area grew more crowded during the course of the day. Danny did the obligatory pass through the lines of tables where the other attendees were seated, but had no interest in meeting them. He was there for one reason only: to meet Joanie. Occasionally Steve would drag him out, saying they needed to give their new friends room to work, but he hated to go and felt antsy and short-tempered until his boss allowed them to return. At the end of the day Joanie and Nancy either liked them or took pity on them because they said that he and Steve were welcome to join them again tomorrow.
If left to his own devices, Danny Williams would have been standing by as soon as the doors opened, but McGarrett insisted they wait and give everyone time to get settled. Looking back, he was sure the delay had to strain Steve's patience, but he knew his mentor was only doing what he thought was best. Besides, it gave the two cops time to sit down with a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin and discuss the previous day.
When Steve finally gave the go ahead to re-join the convention, they were immediately greeted by a wave and a smile from Joanie. Danny, grinning like a school boy, was thrilled to bring the writer and her assistant breakfast. He felt like a stupid kid, but he didn't care. He wasn't a police officer or a public figure. He was a commoner in the presence of greatness. He didn't remember the last time he had felt this way.
Joanie had traveled the world, she had crossed seas and climbed mountains and now people were telling her how she had affected their views, impacted their lives. What perhaps amazed him the most was that she listened. Joanie cared about these people and what they had to say. There was no arrogance, no ego.
The second day of the writer's convention was similar to the first, with fans and admirers coming and going. Danny was, once again, happy for any chance to visit with Joanie, even if it only meant sitting quietly next to her. The day, unfortunately, went by far too quickly. Dejectedly, he realized that Joanie and Nancy were packing their books and photos. He didn't want it to end. Looking sadly at Joanie, all he could say was, "One last hug?"
Joanie smiled. She kissed him on the cheek and they hugged one last time. Then she was gone. To this day he could still feel the soft material of the sweater she had been wearing. He stood next to Steve and the two men watched the writer and her assistant as they walked away. Neither woman looked back.
The cool ocean spray settled on his bare skin and he once more became aware of his surroundings. The sun was higher now and sea birds were wheeling through the lightening sky. Many of Joanie's books were about Hawaii, and those were the ones Danny had read. In keeping with that tropical theme, Joanie often wore a lei to her book signings. The leis were handmade of a soft, fuzzy, yarn-like material and secured at the ends with two Hawaiian-grown nuts and a ribbon.
He fingered the lei that hung from his neck. It was mostly green, with bits of pink, blue, and gold intermingled. The Kelly green ribbon was inscribed with the words, "To Danny. Thanks. Love and Aloha. Joanie Madison." She had presented him and Steve each with one of her leis. To him it was a special connection that he would always treasure. Although they never discussed it, he knew Steve felt the same way.
He wiped his hand across his face. Had anyone asked, he would have said it was droplets from the waves that splashed against the rocks. Joanie was gone. It had been nearly a week now. He had only known her for two days and yet the loss was intensely profound. He tried to be realistic. Joanie probably didn't even remember him, much less his name, and certainly would not have cried if he had been the one to die. But he cried just the same and reason washed away like the sand in the surf.
He had hoped to see her again. The next time would be less awkward for him and he had many things he would like to talk to her about, but there would not be a next time. He should have listened to his cop sense, or at least his common sense. Joanie was ill. That was quite obvious. She was frail and in pain and her silver-colored watch had dangled loosely from the too-thin wrist. He and Steve had talked about it. They knew they would never see her again, but hope springs eternal and that didn't make the loss any easier.
He blinked against the moisture that had once more formed in his eyes, blurring the palm trees and sea gulls. He wasn't family. He wasn't even a friend. He was barely an acquaintance, yet he grieved. And the grief was real and filled with pain that made it hard to breathe. He grieved for the loss of someone he had inexplicably come to love. He grieved for the future possibilities that would never happen. He grieved for the people who were fortunate enough to be loved by this incredible woman. Holding the lei in his hands, he sobbed. Life was confusing and vicious and unfair. Joanie wasn't that old. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it be any of the cruel and uncaring people who stalked the streets or terrorized the world? Maybe the old saying was true. The good die young.
It was raining over Diamond Head and a rainbow shimmered brilliantly against the fast-moving clouds. He didn't go to church and never discussed religion, but he believed in God. He believed in the ultimate power of good over evil. He believed in heaven. He held the soft lei against his cheek as the rainbow continued to glow against the darkness. He grieved for his own loss, but not for Joanie. She was in heaven. Of that he had no doubt.
Glancing down at his watch, he admitted he had to get to work. The future moves forward whether you like it or not; whether you're ready or not. The waves were higher on the sand as he made his way back. He was going to be sad for a very long time and knew he would never forget this amazing human being. Stopping, he picked up a shell. It was an iridescent blue. Blue, he knew, was Joanie's favorite color. Brushing away bits of sand, he wondered at his discovery. Maybe she knew of those who grieved and wanted to send a bit of comfort. All at once he felt a lessening of the void that ached in his soul. Joanie was a writer and communication was her forte. From nowhere, these words blazed across his mind: Do not mourn for what you've lost. Be grateful for what you had.
Putting the shell protectively in his pocket, he would take it home and keep it safely next to his lei. Tears once more ran down his face, but he didn't care. She had spoken to him one last time.