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" Stevie&amp;#039;s first glimpse of the park site in Lihue will be from the rear of a helicopter she climbed into with Hank at the airport. She didn&amp;#039;t have exact parameters for the pilot, only the kind of directions that locals give, along the lines of &amp;quot;Turn left at the second palm tree, cross the stream, and there you are.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s got to be the place,&amp;quot; Stevie tells the pilot when she spots one of the landmarks Japhy told her to look for \u2014 the old cane field flume, easy to spot, since three orange tube boats are now barreling down, carrying tourists. As the copter swoops in, Stevie starts to investigate the parcel of land below. It&amp;#039;s smaller than other parks she&amp;#039;s worked on, but enticing. She can&amp;#039;t wait to get her hands on the sort of ornery, shaggy, rebellious island plants that will thrive wherever she decides to put them but will also insist on pushing back with their own existence.  &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; Hank says, &amp;quot;what do you think, Stevie? Want the job?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Yes,&amp;quot; she whispers. &amp;quot;I think it&amp;#039;s incredible.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;They couldn&amp;#039;t pick anyone better.&amp;quot;  This must be the kind of remark her father always makes about her to other people, the reason why she has so often heard how proud of her he is. But it&amp;#039;s the first time he&amp;#039;s ever said such a thing in her presence. &amp;quot;You wouldn&amp;#039;t think I&amp;#039;d failed, ditching higher-profile projects to work here?&amp;quot; she asks him.  &amp;quot;Failed?&amp;quot; he barks. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not like you&amp;#039;d be cleaning out toilets. Besides, the whole point of building a reputation, if you ask me, is getting to where you call your own shots.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Thanks, Dad.&amp;quot; She can&amp;#039;t keep her voice from quavering.  Stevie wonders if Hank believes he&amp;#039;ll live long enough to see the park through completion \u2014 provided, of course, she gets the job. He must. His cancer is progressing, but after all, as he pointed out over breakfast, he doesn&amp;#039;t yet require morphine and he&amp;#039;s still got an appetite. &amp;quot;Plus,&amp;quot; he&amp;#039;d said, &amp;quot;as scrawny as I am, I don&amp;#039;t have that cadaverous skin-and-bones look I&amp;#039;ve seen on other guys right before they croak.&amp;quot; She understands. He doesn&amp;#039;t want her hovering, timing his death like a boiled egg.  It&amp;#039;s still dark the next morning when Stevie sets out for the Lihue site. After parking on a service road, she walks the site&amp;#039;s perimeter in slow, jagged circles, stopping to sip water, jot notes, consider the sun&amp;#039;s seasonal drift. Hot and sweaty, she cuts through jungly overgrowth to the waterfall&amp;#039;s modest pool, where she slips off her pack, strips, and wades in to swim.  Later, while she&amp;#039;s drying off on the bank, it comes to Stevie what a womanly shape this piece of land has. Hilly breasts for vistas and picnics. A big-bowled belly for music performances and hula. By sunset, she&amp;#039;s traced the route of a hide-and-seek stream that runs from the waterfall pool, diving under the earth and breaching up again. She&amp;#039;s also got a map in her mind of how light and shade play throughout the day, a template for every remaining element. A few days later, when Stevie presents her ideas to the Lihue park&amp;#039;s principals in a conference room at the Sheraton Hotel, her portfolio helps clinch the deal, but not nearly so much as being island-born.  &amp;quot;Who else applied?&amp;quot; That&amp;#039;s what her boss, Arthur Stewart, wants to know when she calls New York to tell him.  &amp;quot;No one,&amp;quot; she admits.  &amp;quot;Why am I not surprised?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t worry,&amp;quot; Stevie tells him. &amp;quot;I won&amp;#039;t be using the firm&amp;#039;s name on this project.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;That,&amp;quot; he says, &amp;quot;is not what worries me.&amp;quot; Then he hangs up.  Stevie understands what worries Stewart \u2014 that she&amp;#039;s lost the drive he hired her for. And though she doesn&amp;#039;t feel like calling back to convince him otherwise, she is still driving. Just in another direction.  Missed parts 1 and 2? Catch up here: Part One Part Two Stewart&amp;#039;s attitude makes all the sweeter Japhy&amp;#039;s insistence on celebrating at his place tonight. This is her first visit to his new home, and she drives from her father&amp;#039;s house in Koloa bearing gifts: drought-resistant plants suited to the hotter, drier climate of Waimea \u2014 a small red wiliwili tree, honeysuckle, purple lantana for ground cover.  When she pulls up, his dog, Rainier, charges out of the house ahead of Japhy, racing to Stevie&amp;#039;s car. &amp;quot;Come on,&amp;quot; Japhy says, with a kiss. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll give you the tour.&amp;quot;  The yard&amp;#039;s sprinkled with hardy, lantana-friendly local grasses. A trellis by the lanai will be perfect for honeysuckle. Inside, the house has a feel of unfussy ease. Stevie notices a small shelved alcove with an ocean-facing window. There it is: the photo of his wife and daughter, killed in a plane crash, that Stevie remembers from Japhy&amp;#039;s old place. &amp;quot;Such a little beauty,&amp;quot; she says, taking hold of Japhy&amp;#039;s hand. &amp;quot;Her mother&amp;#039;s face and her father&amp;#039;s dimples. It&amp;#039;s good you&amp;#039;ve made a special place for them.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m glad that&amp;#039;s how you see it.&amp;quot;  Out on the deck a small picnic table is already set, with a bowl of floating plumeria blossoms at its center. Japhy pours two rum drinks from a pitcher in the refrigerator. Then they walk out to his property&amp;#039;s edge, where the beach begins and two lounge chairs are situated for watching the sun&amp;#039;s last burst of cloud-kindled fireworks. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re so quiet,&amp;quot; Japhy says after a while. &amp;quot;Did the photograph bother you?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; Stevie says. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s just that I can see how you might want to be a father again. And I hope you don&amp;#039;t think I&amp;#039;m being presumptuous or crazy for mentioning this now, but my feelings for you... Well, if I don&amp;#039;t, it&amp;#039;d be like some kind of time bomb inside me. The thing is, I&amp;#039;ve got problems there.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;What kind of problems?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Fertility problems.&amp;quot;  Japhy&amp;#039;s voice is so low and soft, it almost fades into the sound of breaking waves. &amp;quot;Stevie, it doesn&amp;#039;t matter.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Not now, maybe. But it might later.&amp;quot;  Japhy turns to her. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think so.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Why?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s hard to explain. But I&amp;#039;m thinking about this fight Alana and I had. When I got home one day, Megan waved her hand and said, &amp;#039;Owie, hot!&amp;#039; I saw these tiny white blisters on her fingertips, and I just went nuts, demanding to know how this could have happened to her. Well, we had a gas fireplace with a glass front in the living room, and we usually lit it only at night. But on this day it was chilly, and a windstorm knocked out power for a while. So Alana took Megan to the living room to play, turned on the fireplace, and gave the &amp;#039;Hot, don&amp;#039;t touch&amp;#039; lecture to Megan when the glass front heated up. But the flames must have intrigued her, because during a few seconds when Alana&amp;#039;s back was turned, she touched the glass anyway. So that&amp;#039;s the kind of father I was, being a real asshole to Alana because my daughter needed to learn a tough lesson and I couldn&amp;#039;t prevent her pain. And then I come to discover that the world&amp;#039;s much more dangerous than I&amp;#039;d ever imagined.&amp;quot; He sighs. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not putting it well.&amp;quot;  Stevie touches his hand. &amp;quot;Falling in love again isn&amp;#039;t as frightening as having another child to protect.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Or lose. Mostly lose.&amp;quot; He gives her a long look. &amp;quot;How are you with that?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I love kids,&amp;quot; Stevie says. &amp;quot;But I&amp;#039;m used to how my life doesn&amp;#039;t look like everybody else&amp;#039;s. It doesn&amp;#039;t bother me. I guess I even like it that way. The one neat part about getting older is knowing that nothing is ever ideal. And I&amp;#039;m not sure I need a child of my own to feel complete.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;That could change.&amp;quot;  She nods. &amp;quot;It could change for you too.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s a lot we don&amp;#039;t know yet, that&amp;#039;s for sure. I guess what&amp;#039;s important is, we&amp;#039;re happy with how things are.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I agree. One step at a time. Hank&amp;#039;s in his bedroom with the door closed when Stevie and Japhy arrive, with Rainier in tow, an hour before the Cubs game. Lila, the nurse who has long been a close friend to Hank and a surrogate mother to Stevie, is in the kitchen. &amp;quot;Dad&amp;#039;s not up yet?&amp;quot; Stevie asks her. Lila shakes her head. &amp;quot;Has he eaten anything?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;A little oatmeal,&amp;quot; Lila says quietly.  &amp;quot;Why didn&amp;#039;t anyone call me?&amp;quot; Stevie demands. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;d have been here hours ago!&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Oh, my girl, you could have been here the whole time, dogging him like your dog, Pip, and still no difference. It&amp;#039;s not like Hank&amp;#039;s dying any minute, I promise. He just doesn&amp;#039;t have much energy today. This happens.&amp;quot; Lila pats her cheek. &amp;quot;Why don&amp;#039;t you put together a milkshake for him?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll walk the dogs,&amp;quot; Japhy offers. &amp;quot;And I&amp;#039;ll get a bottle of champagne at Sueoka&amp;#039;s,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;If Hank&amp;#039;s not up to drinking, we can spray him with it after the Cubs win.&amp;quot;  When Stevie brings the milkshake to Hank&amp;#039;s room, Lila is sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, holding Hank&amp;#039;s right hand in both of hers. &amp;quot;Ah,&amp;quot; Hank says. &amp;quot;Another member of my harem arrives.&amp;quot; He looks so weak that Stevie doubts he&amp;#039;ll ever get out of bed again. Before Stevie can find her voice, Lila, in a slow, fluid whoosh of motion, sets the milkshake glass aside, transfers Hank&amp;#039;s hand into Stevie&amp;#039;s, and guides her into the chair. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll get a straw,&amp;quot; Lila says.  When was the last time Stevie held her father&amp;#039;s hand \u2014 just held it, with no reason but to be near and loving? Never. Or not ever that she remembers. But it seems like the natural thing to do now. &amp;quot;Listen,&amp;quot; Hank says after a while. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s just a game.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;If you say so.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;And the good news is, looks like I&amp;#039;m going to live long enough to watch it.&amp;quot; Stevie&amp;#039;s sure he wants her to laugh, and she does.  &amp;quot;Maybe I never told you,&amp;quot; he muses, &amp;quot;but I wasn&amp;#039;t ready for you coming along. I know I wasn&amp;#039;t a perfect father.&amp;quot;  Stevie squeezes his hand. &amp;quot;Who is?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;But I never once regretted having you. You were such a determined little thing, from your very first breath. Born on Bastille Day. Appropriate, don&amp;#039;t you think?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;How so, Dad?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re such a groundbreaker \u2014 no pun intended. So independent. So much your own person.&amp;quot; There&amp;#039;s no push to his words, only appreciation. Can this be the same father who wanted always to toughen her up, prepare her for the world&amp;#039;s hardness?  &amp;quot;Never thought much of those other guys you brought around,&amp;quot; Hank continues.  Stevie rolls her eyes. &amp;quot;Now he tells me.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;You didn&amp;#039;t want to hear it then.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Might have done me good, though. Knowing you cared enough to meddle.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Honey, in this life, you have to make your own mistakes. Anyway, what I&amp;#039;m getting to here is Japhy. He&amp;#039;s different.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;So you think he&amp;#039;s a keeper? Japhy&amp;#039;s got his stuff, Dad. Big stuff.&amp;quot; Stevie smiles. &amp;quot;You think I&amp;#039;m the difficult one, don&amp;#039;t you?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; Hank says, &amp;quot;you&amp;#039;re not your old man&amp;#039;s daughter for nothing.&amp;quot; A comment that just yesterday would have set off swells of pain, anger, defensiveness. But now Stevie feels only his concern for her happiness, and all she can do is nod, giving his hand a small, tender shake of agreement.  The next afternoon Stevie watches with Hank as the Cubs lose their first home game to the Marlins, and her father&amp;#039;s condition seems to dive with his team&amp;#039;s fortunes. He takes oxygen throughout the final innings, then heads straight for bed on two Lortabs, reading his FDR biography for only a short while before dropping off.  &amp;quot;Should I wake him for dinner?&amp;quot; Stevie asks Lila when she stops by after work.  &amp;quot;No, let him rest. But cover him so he won&amp;#039;t catch a chill.&amp;quot;  As Hank gets up the next day, Pip insists on being wherever he is, happy to go outside only when Hank is stationed in his Adirondack chair. Even then, the puppy&amp;#039;s curled into a doughnut on his lap. The same behavior holds through Friday, when Japhy comes over to join them in watching the Cubs bury the Marlins.  &amp;quot;Interesting,&amp;quot; Japhy says when Stevie remarks on Pip&amp;#039;s clinginess while they&amp;#039;re reading in bed later that night. &amp;quot;Interesting how?&amp;quot; But for that he has no answer \u2014 or none so vital as the impulse to set their books aside and kiss her. It&amp;#039;s a good impulse, one that makes Stevie forget all about what&amp;#039;s driving the little dog. Whatever dream she&amp;#039;s having flies from Stevie&amp;#039;s head when Pip awakens her with a plaintive bark a few hours later. She leaps up and goes straight to Hank&amp;#039;s bed.  Despite Pip&amp;#039;s noise, Hank&amp;#039;s eyes are closed. His arms are rigid, hands knotted into fists by his sides, and there&amp;#039;s a tight, lopsided grimace on his face. Yet the center of his body seems caved in, deflated somehow.  &amp;quot;Dad?&amp;quot; Stevie says. No sound from Hank but the rasp of labored breathing. She turns on his bedside lamp, dives for the oxygen tank, and hooks the plastic tubing around Hank&amp;#039;s ears, guides it into his nose. Stifling a sob, she sits on the side of his bed to take hold of his hand, gently tracing the path of each vein running from wrist to knuckles. His exhalations ease. His hand relaxes into hers. All signs, she hopes, that he&amp;#039;s not in pain, because there&amp;#039;s still nothing stronger than Lortab in the house.  &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s better now,&amp;quot; she says, &amp;quot;isn&amp;#039;t it?&amp;quot; Though Hank&amp;#039;s eyes remain closed and he can&amp;#039;t seem to speak, she&amp;#039;s sure he still hears her voice, still feels her touch. It&amp;#039;s tempting to call in Lila so she won&amp;#039;t make any mistakes, won&amp;#039;t make this any harder on her father than it already is. But every cell in Stevie&amp;#039;s body insists that this moment belongs just to them, that mistakes aren&amp;#039;t possible now, not if her motive is love.  A fragrant breeze blows through the room. Pip jumps onto Hank&amp;#039;s bed, noses open his right hand \u2014 the one Stevie&amp;#039;s not holding \u2014 and lays his head in the palm.  Willing reassurance into her fingertips, Stevie shifts her steady, rhythmic touch to Hank&amp;#039;s arm, then his head, then each side of his face. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s okay, Daddy,&amp;quot; she says, pressing her lips to his cheek. &amp;quot;I know it&amp;#039;s sooner than you thought. I know you wanted more. But it&amp;#039;s all right for you to leave. Your body&amp;#039;s all worn out, but your spirit&amp;#039;s still strong. You won&amp;#039;t disappear.&amp;quot; Her cheeks are bathed in tears that pour from her like these words, without a sob. &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t have to worry about me anymore. I&amp;#039;m ready whenever you are.&amp;quot;  Gradually, Hank&amp;#039;s face loses all tension. Stevie glances at the clock radio dial, which reads 3:48 a.m., and turns back to Hank as a lone tear slips down his cheek. Then she moves in closer, listening while he takes a breath different from any preceding breath, a breath she&amp;#039;s certain will be his last.  Stevie can&amp;#039;t seem to get enough sleep, or find enough places to sleep. She sleeps on beds, sleeps on beaches, sleeps on hammocks and the lanai. She sleeps just about everywhere except behind the wheel, and she&amp;#039;s had to snap herself out of more than a few dangerous nods while driving too.  Finally she understands that it&amp;#039;s not just grief that has made her so sleepy, and it&amp;#039;s not the approach of an overdue period that has made her breasts feel so tender, and it&amp;#039;s not stress that has delayed her period.  It&amp;#039;s her hormones. It&amp;#039;s life inside her.  Dr. Tamar Pearce enters the small air-conditioned room where Stevie, in a hospital gown, Lila by her side, perches on the edge of an examining table, gripping its sides so her hands won&amp;#039;t tremble. Lila extends her own steadier hand to the doctor. &amp;quot;Lila Wei,&amp;quot; she says. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m a nurse and this sweetheart&amp;#039;s aunty, here for moral support.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s good you&amp;#039;re here so early,&amp;quot; Dr. Pearce tells Stevie. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve read the history you gave us, your ectopic pregnancy last year. If that&amp;#039;s happening again, we&amp;#039;re intervening much sooner \u2014 you won&amp;#039;t lose another ovary. Was this pregnancy planned, Stevie?&amp;quot;  She only shakes her head.  &amp;quot;Then you&amp;#039;ve got a lot on your mind.&amp;quot;  When the pelvic exam is over, Dr. Pearce says, &amp;quot;So far, so good,&amp;quot; and extends the examining table. &amp;quot;One more scar on your right side than I was expecting. Appendix?&amp;quot;  Stevie nods. &amp;quot;Ruptured when I was a kid \u2014 forgot to write that on the form.&amp;quot;  Dr. Pearce rubs her hands together to warm them before pressing on Stevie&amp;#039;s abdomen, paying particular attention to the neighborhood of her sole surviving ovary, on the left. &amp;quot;Any pain, Stevie?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;No. Is that a good sign?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Good, but not definitive. Neither is your blood test, although it does tell us you&amp;#039;re absent the low levels of hCG that are usually associated with ectopic pregnancy.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s next?&amp;quot; Lila asks.  &amp;quot;Ultrasound,&amp;quot; Dr. Pearce says. &amp;quot;Ever had one, Stevie?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;No. Or not that I remember, anyway. They might have done one before my last surgery. I was pretty out of it by then.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Entirely painless.&amp;quot; Dr. Pearce gives her a regretful smile. &amp;quot;It might be too soon to get our answer with ultrasound, though. And if it is, we&amp;#039;ll just monitor your condition every few days until we are sure. Stevie manages to put off Japhy for almost an entire week after the ultrasound confirms a healthy pregnancy.  First she pleads the need to grieve Hank alone, at his house, where her father&amp;#039;s energy is so strong still. When Japhy checks in with Stevie by phone on the third day, she thanks him for his concern \u2014 rather formally \u2014 before mentioning how behind she is with plans for the Lihue park. Japhy acquiesces without a murmur of protest.  But on Thursday morning, when Stevie calls Japhy to make more excuses, he responds with aggravation. &amp;quot;Fine,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;I just hope you&amp;#039;ll let me know when you figure out what&amp;#039;s really going on.&amp;quot; He hangs up without saying good-bye.  Pulling into her driveway that evening, she spots Japhy&amp;#039;s truck, then Japhy himself in Hank&amp;#039;s Adirondack chair, lit enough by the moon for her to catch the antagonized fold of arms and the face set not just for receiving but also for delivering bad news. She walks over to settle into the other Adirondack with the air of someone who expects to be strapped in and executed.  &amp;quot;I was going to call you tonight,&amp;quot; she says, voice choked with guilt. She doesn&amp;#039;t quite force a yawn, but it&amp;#039;s not entirely natural, either. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m just so \u2014 &amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Exhausted. Yeah, I know.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Well, it&amp;#039;s the truth.&amp;quot; She reaches for his hand, but his palm flattens in a traffic-stopping gesture.  &amp;quot;Look, if you want this to be over, I need to hear it. I can&amp;#039;t do another day like this, wondering. I&amp;#039;ll make it easy: You don&amp;#039;t want to hurt me, but now that Hank&amp;#039;s gone, you need to get back to your real life, not hang around some island out in the middle of the Pacific with some veterinarian who doesn&amp;#039;t play in the same big league you do.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t tell me how I feel!&amp;quot; She lurches forward, ducking her head into her hands, willing herself not to cry. If she cries, she&amp;#039;ll end up saying more than she&amp;#039;s ready to tell. &amp;quot;I think it&amp;#039;s best,&amp;quot; she says, &amp;quot;if we both calm down and talk in the morning.&amp;quot;  Without waiting for a reply, Stevie heads for the house. As she reaches the steps, Japhy&amp;#039;s behind her. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t want to calm down,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;All I want is for you to be honest about what&amp;#039;s tearing you up. I can take it, darlin&amp;#039;. You don&amp;#039;t scare me.&amp;quot;  There it is \u2014 all the aching openness she&amp;#039;d stop a bullet to protect. Stevie melts down toward the steps with Japhy and onto his lap. &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; he murmurs, &amp;quot;at least that&amp;#039;s over. First fights are always kind of sloppy.&amp;quot;  As Stevie turns to press her lips to his, Japhy&amp;#039;s fingers weave together across her belly. She feels the warmth of his palms through her thin cotton shirt as they trace a slow, sweet circle. Then his mouth goes slack against hers and he pulls away to look her in the eye. His hands have read her body. &amp;quot;Damn, Stevie,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;So that&amp;#039;s what this is all about.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I know it&amp;#039;s not what you wanted. I know you&amp;#039;re not ready. I don&amp;#039;t expect \u2014 &amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Hush.&amp;quot; His hold on her tightens. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s a whole new ball game now, isn&amp;#039;t it?&amp;quot;  In the first days after Flight 161 nose-dived into the Pacific, relatives of those on board traveled to the California crash site. Japhy was not among them. He had no hopes of his wife or their daughter or anyone else surviving \u2014 the plane had plummeted from too great a height.  Now, four years after the crash to the day, to the hour, to the minute, Japhy stands on the beach of Port Hueneme \u2014 with his mother, Kate, with Alana&amp;#039;s parents and sister, with a memorial throng of hundreds. As bagpipers play &amp;quot;Going Home,&amp;quot; Coast Guard cutters from the rescue effort float close to shore. Holding Japhy&amp;#039;s arm, Alana&amp;#039;s stalwart mother walks them both down the beach, joining a procession toward the water. Barefoot, they step into the Pacific to lay on the outgoing tide the last of their roses; all the rest smother the base of a monument just dedicated, a sculpture of three dolphins leaping around a sundial.  &amp;quot;You need to do this,&amp;quot; Japhy&amp;#039;s mother had told him, convincing him to come. &amp;quot;These won&amp;#039;t be people who say they know what you&amp;#039;ve been through. These will be people who have been through it themselves.&amp;quot;  But no one here is in quite his position. Japhy is the only person in attendance who lost both spouse and child. And with another child on the way, he&amp;#039;s leery of appearing as if it&amp;#039;s his mission to replace the irreplaceable \u2014 which is why he hasn&amp;#039;t broached the subject with Alana&amp;#039;s family, even though Stevie&amp;#039;s four months along.  Stevie&amp;#039;s exhaustion has passed, and everything between them is going well; he&amp;#039;s been feeling more hopeful. But now, on the beach at Port Hueneme, surrendering his last rose to the ocean is difficult enough; what feels impossible is becoming a father again \u2014 hurling himself into that sea. For the rest of the afternoon, he has little to say apart from good-byes at the airport. Then, mechanically, he clears security, buys a coffee and scone at a concourse Starbucks, and walks to the departure gate for his flight to Lihue. When his cell phone rings \u2014 it&amp;#039;s Stevie \u2014 he has to force himself to answer.  &amp;quot;I just felt him kicking!&amp;quot; she announces.  Japhy wills his mouth to work, tries to say the right words. &amp;quot;Really? Wow.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Yeah.&amp;quot; A long pause on the other end. &amp;quot;I had to call because I thought, today of all days, you know? It seemed like a sign, a reminder that awful as life can be, good things are coming too.&amp;quot; She pauses again. &amp;quot;But maybe I should have waited. In her eighth month of pregnancy, Stevie&amp;#039;s still taking hula classes on Thursday nights, wearing a practice skirt with a drawstring waist tied over the top of the baby she carries, looking like a bulging beanstalk. Tonight, with the first flap of her knees in warm-ups, Stevie feels a mild fluttering just beneath her ribs, where the baby&amp;#039;s head is. He has refused to flip over in preparation for the normal headfirst exit into the world. If he doesn&amp;#039;t cooperate soon, Dr. Pearce will take a crack at manually turning him in the womb, and if that doesn&amp;#039;t work, she&amp;#039;ll perform a cesarean. But at this point, dwelling on another scar added to her abdominal collection can&amp;#039;t be wise. Her baby&amp;#039;s still got time to turn himself around. Meanwhile, hula hip-rocking, better than warm baths or lovemaking (something there hasn&amp;#039;t been much of for months), seems to ease the aches and pains of Stevie&amp;#039;s expanding pelvis.  She concentrates on the beat, wondering if her baby&amp;#039;s ears are connected well enough for him to hear it too. With the next knee flap, she feels a sharp kick against her bladder, a cramp at the base of her spine, and then, water gushing out from between her legs. Stevie freezes, causing Lila to jump out of line to keep from bumping into her. &amp;quot;Lila, my water just broke.&amp;quot; Lila springs into action, and in minutes she and Stevie are on the way to the hospital. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re only a few weeks early,&amp;quot; Lila says as Stevie moans. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;ll both be fine.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;But he hasn&amp;#039;t dropped yet! Can he still be turned? I \u2014 &amp;quot; Stevie cries out from the pain of her first contraction.  &amp;quot;No way Dr. Pearce will try turning the baby now,&amp;quot; Lila adds. &amp;quot;A quick C-section, then he&amp;#039;s in your arms. But you can&amp;#039;t have a whole bunch of people with you for a section, Stevie. Just the daddy or your midwife or a friend.&amp;quot;  Biting back tears, Stevie reaches for her bag, pulls out her cell phone, punches in Japhy&amp;#039;s number, and hands it to Lila. &amp;quot;Tell Japhy what you just told me. If he&amp;#039;s not going to be there, I want you.&amp;quot;  Stevie doesn&amp;#039;t have to hear Japhy&amp;#039;s end of this brief conversation to know its effect: another worry added to those already clouding his heart. &amp;quot;Well?&amp;quot; she says when Lila clicks off.  &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s on his way, of course,&amp;quot; Lila tells her. &amp;quot;What did you expect?&amp;quot;  Stevie swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. Now is not the time to delve into Japhy&amp;#039;s apparent inability to speak of what&amp;#039;s eating at him. At least his hidden feelings, whatever they may be, haven&amp;#039;t kept him from being thoughtful. Back rubs and foot rubs have been hers for the asking. He&amp;#039;s learned her favorite dishes and prepares them often. Since Hank&amp;#039;s house \u2014 now Stevie&amp;#039;s \u2014 is closer to the hospital than his, he&amp;#039;s been pushing to move in with her for the final month. She would have agreed by now if he hadn&amp;#039;t seemed to be making the move offer more out of loyalty than in joyous anticipation of their son&amp;#039;s birth.  At the hospital, everything happens fast: check-in, Dr. Pearce&amp;#039;s operating room examination, connecting her to the fetal monitor that blessedly shows no sign of distress, and then the anesthesia. As numbness spreads below her breasts, Stevie interrupts Dr. Pearce, who&amp;#039;s assuring her that with the right attitude, a cesarean birth is every bit as empowering as a vaginal one. &amp;quot;How long will it take me to recover?&amp;quot;  It&amp;#039;s Japhy&amp;#039;s voice that answers. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s not worry about that one now, darlin&amp;#039;.&amp;quot;  She can still see trepidation behind Japhy&amp;#039;s eyes. What takes her by surprise is the glimpse of soul shining through that dark morass, intensifying what&amp;#039;s exploding inside her as Dr. Pearce announces, &amp;quot;A beautiful baby boy. Congratulations.&amp;quot;  A perfect moment accompanied by the perfect, gentle slack-key music \u2014 &amp;quot;Pupu Hinuhinu,&amp;quot; the shiny-shell lullaby. But the moment ends when Stevie glances up at Japhy&amp;#039;s face, guessing at once what&amp;#039;s troubling him. Something is wrong with their son. Instead of a lusty wail with his first gulps of air, nothing but weak whimpers. She can feel the baby&amp;#039;s strain as though he&amp;#039;s still inside her. Unable to speak, Stevie digs her nails into Japhy&amp;#039;s palm.  &amp;quot;Wish we could give him to his momma and daddy right away, but this little one&amp;#039;s lungs need extra help,&amp;quot; Dr. Pearce says. &amp;quot;So we&amp;#039;re going to get him set to go on oxygen while we put you back together, Stevie.&amp;quot; Oxygen. Oh, God. He&amp;#039;s coming in the same way Hank went out, desperate for air.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m sorry you have to wait to get your hands on him,&amp;quot; Dr. Pearce continues, &amp;quot;but this isn&amp;#039;t unusual, especially with a C-section. Nothing our special-care nursery here can&amp;#039;t handle. Let go of Daddy there, Stevie, so he can come see your son weighed and measured \u2014 give you the blow-by-blow.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Go,&amp;quot; Stevie croaks.  In a few seconds, Japhy calls out to her in a voice cracked by emotion. &amp;quot;Six pounds, Stevie. Nineteen inches long! A little put out with us all for making him breathe on his own, maybe, but he really is... beautiful. Amazingly beautiful.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;A name,&amp;quot; Stevie says. &amp;quot;He can&amp;#039;t go to that nursery without a name. You&amp;#039;re looking at him, Japhy. Is he Michael Makana, or Gabriel Makana?&amp;quot; They&amp;#039;ve already chosen the middle name, the Hawaiian word for gift.  &amp;quot;Michael or Gabriel,&amp;quot; Japhy muses. &amp;quot;Gabe or Mikey.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;They&amp;#039;re both angels,&amp;quot; offers the nurse.  &amp;quot;But I don&amp;#039;t think either one&amp;#039;s quite right for this little guy,&amp;quot; Japhy says. &amp;quot;He feels more like a Rafe to me. What do you think, Stevie? For Raphael?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Raphael Makana,&amp;quot; she murmurs. &amp;quot;A gift,&amp;quot; Japhy says, &amp;quot;from the angel of healing.&amp;quot; Exactly what they all need. During her initial recovery, all Stevie can do to ease the awfulness is bring herself up to speed on every parameter of Rafe&amp;#039;s progress: oxygen levels, ventilator pressure, blood gas numbers, lung expansion ratios. Provided his weight is sufficient, Rafe will be released as soon as his lungs are strong enough. Meanwhile, what Stevie hangs on to is the mantra she hears from everyone around her, from specialists to loved ones: &amp;quot;All he needs is time.&amp;quot;  But it&amp;#039;s hard for her to keep hold of this mantra as a certainty, especially when she makes her first visit to the hospital&amp;#039;s special-care nursery. Rafe is the only baby there. It rips her heart, seeing him propped up on his side with the ventilator tube taped across his mouth, the pulse oxymeter on his finger. His sea blue saucer eyes are open, miserable-looking, and the closest she can get is to lean in and kiss the top of his head, covered with a blue knit cap. Stevie&amp;#039;s arms ache to hold him, her breasts ache to feed him.  &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s a fighter,&amp;quot; Japhy says. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;ll see.&amp;quot;  And he&amp;#039;s right. When they arrive at the nursery the next morning, Rafe is so improved that he&amp;#039;s no longer on the ventilator. Stevie gets her first good look at his sweet rosebud mouth. His color is pinker, his body temperature stable enough that his thick shock of coal black hair is uncovered.  It&amp;#039;s a long day full of firsts. For the first time since he was born, Stevie and Japhy hear their son cry \u2014 a hearty-lunged squall. Rafe has his first taste of mother&amp;#039;s milk on a nubby stick resembling a Q-tip. Stevie changes her first diaper, and at 9 that night, she&amp;#039;s allowed to hold Rafe skin-to-skin against her chest for the most peaceful 30 minutes in both of their entire lives.  On the sixth day, Rafe finally latches on and is officially pronounced &amp;quot;a good feeder.&amp;quot; On the seventh, he&amp;#039;s vaccinated and circumcised. On the eighth, Stevie gets in two good nursing sessions before he&amp;#039;s taken from her to be weighed, all naked and squirmy before his judges. She stares at the digital scale as Rafe hits just the mark required.  &amp;quot;Your son can go home now,&amp;quot; the nurse in charge declares.  While Rafe is whisked off to have his vitals recorded for release, Stevie turns to Japhy. She has a question that needs answering, right away. Does home mean just Rafe and her, or all of them? Before she can ask, Japhy smothers her in the most wholehearted embrace they&amp;#039;ve shared since Rafe&amp;#039;s first prenatal kicks. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s our boy,&amp;quot; he says, and for now, it&amp;#039;s answer enough.  When Rafe is 3 months old and thriving, Stevie makes dinner reservations for herself and Japhy at a fancy Poipu restaurant perched on the shore. It&amp;#039;s their first night out since Rafe was born; Lila is babysitting. A little romance, that&amp;#039;s what Japhy figures Stevie has in mind, a break from the cocoon of baby-centered days at home. But if it&amp;#039;s romance Stevie wants, why does she look so troubled? Japhy reaches across the table to lace his fingers through hers. &amp;quot;Are you worried about Rafe?&amp;quot; he inquires.  She sighs and puts the menu aside. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not Rafe I&amp;#039;m worried about. It&amp;#039;s you.&amp;quot;  Japhy takes a mental scan of the last few days. There&amp;#039;s been no tension he&amp;#039;s noticed, no sign of moodiness or irritation. In fact, after Stevie drew his arms around her in bed last night saying, &amp;quot;I wish I weren&amp;#039;t too tired to make love,&amp;quot; a kiss on her neck was all it took to make that wish come true. She&amp;#039;d taken her time, too, as if intent on rediscovering the core of her desire for him \u2014 and his for her. No, there wasn&amp;#039;t any doubt about it; last night&amp;#039;s sex wouldn&amp;#039;t have been anywhere near so impassioned if she&amp;#039;d been worried about him then. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s up?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s a reason why I wanted us to come out on our own like this,&amp;quot; Stevie begins.  &amp;quot;You want to propose to me.&amp;quot;  She withdraws her hand from his to fidget with her earring. &amp;quot;Actually,&amp;quot; she says, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m just traditional enough to believe that&amp;#039;s your job. I have another kind of proposal.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Shoot,&amp;quot; Japhy tells her.  Stevie takes a long breath. &amp;quot;I didn&amp;#039;t think twice about sending my resignation letter off to New York \u2014 that life doesn&amp;#039;t fit me anymore. But there&amp;#039;s a firm in Seattle that&amp;#039;s interested in collaborating. They want me to head up design for the plaza at a new courthouse there.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Do you want the job?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I do. The space has great potential. But here&amp;#039;s the thing: I don&amp;#039;t have to move there, but I would have to travel. I have to go to Seattle \u2014 and soon \u2014 to meet with all the principals on this job. Rafe&amp;#039;s so young, I want him with me. Which will be hard for you, I know. Even terrible, maybe.&amp;quot;  She&amp;#039;s right. Japhy feels terrible already. His mouth goes dry; invisible bands contract around his throat, his chest, his belly. Willing steadiness into his hands, he takes a swallow of water. &amp;quot;You go, Stevie,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll be fine. I better get used to this.&amp;quot;  Stevie&amp;#039;s face falls as her eyes dart away from his. He knows that expression. She&amp;#039;s on the verge of tears. What&amp;#039;s wrong? Can&amp;#039;t she tell how determined he is to get over this fear? Didn&amp;#039;t he just give the thing she was asking for, his okay for her and Rafe to get on an airplane without worries about him falling apart?  Then it comes to him, the difference between what she&amp;#039;s asked for and what she needs. What she needs is something she doesn&amp;#039;t know how to ask for. What she needs is a man who&amp;#039;s there for her so she doesn&amp;#039;t have to handle everything on her own, the way she always has. What she needs is their son&amp;#039;s father \u2014 to tote Rafe&amp;#039;s gear, to help her through first-flight jitters, to hold him during that long trip when she has to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom.  The moment Japhy realizes this is when his body starts to relax. His way through the fear is so much simpler than he&amp;#039;d imagined. It&amp;#039;s loving Rafe. It&amp;#039;s loving Stevie.  Japhy takes her hand again. &amp;quot;Maybe I should come with you.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Yes!&amp;quot; she cries.  The next thing he knows she&amp;#039;s in his lap, kissing him full on the mouth. There&amp;#039;s a burst of applause from diners at nearby tables and a chorus of congratulations aimed at their table. Stevie laughs. &amp;quot;They think you just asked me to marry you.&amp;quot; It surprised no one more than Stevie when her Lihue project got written up in a prestigious architecture journal \u2014 a rave review from Christopher Caldwell, the Chicago Tribune critic, who just happened to be honeymooning in Kauai as the park neared completion. By the time the article appeared, Stevie had already established a solid working relationship with the firm in Seattle. Now she has her pick of interesting projects. If she stays selective enough, everything will be manageable. Not perfect, not without ambivalence and angst. But manageable. And, often enough, delightful. Everything \u2014 still a novel concept for her. Work, motherhood, life with Japhy, and also marriage. Especially marriage.  Before the afternoon ceremony begins, Stevie sits in the Lihue park gazebo she designed and safety pins a red palaka-cloth bow tie to the collar of Rafe&amp;#039;s T-shirt. She wishes her father had lived to attend this wedding, but plenty of relatives and friends are here to see her and Japhy marry.  Lila, mother of her soul, stands behind Stevie, threading plumeria into her upswept hair. &amp;quot;You look,&amp;quot; Lila says, &amp;quot;exactly how you should. Lovely. Happy in your heart.&amp;quot; Lila leads Stevie from the gazebo to the wedding march starting point, taking leave of her with slow, inhaling kisses on each cheek.  All eyes turn to Stevie, standing at the end of a grassy aisle. Only Rafe will take this walk with her, riding her hip, not so much to give Stevie away as to seal the deal that brought him into the world. She remembers Grandpa telling her how Hawaiians speak of their dead in the present tense. That&amp;#039;s how she thinks of Grandpa now: He is with me. Hank&amp;#039;s here too, and in more than just spirit, in her blood and Rafe&amp;#039;s. He&amp;#039;s also here in multicolored anthuriums that grow from a bed of soil enriched by his ashes, encircling the area where Japhy now stands, waiting for her. Japhy&amp;#039;s own dead, she has a feeling, are in attendance too, sustained at last in peace.  As Stevie starts walking, she smiles at everyone watching her arrival. Hula sisters, cousins, Japhy&amp;#039;s slew of relations, soon to be hers. Hardly the standard-issue family she&amp;#039;d grown up hankering for, but more wonderful than that, for blossoming from her life in such an unpredictable way.  Stevie stops and turns toward Japhy, feeling herself inside a sunlit jewel box. Buy the book! Get 36 percent off your own copy of A Better View of Paradise at bn.com/redbook through September 30, 2009. Missed part one or part two? Get caught up with Stevie&amp;#039;s story at the beginning. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/sex/advice/a5172/better-view-of-paradise-three/>