“Is that your professional opinion or your personal concern?”
“Both.”
The sun touches the horizon, sending a path of gold across the water that leads directly to where we’re standing. It’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m sharing this moment with a man who makes my heart do things that could cause permanent damage.
“I can take care of myself,” I say because it’s true and also because I need to believe it.
“I’m starting to figure that out.”
“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” But he’s smiling when he says it—a real smile this time, not the ghost of one or the hint of one,but an actual smile that transforms his entire face and makes me forget about murders and mysteries and everything except the way he’s looking at me right now.
And for the first time since I arrived in paradise, I think maybe getting lost was exactly what I needed to do.
Maybe the universe’s sense of humor isn’t so bad after all.
CHAPTER 13
Apparently, feeding resort guests requires the same level of strategic planning as launching a space shuttle, except with worse food and a manager who treats grocery money like her personal retirement fund that she’s protecting from imaginary thieves.
It’s the next day, late afternoon on Kauai, and the heat radiates off the asphalt parking lot in waves that make the air shimmer like a mirage. The coastal breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms and grilling teriyaki from somewhere down the road, mixed with the ever-present salt air and the faint aroma of our resort’s ongoing plumbing crisis, which is becoming its own signature scent and not in a good way. A rooster crows from behind the kitchen, followed by what sounds like a heated chicken discussion about dinner plans.
“Jinx is coming with me for the kitchen supply run,” Lani announces to Melanie, who’s manning the front desk with herusual enthusiasm for customer service—which is to say, none whatsoever, possibly negative enthusiasm if that’s a thing.
Melanie looks up from her computer screen, where she’s been doing what appears to be online shopping rather than actual resort management. Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it could be used as a weapon, and her expression looks like someone just told her she has to eat gas station sushi.
“For kitchen supplies?” she repeats, as if Lani just announced plans to purchase a small country or possibly fund a revolution.
“For food,” Lani clarifies with the patience of kitchen staff who’ve had this conversation before. “You know, that stuff we need to keep guests from starving and leaving bad reviews.”
“We have a budget,” Melanie snaps, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a piece of paper that looks like it’s been photocopied from the Paleolithic era, possibly discovered in an archaeological dig. “Stick to the list. No substitutions, no upgrades, no creative interpretations of what constitutes as necessary provisions.”
She shoves the list at Lani as if passing along a court subpoena.
“And don’t even think about charging anything to the resort account thatisn’ton this list,” Melanie continues, her voice taking on the tone usually reserved for reading terms and conditions that no one actually reads. “Mr. X is watching every penny.”
“Mr. X is a ghost,” I mutter because I’m still not convinced he actually exists, at least not in the corporeal form.
“Mr. X signs my paychecks,” Melanie shoots back. “Which is more than I can say for some people around here.”
Ruby appears from the direction of the pool area, looking like she’s been wrestling with landscaping and possibly losing. Her muumuu is covered in what might be mulch or possibly the remains of a plant that fought back, and she has a red hibiscus flower tucked behind one ear that’s seen better hours, wilting in the heat like the rest of us.
“Are we going on an adventure?” she asks brightly.
“We’re going grocery shopping,” Lani says flatly.
“Same thing, really. It’s all about perspective.”
Melanie’s eye twitches. “Three of you? For groceries? What is this, a social event?”
“Everything is a social event when you’re over fifty and fabulous,” Ruby replies, fluffing her red hair with a confidence that comes from never doubting your own fabulousness for a single second.
We head toward the resort’s transport vehicle, which turns out to be a van that looks like it survived several natural disasters and possibly a small war. The paint job might have been white once upon a time, but now it’s more of a tropical rust with character. One of the side mirrors is held on with duct tape, and the bumper appears to be attached through sheer force of will.
“Please tell me this thing is roadworthy,” I say, eyeing the van with the same enthusiasm I’d reserve for experimental surgery performed by someone who learned medicine from YouTube.
“It’s definitely roadworthy,” Lani says, climbing into the driver’s seat with casual ease as if she’s made peace with mortality. “Meet Pele—named after the volcano goddessbecause she’s temperamental, unpredictable, and occasionally spits fire.”
