“I might have known.” She points at Ruby like this isn’t her first rodeo with my new bestie. “Turning a respectable horticultural session into your personal sideshow!”
“Hello, Margaret,” Ruby says sweetly. “Still haven’t found that sense of humor I recommended?”
“This is a family-friendly community space!” Margaretbellows. “Not your personal stage for inappropriate botanical commentary!”
Savannah steps forward diplomatically. “Now, Margaret, Ruby was just showing enthusiasm for traditional growing methods?—”
“Traditional methods, my foot! She’s been making innuendos about vegetables for the past ten minutes—and the last ten years!” Margaret’s face is approaching the color of a ripe tomato, which feels appropriate given the setting.
Ruby looks genuinely confused. “I was talking about gardening technique. It’s not my fault if your mind went somewhere else entirely.”
“OUT!” Margaret points toward the garden gate with the finality of a judge delivering a death sentence. “Leave now! You and your little friends! Before you corrupt any more innocent plants!”
And that’s how Lani and I find ourselves trudging back to Pele, banned from yet another establishment and trailing behind Ruby, who’s still calling helpful gardening tips over her shoulder to far too eager students.
Spam trots ahead of us with his tail high, looking like he knew this was how it would end all along.
CHAPTER 15
Most people use their last paycheck for sensible things like rent or groceries—I’m betting mine on cinnamon rolls and saving a resort that’s been flirting with bankruptcy since the Carter administration, which tells you everything you need to know about my decision-making skills.
The kitchen at six in the morning smells like yesterday’s desperation mixed with today’s ambitious delusions, seasoned with a hint of whatever died in the walk-in cooler last week and has been haunting us ever since. I’m elbow-deep in flour that’s getting into places flour has no business being, Ruby is attacking butter with the intensity of a woman settling old scores with a particularly offensive ex-husband, and Lani is measuring cinnamon like she’s defusing a bomb that could take out the entire North Shore.
The tropical breeze holds the scent of plumeria through the screen door, which only makes our current situation moresurreal—paradise outside, potential food poisoning inside, the eternal duality of island life.
“The scent alone will bring them in by the droves,” Ruby announces, wielding her butter-covered spatula like a prophet’s staff. “People smell cinnamon rolls, they lose all rational thought. It’s basic human psychology.”
“These can’t be mediocre cinnamon rolls,” Lani adds, dumping what appears to be half a bottle of vanilla into her mixing bowl with the confidence that comes from years of making things work with limited resources. “They need to be the best cinnamon rolls anyone’s ever tasted. Life-changing. Relationship-ending. The kind that makes people question their dietary choices and their marriage vows.”
“And they need to be big,” I say, kneading dough that’s fighting back with personal vendetta, like it knows what I’m trying to do and resents being part of my scheme. “They need to be the size of your head. If someone can finish one in a single sitting, we’re not thinking big enough.”
The kitchen door swings open with a sound like a dying seagull, and Melanie appears in all her morning glory—which is to say, she looks like someone who’s been personally offended by the concept of dawn and is seeking legal counsel.
Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it could be classified as a weapon or perhaps a form of self-punishment, and her expression alerts me to the fact that she’s already mentally calculating how our little project will somehow cost her money or ruin her day or both.
“What,” she says, surveying our flour-covered battlefield, “the fresh hell is this?”
“Salvation,” Ruby says cheerfully, not even looking up from her butter massacre. “In cinnamon roll form.”
“Entrepreneurship,” I add, not looking up from my dough wrestling match because eye contact with Melanie before coffee feels like inviting bad luck.
“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a health code violation waiting to happen,” Melanie concludes with certainty, as if she sees violations everywhere she looks. And she might.
“Relax,” I say, finally achieving what might charitably be called dough consistency. “I bought the ingredients with my own money.”
What I don’t mention is that we found the restaurant supply store yesterday, also known as Costco, and charmed our way in through a combination of Ruby’s tragic widow act, Lani’s professional kitchen credentials, and my own ability to look pathetically desperate while wielding a credit card. Something tells me Melanie won’t approve of our creative procurement methods. And great news, I’m now a member of that prestigious club.
“Your own money,” Melanie repeats, like I just announced plans to sacrifice a virgin to the coffee gods or possibly burn the resort down for the insurance payoff.
“Shocking concept, I know. Personal investment in workplace success. Revolutionary thinking, really.”
She makes a sound that might be a snort or might be her soul leaving her body in protest, then disappears back into whatever cave she calls an office to presumably plot our downfall or update her résumé.
“Charming as always,” Ruby observes.
“The woman could sour milk just by looking at it,” Lani says,setting her dough aside to rise in a bowl we’ve covered with a damp towel, like we actually know what we’re doing. “Speaking of which, we should check on the ice cream situation while we wait for these to do their thing.”
We migrate to the barista area, which looks like it was designed by someone who’d heard about coffee shops but never actually seen one. The espresso machine squats in the corner like a metallic toad, surrounded by equipment that ranges fromquestionably functionaltowhy hasn’t this been condemnedyet, with a brief stop atprobably haunted.
