CHAPTER 21
Two days later, and the resort looks like it’s been kissed by a fairy godmother with a construction license and a serious addiction to baked goods, which is honestly the best kind of fairy godmother. Or at least the construction efforts are off to a good start.
The afternoon air shimmers with heat and possibility as I survey our transformed beachfront. The scent of plumeria mingles with the aroma of Lani’s kitchen magic—kalua pig that’s been slow-cooking since dawn, fresh poke that arrived this morning still glistening with ocean spray, and rice that somehow tastes like it was blessed by ancient Hawaiian gods. Overhead, the tropical wind rustles through coconut palms that finally look like they belong in an Instagram feed for the island instead of a disaster documentary.
“This is actually happening,” Ruby says, emerging from the kitchen wearing a muumuu that looks as if she’s wrapped herself in a sunset. “We’re throwing a real luau!”
“With real food!” Lani adds, carrying a tray of malasadas that are still warm enough to fog her glasses and make everyone within a ten-foot radius start drooling. “And guests who might actually enjoy themselves instead of filing health code complaints!”
The transformation is nothing short of miraculous. Where two days ago we had broken deck furniture and pools that resembled failed experiments, we now have a beachfront dining area that glows with the warm light of those twinkle lights I found in the attic. Koa’s brothers, Loco and Shaka, have strung them through the palm trees with the skill of men who understand both electrical systems and tropical aesthetics.
And speaking of Koa’s brothers,sweet mother of pearl.
Shaka is the older one, built like someone who wrestles with rebar for fun and wins. His dark hair is pulled back into a man-bun that should look ridiculous but somehow makes him look like a Hawaiian warrior who moonlights in construction. Tattoos wrap around his biceps in traditional Polynesian patterns, and when he lifts heavy things—which he does constantly—his muscles move under golden skin like poetry written in human anatomy.
Loco is younger, leaner, but no less devastating to the female nervous system. He’s got his brother’s dark eyes and that same effortless tan that comes from working outdoors in paradise. His smile rivals the sun, and he moves with a casual grace that makes a simple task look like it was choreographed by professionals.
“You ladies need hula girls!” Loco announces, stepping back to admire his light-stringing handiwork with the satisfaction of an artist completing a masterpiece. His voice carries just so thatit makes you want to agree with whatever he’s suggesting, even if it’s completely insane.
“We need what now?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I heard him correctly.
“Hula girls,” Shaka confirms, grinning as if he’s just solved all the world’s problems through dance. “You can’t have a proper luau without hula dancing. It’s like having Christmas without presents or a wedding without cake.”
“Fear not!” Ruby’s eyes light up with the gleam usually reserved for attractive men under sixty. “I have coconut shells for everyone!”
“You have what?” Lani asks, and yet I can already see the regret in her eyes for asking.
“Coconut bras! From the resort’s lost and found,” Ruby is quick to inform us. “Apparently, tourists abandon a lot of interesting clothing when they leave paradise, and I’ve been collecting them like some kind of tropical bra squirrel.”
Before anyone can object—and I have so many objections forming—Ruby disappears and returns with what appears to be enough coconut shells to supply a small tropical army or possibly start a very specific museum. “One size fits most,” she announces proudly, which is a lie we’re all pretending to believe.
“I’m not wearing coconut shells,” Lani says flatly, her voice suggesting this is non-negotiable.
“You’re wearing coconut shells,” Ruby insists, and judging by her tone, it’s the hill she’s willing to die on. “We all are. It’s for the good of the resort.”
“What about music?” I ask.
Someone needs to address the practical concerns beforeRuby starts forcing us into improvised tropical lingerie and we all lose what’s left of our dignity.
“We got you covered,” Shaka says, pulling a ukulele from behind his back with the drama of a magician producing a rabbit. “Loco plays, too. We’ll provide the background music to your cultural awakening.”
Loco produces his own ukulele, and when he starts strumming, the sound floats across the beach like something the evening breeze ordered specifically for this moment. Rich, warm notes that make the evening air feel electric with possibility.
“This is really happening,” I mutter, accepting a coconut bra from Ruby with resignation because my life has officially entered the realm of the surreal.
The sun begins its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and lavender that would make a sunset photographer weep with professional envy. Our handful of guests—maybe eight people total—gather on the beach as the first stars appear in the darkening sky.
Tiki torches flicker along the shoreline, their flames dancing in the tropical breeze that carries the scent of grilled fish and tropical flowers.
Lani’s feast spreads across tables draped with long, waxy ti leaves and hibiscus flowers. The kalua pig falls apart at the touch of a fork, the fresh poke glistens with sea salt and sesame oil, and the poi looks like something that actually came from taro roots instead of a package. Coconut rice steams in bamboo containers, and the dessert table groans under the weight of cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, haupia that wobbleslike edible clouds, and malasadas dusted with enough powdered sugar to create weather patterns.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce to our small but enthusiastic crowd, “welcome to the very first Coconut Cove Paradise Resort luau!”
Honestly, I don’t know if it’s the first, but it sounded like the right thing to say to drum up a little excitement.
The guests cheer with the enthusiasm of people who’ve finally found something to be excited about after days of questionable pool water and broken amenities. Even Melanie has emerged from her office cave, even though she’s wearing the expression of someone attending a funeral for her professional dignity. And maybe her soul.
“And now,” Ruby declares, having strapped herself into her coconut bra with the utmost confidence, as if she had never met a costume she couldn’t work, “traditional Hawaiian hula dancing!”
