She eyes the tub in my hands as if I’m smuggling contraband. “What do the three of you think you’re doing?”
“We’re upping our hospitality game,” I say brightly.
She wastes no time in scowling at us. “More like yourchaosgame,” she growls back.
“It’s the same family of games,” Ruby says with a shrug that makes her earrings chime.
Melanie gives me the slow once-over—the kind that starts at your shoes and ends somewhere around your life choices—and lands on the paper umbrella bouquet tucked under my arm. “No comps,” she says flatly. “And smile. Remember what I said, first impressions are murder around here.”
She pivots and glides off, trailing perfume and disapproval like a particularly judgmental cloud.
Ruby leans in close enough that I can smell the plumeria in her hair. “She’s all sunshine.”
“On the inside,” Lani adds. “Under several rocks.”
We hit the veranda with its wide planks silvered by years of sun and salt and set up what we’re generously calling our welcome reception.
The brochure calls this area the Sunset Pavilion. Reality calls it a deck with twinkle lights that flicker when you breathe wrong. Though I’ll admit, the view is doing most of the heavy lifting as the ocean stretches out in front of us, looking pewter and gold in the fading light, glittering like it knows it’s the only reason any of this works. And it’s right.
Behind us, the three “sparkling pools” mirror the sky in a way that would be picturesque if you didn’t look too closely. One is taped off with a traffic cone that saysSORRYwritten with a Sharpie, which feels like a metaphor for my entire professional life. The other two look alive, but in the same way a swamp is alive—technically functioning, questionably inviting.
I crouch down to check the extension cord that’s supposed to feed the twinkle lights and immediately spot the problem. The insulation has a fresh cut, clean and deliberate. “Well, that’s helpful.”
“Here.” Lani kneels beside me and wraps electrical tape around the damage with the focus of a surgeon and the speed of a woman who has taped many, many things in her life and refuses to be surprised anymore. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t lick it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I say, only a little offended by the accusation.
“You would,” she counters.
Okay, so she’s right.
We fix the lights and restring them every which way, Ruby throws paper leis over chair backs like she’s decorating for the world’s most optimistic luau, and I start conjuring chi-chis.
Is it chi chi, chi-chi, or chichi? I decide it’s chi-chi, which matches my energy—a woman making a coconut drink with a blender that sounds like a small woodland creature in distress and possibly filing a complaint with OSHA.
“Are you sure we don’t have ice?” I ask. Apparently, I’m an optimist now.
Lani points with her spoon toward the kitchen. “The ice machine isbroken.” She makes very precise air quotes that suggest she has opinions. “Yesterday it was not broken.”
“Let me guess. A note appeared that saysDo Not Touch—Mel?”
“You are a prophet,” Lani says so deadpan I can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed in humanity.
I hunt it down anyway, because I’m nothing if not stubborn about frozen water. The machine hums smugly, plugged into nothing, and the cord is tucked behind crates as if someone is hiding evidence.
I plug it in and offer it the kind of compliments I used to reserve for temperamental printers. “That’s right, sweetheart. Be generous with me here.” And it coughs up a handful of cubes like it’s doing me a personal favor. I bring back a bowl, triumphant and possibly developing a concerning relationship with appliances.
Ruby blows me a kiss, and her rings glint in the tiki torchlight. “Bless you,” she says.
“Save the smooching for your next husband,” Lani says, reaching for the vodka with an ease that lets us know she’s weathered many events like this.
“Oh, honey,” Ruby grins, completely unbothered, “we don’t need to plan that far ahead.”
Guests begin to drift in like moths to our slightly pathetic flame. Six in total. Coconut Cove’s elite, or at least the ones who haven’t fled to a property with towels that can double as dermabrasion tools.
And just like that, it’s showtime.
CHAPTER 4
