A rooster struts past the veranda as if it’s conducting very important business, possibly related to judging the sunset’s punctuality and finding it wanting. Baby chicks peep near the kitchen door like tiny critics reviewing our hospitality skills, while their mothers cluck disapproval at the growing crowd’s lack of proper etiquette.
A parade of cats begins its evening patrol across the resort. The gray tabby with white paws leads the procession, moving with the authority of a security chief conducting rounds. A black and white tuxedo cat arrives, battle-scarred and unimpressed. Three more cats materialize from strategic hiding spots—a calico radiating serious attitude problems, a sleek black cat with judgmental green eyes, and a tortoiseshell who clearly holds middle management responsibilities in their feline organizational chart.
“The board of feline directors is convening,” Ruby observes. “Either they smell Lani’s cooking, or they’re planning a coordinated assault on the seafood station.”
“With my luck, it’s both,” I say, just as another furry cutie arrives on the scene.
And that furry cutie would be Spam.
He emerges from under the hibiscus bushes like a ginger torpedo with a mission, built like a small orange ottoman but moving like a con artist who just discovered the mark is allergic to saying no. He’s all fluff, missing half an ear, and is as round as a basketball no thanks to all the sweet treats he’s managed to manipulate us into giving him.
I scoop him up before he can launch himself at the nearest ankles because, as fate would have it, I would be that mark.
Spam immediately goes limp in my arms, purring like a diesel engine while his amber eyes radiate innocence so pure it’s obviously fraudulent. This is the same cat who orchestrated a sashimi heist last week using the tortoiseshell as lookout and the calico as distraction.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I tell him, kissing the top of his fuzzy head. His fur smells like sunshine and plumeria.
“That cat has more schemes than my fifth husband had offshore accounts,” Ruby grunts. “At least Spam’s honest about being a scoundrel.”
“That he is,” I say, setting him down, and it feels as if I’ve just let go of a twenty-pound weight.
“There you are!” Lani emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of pupus that smell like heaven decided to moonlight in the catering business. Her silver hair with lavender tips catches the tiki torch light, and flour dusts her muumuu like edible snow. “The two of you complain about paying customers like they’re a plague, but their money bought us kitchen equipment that doesn’t require last rites before each use.”
“Fair point,” I admit, snagging a piece of kalua pig that dissolves on my tongue like smoky paradise. “Their money did buy us functioning equipment. Though I still maintain the previous espresso machine was less appliance and more medieval torture device.”
Leilani “Lani” Mahelona is our kitchen queen, born and raised on Kauai. She’s been working at this resort longer than some of our palm trees have been alive, running the entire food operation through sheer stubborn competence and an impressive collection of wooden spoons she’s not afraid to use as weapons.
Across the span of our little beach, the competition setup resembles what happens when you give party planners a rum budget and tell them to go tropical. Bartenders from every resort and restaurant on the island arrange their makeshift stations as if their livelihoods depend on the angle of a lime wedge—and they just might.
Ice sculptors fuss over frozen masterpieces while garnish artists display their work—a glowing volcano carved into a watermelon, an entire tiki statue comprised of carved pineapple, and other tropical fruits that are equally carved to impress that I can’t quite identify.
The crowd includes hotel managers in aloha shirts that scream “mandatory fun,” locals in flip-flops who actually know what authentic island life looks like, and tourists clutching cameras like weapons of mass documentation. All united in their appreciation for properly crafted tropical cocktails and the opportunity to judge other people’s mixing techniques.
“Speaking of torture devices,” Ruby says cheerfully, “how is our former supreme overlord adjusting to peasant labor?”
A crash echoes from the coffee bar, followed by what sounds like someone negotiating a hostile takeover with a blender. Melanie’s voice rises above the mechanical protests, suggesting she’s having a philosophical disagreement with equipment that doesn’t appreciate her management style.
“The espresso machine has trust issues,” she growls, heading our way with milk foam decorating her perfectly pressed shirt like abstract art. “I request a double shot, it delivers what I can only describe as caffeinated disappointment. I select steamed milk, it produces something with the consistency of regret.”
“Have you tried apologizing to it?” Lani asks. “Machines respond to respect and proper maintenance.” She’s spent decades training kitchen appliances through a combination of maintenance, threats, and what I suspect might be actual prayers to the machinery gods.
“I don’t apologize to appliances,” Melanie shoots back. “That’s a slippery slope that ends with me having meaningful conversations with the ice maker.”
“The ice maker has better conversational skills than most of our guests,” I point out. It’s true. He’s been known to give me the cold shoulder, but if you keep at it, you can get a decent conversational cube or two out of him.
Two weeks ago, Melanie Luana was my boss, busy sabotaging our improvements to the resort to secure her golden parachute severance package. Now she makes lattes under my supervision, which is either cosmic justice or proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
Melanie isn’t just our resident mean girl—she just so happens to be our resident stunner with dark chestnut locks, perfectly bronzed skin, and eyes that glow as if they were backlit by demons. And well, the jury is still out on that last bit.
Spam launches himself onto a nearby table, and his paws hit the wood with surprising force because this cat has some serious mass. He immediately starts investigating a cup of ice cream someone left unattended. His whiskers twitch with interest as he assesses angles, calculating risk, determining the optimal approach for maximum cream acquisition with minimum consequences.
“Get down from there,” Melanie says, but there’s no conviction behind it. She knows as well as I do that Spam doesn’t recognize authority figures who aren’t actively holding food.
Spam ignores her completely. He dips one paw into the whipped cream, slow and measured, before examining it thoughtfully as cream drips from his toes. Then he proceeds to lick it clean with the satisfaction of a cat committing a crime they’ll absolutely repeat.
“He’s helping with quality control,” Ruby says, watching the operation with approval. “Every good business needs someone willing to taste-test the product.”
“He’s committing dairy theft,” Melanie corrects, but she’s already pulling out a small bowl from the outdoor coffee cart, adding a dollop of whipped cream to it and giving in to feline extortion like the rest of us eventually do.
