Awickedly handsome man in his fifties arrives first, and I mean handsome in the way you’d describe a sports car that’s probably going to cost you money—linen shirt perfectly casual, a gold watch that glints when he moves, and he has a presence that makes you check your posture.
He stops dead center of the veranda and takes everything in with the slow, assessing gaze of an accountant mentally calculating depreciation—the tiki torches, the faded cushions, the blinking string lights, the pools that promise tetanus and possibly new forms of microbial life.
“Charming,” he says, pulling out a phone that gleams like a small weapon. “Very committed to a theme.”
Yes, if that theme was budget cuts and broken promises.
I hand him a chi-chi, because if I’m going down, I’m going down with hospitality. “Welcome to the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. We like to think of ourselves as aggressively authentic.”
He extends a hand with a firm handshake that feels like abusiness transaction being notarized. “Nolan Nakamura. Resort consultant.”
Click. Click. Click. His camera sounds like a tiny guillotine as he documents our charming decay for what I can only assume is either a portfolio or evidence in a future lawsuit.
Before I can ask what exactly he’s consulting about, and whether it involves mercy killing the property, a petite woman appears behind him as if she materialized from the plumeria-scented air itself. She has silver-streaked hair braided with fresh flowers, warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners in a way that lets me know she smiles a lot and means it, and she’s carrying a small flower arrangement that somehow makes our sad little setup look almost festive just by existing.
“Oh, how lovely,” she says, and her voice has a genuine warmth that makes you want to confess your secrets and ask for her banana bread recipe. “Is there anything I can help with?”
Ruby bounces in her flip-flops and makes her kaftan billow. “I’m Ruby Figgins, and this is our kitchen queen, Lani. And you are?”
“Savannah Cross. I run the community garden down the road.” She sets her flowers on our makeshift bar, and suddenly the plastic cups look charming instead of pathetic. “My plumbing decided to stage a revolt this morning with a burst pipe in the kitchen, so when I heard some folks were staying here, I thought I’d join the fun instead of camping out at my neighbor’s place.”
“Oh, how awful!” Ruby exclaims with the enthusiasm of a woman who loves a good crisis story. “But how wonderful for us!”
Savannah’s smile is genuine sunshine, the kind that makesyou believe in things like community and second chances. She nods. “Sometimes the universe has better plans than we do.”
An orange cat slinks across the deck at that exact moment, followed by two more—one black, one calico—moving through the humid air like they own the place. Which, let’s be honest, they probably do at this point. The resort seems to belong more to the cats and chickens than to any actual human stakeholders.
Before anyone can respond, the unmistakable sound of designer athleisure swishing announces the arrival of our next guest. A blonde woman glides onto the veranda like she’s walking a runway.
She has her phone out already, livestreaming to the universe or at least her followers. She’s Instagram-perfect from her beach waves to her blindingly white teeth, sporting a tan that looks like it comes straight from the salon, and she’s wearing workout clothes that probably have their own trust fund.
“Good evening, island fam!” she shouts into the camera. “Coming to you live from this absolutelyinterestingHawaiian experience—” She stops mid-sentence, taking in the green pools and wilted string lights as if she just realized the photos on the website were taken in 1987. Her smile doesn’t waver, but I catch her muttering something about Wi-Fi speeds under her breath that sounds distinctly less namaste than her aesthetic suggests.
“Hi there!” Ruby bounces over with sweat already beading on her forehead in the thick evening air. “I’m Ruby. This is Lani and Jinx. Welcome to our little slice of paradise!”
“May,” the woman says, extending a perfectly manicured hand that makes my own look like I’ve been fighting raccoons. “May Leilani. I’m here for the spiritual awakening retreat thatI’m putting together for myself. Though I have to say, the energy here is very... well, let’s just say it, too, is interesting.”
She’s staring at pool number three like it might contain either the secrets of the universe or cholera. Possibly both. A rooster crows somewhere behind the kitchen, adding its commentary, and she jumps slightly, looking clearly offended by feral creatures.
“And here comes Mr. Sunshine,” Ruby whispers as footsteps thunder up the veranda steps with enthusiasm that should probably be regulated.
A man bounds into view with energy that makes me tired just looking at him. He’s Ken-doll handsome with sandy brown hair that defies humidity through what must be either excellent genetics or a pact with hair-care demons. He has sparkling green eyes and a smile that could power the resort’s failing electrical system, and in about ten minutes, it might need to. He’s wearing swim shorts and a tank top, with a tan earned the old-fashioned way—directly from the sun.
“Aloha, everyone! I’m Dane Huntington. Activities director by day and naughty activities director by night!” He laughs at his own joke, and his teeth could guide tour boats into the harbor at night, and possibly have. “Who’s ready for some exclusive island adventures?”
Before anyone can take him up on his dubious offer, an elderly couple trails behind him, wearing matching aloha shirts and expressions of barely contained horror, the kind you see on people who’ve just realized their vacation photos are going to require heavy filtering. Let’s face it, they’re not wrong. This place has lost its sparkle and shine, and given up the pretense of luxury resorts many, manymoon doggiesago. The womanclutches her husband’s arm as they navigate around a loose tile while a gray cat weaves between their legs like it’s conducting an obstacle course.
“Are the pools supposed to be that color?” the woman asks tentatively.
“Absolutely!” I say, unfolding the sun-faded brochure with a manufactured sense of pride. The paper sticks to my damp fingers in the oppressive heat. “According to this masterpiece of creative writing, Coconut Cove Paradise Resort sits on fifty acres of tropical splendor?—”
“Fifty?” Ruby snorts into her chi-chi while Lani dashes away from a minute as if she was fleeing a crime scene. “Try five. And most of that is the parking lot.”
“—featuring three pristine swimming pools—” I continue, hoping no one else picked up on her parking lot commentary.
Everyone turns to stare at the green lagoons with the collective expression of a jury that’s just seen damning evidence. A gecko skitters across the deck, fleeing the scene of a crime, followed by a small orange kitten that pounces at nothing with the fierce determination of a tiny, fuzzy assassin.
“—and gourmet dining experiences that celebrate the authentic flavors of Hawaii,” I go on, forcing my voice to convey a level of excitement that no one is buying.
