Lani emerges from the kitchen at that exact moment carrying a tray of crackers topped with cheese that might be illegal in twelve states and possibly wanted for questioning in three more. “Behold, the authentic flavor of cheese that expired during the Clinton administration. Possibly the first one.”
“Budget constraints?” Nolan asks, sounding amused in the way rich people do when poverty is theoretical.
“Mr. X, the owner, doesn’t exactly give me a generous food allowance,” Lani mutters. “His idea of celebrating island simplicity means cheap and barely edible.”
Nolan chuckles, but there’s something calculating in those dark eyes, the look of a man running numbers while pretending to make small talk. “You know, this property has incredible potential. With the right development strategy?—”
“Development?” Savannah’s voice sharpens slightly. She keeps smiling, even though it looks like she’d rather be throwing something.
The temperature seems to rise another degree, which shouldn’t be possible. Sweat trickles down my back as the conversation takes a turn toward dangerous territory.
“Oh yes,” Nolan says, warming to his topic like a shark that’s just caught the scent of blood in the water. “Imagine luxury condominiums with ocean views. A spa. Perhaps a golf course where the old community garden sits. This area is prime beachfront real estate just going to waste on vegetables and good intentions.”
The air grows heavy, and it has nothing to do with the humidity anymore. Even the palm fronds seem to stop rustling, as if the island itself is holding its breath.
“That garden,” Savannah says quietly, her fingers tightening around the flower arrangement in her hands until I worry she’s about to juice them, “has been teaching our people to grow food for thirty years.”
“A development there would disrupt the natural energy flow of the land,” May adds with her phone still recording. “Some spaces are sacred, you know?”
Dane is still smiling like a loon, though his eyes dart between the guests like he’s calculating damage control and coming up empty. “Maybe we could find a way to incorporate both visions? Exclusive garden tours for resort guests? Farm-to-table experiences? Think of the money you could make off the tourists alone!”
A rooster lets out an ear-splitting crow from somewhere behind the kitchen, and three more cats materialize from the shadows, summoned by the rising tension.
Ruby bristles and her earrings jangle ominously in a way that suggest an incoming storm. “Husband number four was a developer,” she’s quick to break the silence. “It turned out, he was also a snake oil salesman and a bigamist. I should have seen the pattern earlier, but hindsight’s twenty-twenty, and I was distracted by his cheekbones.”
“The pattern being what?” Nolan asks, amused.
“Men in expensive shirts making promises they can’t keep while destroying things that matter,” she shoots right back.
The heat presses down on us like a weight. I can feel my shirt sticking to my back, and everyone’s starting to look a little wilted around the edges, makeup melting, hair deflating, the general appearance of people who are one degree away from mutiny, or insanity.
Nolan steps closer to Savannah. “Ms. Cross,” his voice dropping to a whisper that still carries in the thick air because sound works differently when you’re being a villain, “surely someone in your position understands the value of progress. That garden of yours is prime beachfront real estate. Think of what you could do with the proceeds. Think of theretirementyou could fund for yourself.”
Savannah’s knuckles go white as she continues to strangle her flowers. “Some things aren’t for sale, Mr. Nakamura.”
“Everything is for sale,” he says smoothly in a way that alerts me to the fact he’s never accepted the wordno. “It’s just a matter of finding the right price. Or the right motivation.”
Before Savannah can respond—and based on her expression, the response was going to be memorable—May materializes beside them with her phone thrust out like a shield or possibly a weapon.
“And some people are exactly what’s wrong with this world,” she says. “You come here, you see dollar signs instead of sacred spaces, you?—”
“Sacred spaces?” Nolan laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just sharp edges. “Ms. Leilani, from what I understand, you’re about as local as I am. Didn’t you flee California after some... unfortunate incident? Something about wellness products and false advertising? An accident that proved to be fatal?”
May’s perfect composure cracks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.” His smile turns predatory in a way that makes me want to check for exits. “Amazing what shows up in public records these days. The internet really is a miracle, isn’t it?”
Dane bounces over with determination as if he’s trying to prevent bloodshed through sheer force of enthusiasm. “Hey now, why don’t we all cool down? Maybe grab some fresh air by the?—”
“Actually, Dane,” Nolan interrupts with a casual cruelty, as if he enjoys this. “Since we’re all being so honest tonight, whydon’t you tell everyone about your creative accounting methods? Those exclusive tours you’ve been running on the side?”
Dane’s smile finally falters, and it’s like watching the sun go out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The skimming from activity fees?” Nolan continues. “The side business using resort equipment? Should I keep going, or would you like to fill in the details yourself?”
Wow, this guy seems to have the dirt on everyone. A part of me wonders if I’m next. Not that I have any dirt other than Kauai’s own red dirt that I seem to have donned like a second skin.
But if I didn’t know better, I’d swear this guy is gunning for trouble.
