She’s more appropriately dressed for a funeral than anything that has to do with a wedding, and suddenly I want to emulate her style.
Hey? If tonight plays out like a couple of other shindigs this place has hosted, I might get front row seats to a funeral yet.
I shoot Erwin a dirty look for making me have such hostile homicidal thoughts.
Alana continues to rant about all things Hawaii as if anyone cares.
“That woman is colder than shave ice,” Ruby mutters.
“There are no truer words,” I whisper right back.
“This food is ridiculous,” Someone growls from behind, and we turn to see something ridiculous, all right. “Where is the pot roast? Where are the canned green beans?” Bertha Julep is intent on making her presence known, and she’s not happy. She rarely is. My former mother-in-law cuts through the crowd like the Titanic through a glacier with her massive purse swinging dangerously close to innocent bystanders.
“Bertha,” I say as she reaches us, and then I stop shy of adding anything else, but only because I have nothing nice to say.
“Jinx,” she replies, giving me the once-over with eyes that could strip paint. “I see you’re still not eating enough vegetables. No wonder you couldn’t keep a husband.”
“Actually, I thinkshedivorcedhim,” Ruby interjects helpfully—and trightfully, might I add.
Bertha waves this away like it’s insignificant. “Details. The point is, if she’d been a better wife instead of gallivanting around with her littlehobbies, none of this would be happening.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say with exaggerated sincerity. “My inadequate vegetable consumption drove Erwin straight into the arms of another woman—several other women. It’s all becoming clear now. Fiber was the issue.”
Bertha narrows her eyes, trying to determine if I’m being sarcastic while Ruby snorts into her mai tai.
The band stumbles into something that might be“Blue Hawaii,”if“Blue Hawaii”were being slowly strangled by ukuleles, and before anyone can intervene, Della is back at the microphone.
This night just gets better.
She adjusts the stand, flicks her dramatic dark hair, and offers the crowd a solemn nod, as if we’ve all been waiting for this moment—and apparently, in her mind, we have.
“This one’s new,” she announces, her voice hushed and sultry. “I wrote it especially for tonight.”
A ripple of unease moves through the guests.
She launches into another moody ballad about betrayal and broken hearts, complete with interpretive hand gestures and pointed, meaningful stares that seem to accuse random wedding guests of crimes they didn’t know they’d committed. The entire luau sinks into an uncomfortable silence asshe croons about“lies beneath paradise”and“secrets that poison love.”
Somewhere behind me, a glass clinks. Someone laughs nervously.
More importantly, no one stops her.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Ruby whispers.
“Sounds like an ode to my marriage,” I say.
Candy is frantically gesturing to someone—probably trying to get her sister to stop turning her perfect tropical wedding into an episode ofDays of Our Lies—but Della is in full performance mode, belting out lyrics about discovering the truth and hearts that deceive.
Erwin is eyeing a few of the bridesmaids like they were juicy steaks while Alana is typing furiously on her phone, most likely calculating how to spin this into positive social media content. At least there are two people who seem impervious to the shrieking terror among us.
Bertha sniffs. “At least someone has some talent in this family. Although the song’s a bit dramatic for pre-wedding festivities, don’t you think?”
“I think dramatic might be an understatement,” I say, watching as Della hits what I can only assume is supposed to be a high note but sounds more like a seagull in distress.
Finally,mercifully, the song ends. The crowd applauds with a polite enthusiasm usually reserved for children’s piano recitals. Della takes a bow and relinquishes the microphone to the original band, who look relieved to have their equipment back.
“Families,” Ruby says philosophically. “Can’t live with them, can’t sell them to a traveling circus.”
I’m about to agree when I glance toward the beach access and realize Halea still hasn’t taken the hint. She’s lingering far too close to Koa, positioning herself like a woman who’s decided personal space is a negotiable concept.
