She takes off, and the band launches into what might be “Hawaiian Wedding Song,” and couples start swaying together on the torch-lit dancefloor. The scene should be romantic—with the twinkle lights reflecting off the ocean, the scent of plumeria mixing with the smoke from the barbecue, and the gentle sound of waves in the distance.
Instead, it feels like the calm before the storm.
I watch the happy couple and their entourage—a collection of egos, agendas, and bad decisions wrapped in designer clothing—circulating through the party like they own the place. Which, technically, they’re renting, so they sort of do. Candy is documenting every moment for her followers. Erwin is drinking steadily and avoiding eye contact with everyone. Alana is orchestrating photo opportunities like a drill sergeant. Della is now lurking near the stage as if she’s planning another musical ambush. Bertha is standing next to the buffet, making even the roasted pig look nervous.
I’m about to track down the hunkiest detective on the island once again when I spot Halea and Alana near the bar, and it doesn’t look friendly. Halea is gesturing sharply, her face is flushed, and her lips are moving too fast to read. Alana just stands there with her arms crossed, her expression cold and stoic. Whatever Halea is saying makes Alana’s lips curve into a smirk. Halea throws her hands up and storms toward the beach with her heels stabbing the sand with each step.
Well, that looked fun.
Less than ten minutes later, I’m arranging dessert plates—and helping myself to the haupia pudding when I spot another tussle.
It’s Candy this time. She’s backed Alana against the railing by the pool, her ring light abandoned on a nearby table. They’re far enough from the party to feel alone, but even from here, I can see Candy’s hands shaking as she talks. Alana leans in and says something curt. Candy’s face crumples, then hardens. She spins away, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a tray of mai tais.
Well, that put the bride in a good mood.
Okay, so Alana is officially making enemies faster than I can make espresso, but with this crowd? Who could blame her?
And just when I think the night couldn’t get wilder, it’s not five minutes later that I’m near the buffet refilling the pineapple platter when I hear Bertha’s voice rise above the music.
Oh my word. She and Alana are by the orchid display, and Bertha’s face has gone red as a hibiscus flower. Her hand comes up, about to slap Alana across the face.
I freeze with a pineapple chunk halfway to my mouth.
I’ll admit, having Bertha arrested on assault charges was sort of on my bingo card, but I would have bet money it would be me on the receiving end.
Time seems to stop.
Bertha catches herself with her hand trembling in mid-air. She drops it and turns on her orthopedic heel beforemarching toward the main building as if she’s fleeing a crime scene.
Alana watches her go with that same satisfied smirk playing on her lips that she’s been wearing all night.
Sweet baby coconuts, what did that woman say to make Bertha almost slap her all the way back to the mainland?
Whatever it was, it landed exactly where Alana wanted it to. I’m about to head over and ask Alana how her night is going, but before I can get to her, Candy’s sister, Della, crosses paths with the women and, lo and behold, she too seems to be having words with the woman.
Della gestures wildly at Alana before disappearing into the night as the luau rages all around us.
“What a night,” I muse to myself, and evidently to Spam, who’s licking his hind end next to my feet.
“I need to find Koa.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I need to...vent. And possibly kiss him until my lips fall off.”
I head toward the south side of the beach, where it’s quieter and darker, away from the chaos of the luau. The moon is dancing across the ocean like scattered diamonds, and the sound of the waves is infinitely more soothing than whatever the band is doing.
I pull out my phone and text the hottest detective on Kauai.
Meet me at the south side of the beach. My lips are lonely and need someone to appreciate the moonlight with. Also, I may need to complain about cultural appropriation and spray tans. Bring yourself and maybe your handcuffs. I’m in the mood for a distraction.
I hit send and cringe. That was far too desperate, even for me.
Oh, who cares.
Between the mai tais and the stress of hosting my ex-husband’s latest nuptial disaster to a living Instagram filter, I’m entitled to a little romantic moonlight therapy.
I sigh as I look out at the water. The beach is beautiful here with its silver sand stretching toward dark waters as the palm trees sway in the balmy breeze. It should be peaceful. Romantic, even. And yet I can’t shake this feeling of foreboding settling over me.
That’s it, I’m going to track down Koa myself. And just as I turn to head for the luau my foot hitches on something hard, and I go sprawling face-first into the sand.
“What the—” I push myself up, spitting out sand and seaweed, before turning to see what obstacle tried to end my life, and to my horror, I see a face staring back at me.
