The evening progresses from a civilized family dinner to a tropical variety show faster than you can sayanother round of haupia, and I’m starting to suspect that Linda Hale has been conducting a comprehensive evaluation of my worthiness as potential daughter-in-law material. The woman isn’t afraid of getting straight to the point.
“So, Jinx,” Linda says, refilling my plate with enough kalua pig to feed a construction crew after Koa and I braved our way back into the fold, “tell me about your family. Any experience with large gatherings? Multiple generations? Coordinated chaos management?”
“Well, funny you should ask,” I say, accepting what appears to be my fourth helping of food despite the fact that I stopped being hungry approximately two plates ago, “my ex-husband’s family considered it a large gathering if more than four people showed up, and their idea of coordinated chaos was arguing about whether to order pizza or Chinese takeout. He’s here on the island about to get remarried.” I throw in that last bit in the event she thinks I’m missing that horrific time in my life.
“Hmm.” Linda’s expression suggests she’s filing this underPromising Signs of Improvement Over Previous Romantic Disasters.
“My own family believes that emotional expression should be limited to passive-aggressive holiday cards and the occasional pointed comment about life choices,” I continue, because I’ve committed to this comprehensive personal history revelation. “This level of actual affection and food abundance is basically like discovering a new planet.” True as gospel. My mother isn’t much of a cook, and newsflash—neither am I.
Linda nods approvingly. “Good. I’m wary of people who come from families that hug too much right away. I’m not sure they understand the value of earning it.”
A cat materializes at my feet—a sleek tortoiseshell with eyes like amber jewels and a confidence that lets me know she’s been appointed official family gathering supervisor. She settles beside my chair and just like that, she’s become my emotional support feline—much like Ruby and Lani aremy emotional support besties. Although they’re off dancing with a couple of hot uncles at the moment, while Koa is off having what looks like a stern talking-to with his brothers.
“That’s Princess,” Linda nods to the kitten sniffing my ankles. “She’s been with the family longer than most of the humans. And she’s an excellent judge of character.”
Princess fixes me with a stare that feels like a psychological evaluation conducted by a cat with advanced degrees in human behavior assessment. After approximately thirty seconds of intense scrutiny, she begins purring and rubbing up against my legs, having reached a favorable verdict. I hope.
“It looks like you’ve got a friend for life,” Linda says with a warm laugh. “Princess hasn’t approved of any of Koa’s previous girlfriends. She once hissed at his ex-wife for six straight months.”
“It sounds like she’s perceptive,” I say. Most cats are.
Ukulele music drifts across the compound as uncles, aunts, and cousins hit the dance floor in a mob while one aunt in particular starts warming up her voice with vocal exercises that suggest we’re about to witness a musical performance that I’m hoping won’t require audience participation.
Ruby appears beside our table, out of breath and with a laugh caught in her throat. She’s somehow acquired a flower crown that makes her look like a tropical fairy godmother, and she’s still swaying to music that seems to be getting louder by the second.
“Ladies!” she calls out. “The entertainment portion of our evening has arrived! And I’m here to let you know I’m about to dance with every single uncle on this property,” she finishes cheerfully, and I’m starting to wonder how many cocktails she’s had. Not that she hasn’t set her sights high when it comes to the opposite gender when she’s sober. “Starting with that distinguished gentleman over there who’s been giving me the eye all evening.”
She points toward a man in his seventies with silver hair, a mischievous grin, and a charm that attracts Ruby like a magnet attracts metal shards. He’s wearing an aloha shirt that features surfing pineapples and has a confident posture that lets us know he’s been breaking hearts across the Pacific for decades.
“He looks very nice,” I tell her.
“He looks like my next husband,” she shoots back.
Linda laughs at the thought. “Well, you might have to wait in line. He’s married. And he has been for fifty-three years.”
Lani pops up and tries to wrangle Ruby. “It looks like lucky thirteen isn’t meant to be. Why don’t we hit the dessert table again?”
“Not when my feet are looking to move and groove,” Ruby untangles herself from Lani’s grasp. “I think I just found my next victim.” She charges off to a totem pole with three heads stacked in on top of one another and gives it a firm embrace.
“Oh geez,” Lani moans. “You’ll have to excuse her. Thosepiña coladas went straight to her head.” She starts to take off. “Would you get back here? He’s not husband material either!”
“I’m not proposing marriage,” Ruby shouts. “I’m proposing a dance. There’s a significant difference in commitment level and legal implications.”
Koa and his father materialize beside us, and soon Linda and I are on our feet.
“How about it, Jinx?” Koa offers me his hand with a smile that could melt glaciers or convince women to attempt coordinated movement in front of his entire extended family. “Let’s see if you can dance as well as you can find trouble.”
“I should warn you,” I say, accepting his hand despite my better judgment, “my dancing has been compared to a flamingo having a seizure. And that was on a good day.”
Koa and I have danced before—slow danced while locked in one another’s arms, while our lips did all the moving—and by moving, I mean smooching.
“Perfect,” he says, leading me toward the makeshift dance floor, already congested with varying degrees of coordination. “You’ll fit right in.”
Thankfully, dancing begins as a civilized affair—couples moving together in a gentle sway that requires minimal skill and maximum romantic intention. Koa proves to be an excellent dance partner, guiding me through simple moves while the balmy breeze carries the smoky barbecue and the sound of family laughter across the grounds.
Ruby, meanwhile, has somehow convinced one of Koa’suncles that dancing with her constitutes cultural exchange rather than marital transgression. They’re performing what can only be described as a hula-salsa fusion that defies gravity and possibly some marriage vows. The uncle’s wife watches from the sidelines, looking as if she’s calculating whether intervention is required or if she should just enjoy the show.
“Ruby has impressive dance moves,” Koa observes, spinning me carefully as Ruby dips the uncle with all the drama required for someone auditioning for “Dancing with the Stars: Tropical Edition.”
