Chapter 4
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 a business 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 makes you 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 absolutely interesting Hawaiian 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 that I’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, many moon doggies ago.
The woman clutches 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.
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 the retirement you 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 word no. “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, why don’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.