Chapter 3
The Love in Paradise Luau is in full swing, and I’m wondering if it’s too late to fake my own death and assume a new identity in the witness protection program.
The tiki torches are blazing, the trade winds are doing their best to turn my hair into a tropical storm warning, and somewhere in the distance, the hired cover band is murdering every classic Hawaiian song ever written with what they’re generously calling a contemporary twist.
I grab another mai tai from a passing server and steel myself for mingling with the enemy. Time to work the crowd and pretend I’m delighted to be hosting my ex-husband’s wedding to a woman who makes Barbie look intellectually complex.
“Jinx!” Candy practically launches herself at me, ring light in one hand, phone in the other, it defies human anatomy. “This is absolutely perfect! The ambiance, the Hawaiian vibes—my followers are going to die to see this!”
“Let’s hope nobody actually dies,” I say. “But I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Enjoying myself? I’m living my best life!” She spins in a circle, her glittery dress catching the tiki torch flames like it’s having an anxiety attack. “This is exactly the kind of magical island energy I want to share with my two million followers!”
At this point, I should turn the words two million followers into a drinking game. And on that note, I drain my mai tai.
I’m saved from responding by Erwin approaching with his trademark nervous shuffle, sweat beading on his forehead despite the evening breeze. I hope the humidity finishes him off.
“Jinx,” he says, raising his mai tai with a smug little smile. “I have to say, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. Although I suppose when you’re desperate for bookings, you’ll take any event that comes along.”
“How thoughtful of you to notice,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I’m so glad my business struggles amuse you.”
“Oh, come on,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself.
“You have to admit, it’s ironic. Me getting married at your little.
.. what do you call this place again? Paradise resort?
” He chuckles as if he’s made the world’s funniest joke.
“I mean, if you’d put this much effort into our marriage, maybe things would have turned out differently. ”
I gasp and draw back my fist in an effort to deck him.
“Now don’t get frisky—” he starts, but Candy grabs his arm before he can finish.
“Baby, we need to get some golden hour shots before the lighting changes.” She pulls him toward the beach with that ridiculous light of hers held high like a beacon of influencer desperation.
“Someone should put that poor man out of his misery,” Ruby says, appearing at my side with a plate piled high with coconut shrimp deep-fried to perfection. “He looks like he’s attending his own execution.”
She’s lying to make me feel better. And I’m sure if Lani wasn’t running herself ragged with the rest of the kitchen staff, tending to the extravagant buffet, she would lie to my face, too. Ruby and Lani really are the best friends a girl could ask for.
“Maybe he is attending his own execution,” I say, watching them pose against the sunset while Alana directs the photo shoot with the aggression of a perfectionist having a breakdown.
And I have a feeling it’s the first of many breakdowns to come—the bulk of which will be mine.
Speaking of Alana, she turns and lectures one of the servers about the cultural relevance of the tiki torches.
“We need to ensure the aesthetic reads as luxurious tropical paradise, not anthropological museum,” she says with her clipboard in hand, her designer sunglasses perched on her head despite the dimming light. Her short dark hair is slicked back, and she’s clad in black yet again for the festivities.
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 think she divorced him,” 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 little hobbies, 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 as she 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 of Days 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.
Her scarlet dress is doing absolutely nothing to help matters, and she’s angled herself just enough that anyone within a ten-foot radius can’t help but notice.
Koa, to his credit, remains professionally immobile—hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s guarding a perimeter instead of fending off an advance.
Halea leans in again, speaking low, one manicured finger tracing an entirely unnecessary path along his chest as if she’s making a point only she understands. His jaw tightens, and thankfully he doesn’t seem to be reacting otherwise.
Nevertheless, I grind my teeth at the sight.
She’s not flirting anymore. She’s conducting a siege.
“Oh, this should be good,” Ruby says, following my gaze.
“I don’t see anything good about it.”
We watch as Halea presses her lips to his ear and whispers something that makes him look like he’s calculating the distance to the next island. Her laugh carries across the sand—a throaty sound that can be heard in Poipu.
“I’m going to throw myself into the ocean,” I mutter. “And I’m talking about the deep end.”
“Your jealousy is showing again,” Ruby points out, stealing another shrimp from her plate.
“I’m not jealous. I’m sick to my stomach.”
“Same thing in this case,” she replies, watching as Halea somehow manages to stand even closer to Koa without technically climbing him like a tree. Yet.
I force myself to look away and nearly collide with Alana, who’s appeared beside us with the silent efficiency of a corporate assassin.
“Ms. Jewel,” she says, her smile as warm as a glacier in January. “I wanted to discuss some adjustments to the cultural elements for tomorrow’s ceremony.”