Chapter 7
Approaching Halea Palani is like watching a natural predator in her element.
She’s examining candles with laser focus while the vendor stands there looking like he’s forgotten his own name, his mother’s name, and possibly how breathing works.
I give him thirty seconds before he offers her the entire inventory for free.
The man is so flustered, he’s probably going to propose before we even get to her.
Halea’s red dress is on point, her heels are both threats and weapons, and she glows like the island goddess she is.
Ruby leans in, and her crown slides over one eye. “If I were twenty years younger…”
“You’d still trip in those heels,” Lani says. “But go ahead and dream.”
“Ladies!” Halea calls out the moment she spots us, abandoning the vanilla-sandalwood display to embrace us as if we’re long-lost sorority sisters reuniting at a tropical mixer. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing? This island is absolutely crawling with gorgeous men!”
She gestures toward the festival crowd with the enthusiasm of a tour guide pointing out natural wonders.
“That bartender over there has excellent wrist action—very important for cocktail preparation and other recreational activities. And check out those shoulders on the surfer by the poke stand! Clearly gets his exercise from activities that require upper body strength and excellent balance.”
For some reason, I don’t think she’s talking about surfing.
“This woman has turned man-watching into a professional skill,” Ruby whispers, clearly impressed. “You are my people!”
I take a moment to frown at my redheaded bestie.
“I’m from Maui,” Halea continues, conducting a real-time demographic analysis of available male specimens, “but honestly? I’m seriously considering relocating. The male-to-female ratio here is much more promising than my current geographic situation.”
“That’s the most practical approach to romantic relocation I’ve ever heard,” Lani says. “You should write a guidebook—Hot Guys by Geographic Location: A Professional Assessment.”
Ruby gives a furtive nod. “I’d buy the very first copy.”
“You don’t need the book,” I tell her. “You could co-write it.”
“Great idea!” Ruby bounces in her flip-flops at the thought, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Why do I get the feeling that Ruby Figgins has found her protégé?
Halea winks at Ruby and bumps hips with her.
“As a wedding planner, I have to assess romantic potential in every location,” she explains with the seriousness of an anthropologist discussing mating rituals—and Ruby is hanging on every word.
“It’s market research. You can’t plan successful romantic events without understanding the local romantic ecosystem. ”
Ruby nods. “I so get you, sister.”
A rooster struts past our little gathering, offering his own opinion on the festival’s romantic potential by crowing directly at a group of tourists who immediately start taking pictures of him, and of course, he strikes a pose. Show off.
“So how did you end up planning Candy’s circus?” I ask because, on occasion, interrogation skills involve easing into topics through insults regarding my ex’s next.
“Oh, honey, she found me through Instagram. She stalked my wedding portfolio like she was planning a hostile takeover of my entire business model,” Halea laughs, delighted by the memory.
“She insisted on hiring me sight unseen. She said my aesthetic aligned with her brand vision. I think she meant I photograph well next to expensive flowers and don’t clash with her ring light setup. ”
“Very important qualifications in the influencer wedding industry,” Ruby observes solemnly.
“Please,” Halea huffs. “The woman treats her wedding like a business merger,” she continues, adjusting a necklace that catches the afternoon sunlight like a personal spotlight.
And suddenly I want to know where I can get me one of those.
“Candy is very calculating and very synthetic,” Halea is quick to toss Candy under the social media bus.
“She keeps talking about authentic Hawaiian experiences while rejecting anything actually Hawaiian as too ethnic for her audience.”
“Ah, yes,” I nod sagely, “Hawaii without the Hawaiian. She’s already covered that with me. That’s sort of like ordering a mai tai made with apple juice and calling it traditional.”
“Exactly! She wants all the visual appeal of paradise with none of the actual cultural substance. It’s like she’s planning a wedding on a movie set instead of a real island with real people and real traditions.”
A small gray cat appears from under a nearby vendor’s tent and begins investigating our shoes with the thoroughness of a customs agent, while two baby chicks dart between our feet like tiny feathered pinballs seeking adventure and possibly food crumbs.
“What about Alana?” Lani asks, having appointed herself official interrogation assistant. “She seemed...well, intense.”
Halea’s expression shifts to something that is just this side of professional restraint.
“Alana was challenging. Very controlling about the brand messaging around everything. She treated me like hired help instead of a professional consultant with actual expertise in making romantic events successful.”
“I guess she had control issues,” I say.
“She had opinions about my methods without understanding my results,” Halea corrects, her voice taking on the particular edge that professional women develop when discussing other professional women who’ve crossed far too many lines.
“She wanted everything to look Pinterest-perfect instead of functional. She confused being difficult with being thorough, which is not the same thing at all. Plus,” she adds, her smile gaining a slight edge that tells of deeper professional frustrations, “she kept interfering with my client relationship development, which was very unprofessional behavior from a business partner.”
I file this under interesting hints about motives while maintaining my expression of casual festival curiosity.
Okay, fine, I might be thinking about those malasadas again, but who could blame me?
“And what’s your professional assessment of the groom?” Ruby asks with the innocence of a prosecutor leading a witness toward inevitable self-incrimination. I hope.
Halea belts out a laugh that could be heard on neighboring islands.
“Oh, honey, that man is softer than a malasada left in the sun! All dough, no substance. He sweats more than a guilty politician at a lie detector convention, right through his expensive shirts, which is just tragic for dry cleaning bills—not that I care about his bills.”
“Not that I care either,” I mutter. “I spent far too many years trying to convince myself he had hidden depths. Turns out the only thing hidden was his spine.”
“Don’t feel too bad.” She wrinkles her nose.
“I’ve seen more sexual charisma in a bowl of poi.
Heck, the man has the romantic appeal of a wet sock.
I give it six months before Candy realizes she married a human anxiety disorder with a receding hairline and what I’m pretty sure is a gambling problem based on how he keeps checking his phone and muttering something about covering spreads. ”
“This is why we’re going to be best friends,” I announce. “You see through his pathetic charm offensive as if it’s made of cellophane.”
“What about the bride herself?” Lani asks, because apparently, we’ve appointed ourselves the festival’s unofficial character assassination committee.
Halea rolls her eyes. “That woman is so artificial she might actually run on batteries,” she shoots back without missing a beat.
“She’s smart enough to build a brand but too stupid to realize that treating people like content props might backfire spectacularly.
She’s marrying Erwin for the same reason people buy knockoff designer bags—she wants the status without paying full price for quality. ”
“What status?” I ask because I’m genuinely interested in what kind of promise Candy might see in him.
Halea shrugs. “Erwin’s paunch and receding hairline make her look that much better in photos. It’s called strategic contrast.”
I nod at the thought. “It makes perfect sense now.”
“But there’s more,” Halea wiggles her shoulders, and her boobs give a little friendly jiggle too. I think I just heard the vendor sigh at the sight.
“You’ve got some professional insight?” Ruby asks, fascinated by this level of psychological analysis.
“She’s already planning the divorce content,” Halea confides. “She’s asked me twice about post-wedding relationship evolution photo opportunities. The woman takes more selfies than a teenage influencer after getting their first like. It’s performance art at this point.”
“It sounds like it,” I say, “And if it is, she’s getting exactly what she deserves in a husband.”
“Poetic justice with a side of public humiliation,” Halea agrees cheerfully. “Very satisfying to watch from a professional distance.”
Two more roosters join our impromptu gathering, conducting their own assessment of the conversation quality, while a tortoiseshell cat with mismatched eyes claims a spot on a nearby display table, appointing herself the official witness to this character demolition session.
And with the way she’s licking her paws, I think she approves.
“What about the supporting cast?” I ask. “The sister and the mother-in-law?”
“Oh, Della is very dramatic, very... questionably musical,” Halea says with a wince.
“From what I’ve seen of her, she treats life like she’s auditioning for a Broadway show about tropical dysfunction.
So-so voice, questionable song choices. Also, questionable timing when it comes to performing ballads about betrayal at wedding events. ”
“That’s a lot of questions,” Lani points out.
“And Bertha?” I ask.