Chapter 11
Hawaiian family gatherings require skills I don’t possess, such as grace under pressure, tactful conversation, and the ability to survive a poultry assault.
The evening progresses from a civilized family dinner to a tropical variety show faster than you can say another 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 under Promising 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 are my 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. Those pina 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’s uncles 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.”
“Ruby has never met a dance floor she couldn’t conquer,” I say, trying not to trip over my own feet as we navigate a turn. “Or a family gathering she couldn’t scandalize.”
The music shifts to something more upbeat, and suddenly the dancing becomes less romantic swaying and more coordinated chaos, requiring actual skill.
Couples begin attempting moves that look like they require degrees in anatomy, while children dart between our legs like sugar-fueled obstacles in an already complicated navigation situation.
“Follow my lead,” Koa says, deciding this is the perfect moment to test my ability to process complex instructions while not falling down.
“That’s optimistic,” I reply, but I gamely attempt to follow his movements as he guides me through what might be actual hula moves or might be elaborate interpretive dance about the lifecycle of tropical fruit.
Everything goes smoothly until the moment when nature decides to provide its own entertainment in the form of a rooster with attitude problems and a cat with poor timing.
The rooster—a magnificent red specimen with feathers that catch the string lights like copper fire—takes offense to Princess the feisty feline walking too close to what he considers his personal territory near the dessert table.
He launches into full attack mode with his wings spread, and makes sounds that could wake the dead across three time zones.
Princess, being a cat with excellent survival instincts and zero tolerance for poultry-based aggression, bolts across the dance area like a furry lightning bolt seeking refuge.
The rooster follows in hot pursuit, committed to this territorial dispute regardless of the innocent bystanders in the flight path.
In fact, Koa and I seem to be standing right in their direct line of fire.
“Geez,” we shout in unison as we jump apart like a couple of teenagers caught necking on the front porch.
And while I try to sidestep the incoming wildlife drama while maintaining some semblance of dance coordination, my feet tangle in a way that defies both gravity and good judgment.
I windmill backward with my arms flailing like a person attempting to fly through sheer determination, heading straight toward the buffet table with the inevitability of a tropical storm making landfall.
“Jinx, look out!” both Lani and Ruby shout from somewhere behind me, but I can’t seem to stop the inertia taking over my body.
Koa tries to snatch me by the arm, but I’ve already skittered off, and soon an entire wall of bodies fills in between us.
A giant poi bowl—a massive wooden vessel filled with enough of the traditional Hawaiian staple to feed half the island—sits directly in my trajectory like Murphy’s Law decided to take physical form.
“Jinx,” Koa shouts as he fights his way through the crowd, but it’s too late. All I see is purple.
I land face-first in the poi with a splash that sends the traditional Hawaiian treat flying in every direction, covering myself, the table, and approximately sixty family members in what looks like edible lavender cement.
The impact creates a poi explosion that would make volcanic eruptions look understated, while I sit in the bowl like a very surprised tourist who’s just been baptized in the island cuisine.
I do my best to extract myself from the mess, causing the table to tip over, and it sends the bowl into the night sky.
The rooster, satisfied that he’s successfully defended his territory through strategic chaos deployment, struts away like a victor claiming his spoils. Princess emerges from under a chair with her tail swishing with satisfaction, because she just proved that humans are fundamentally ridiculous.
The poi bowl flips mid-air, and in an effort not to be bonked on the head with it, I trip over my own feet yet again. It lands on the ground with a thud, and I land right in it with my bottom planted in the leftover squishy gruel.
For a moment, silence blankets the compound just like the poi is blanketing everything within a six-foot radius of the dessert table. Every eye zeroes in on me sitting on ground zero, covered in purple poi like some kind of cursed dessert.
Koa and his mother land before me at the very same time.
“Jinx,” Koa huffs in horror as he tries to take it all in.
But his mother has a very different reaction. Linda Hale begins to laugh—a deep, genuine laughter that comes from someone who’s just witnessed the most perfect introduction to family chaos in Hawaiian history. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Oh, Jinx, I’m sorry,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes while the crowd gathers, most of which have their phones poised my way, “I guess we know you’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty.”
“Or her entire body,” Ruby adds helpfully.
Koa extends a hand my way. “Let’s get you out of there.”
“I think we’re going to need a ladder,” I say, as my fingers slip through his. “And possibly a hazmat shower.”
“This is perfect!” Ruby announces while wrapped around one of the uncles like a tropical vine. “You’ve been officially initiated into the family through traditional food immersion!”
“Is that a real tradition?” I ask, as Koa finally manages to extract me from my poi prison.
“It is now,” Linda declares with the authority of a woman who makes family traditions on the spot. “Anyone brave enough to take a poi bath while being chased by livestock is officially ohana.”
The crowd cheers. Koa offers me a peck on the lips, and judging by the smile he’s fighting, I can tell he’s more than amused.
The cleanup process involves garden hoses, industrial-strength soap, and enough laughter and screams to power the twinkle lights.
By the time I’m mostly poi-free and wearing a borrowed muumuu that makes me look like a walking tropical garden, the family has already started planning my official adoption ceremony and discussing whether the poi bowl should be retired as a family heirloom. I vote yes.
Koa and I say goodnight to one and all, with his father and mother offering up hugs to both of us just before we can make a break for it.
“So,” I turn to Linda as the chickens pick through the carnage, “do I get a second chance or is this it?”
Linda looks at me with an assessment that suggests she’s reached a final verdict after extensive deliberation. “Honey, any woman who can survive poi immersion, poultry attacks, and hit the dancefloor like you did while still smiling is exactly what this family needs.”
She pauses, watching as Koa attempts to brush the poi from my hair. “Besides, I’ve never seen my son look at anyone the way he’s looking at you right now.”
“Like I’m covered in traditional Hawaiian food and need professional intervention?”
“Like you’re exactly where you belong,” she says, and the way she smiles suggests I’ve just passed the most important test of my life.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the poi cleanup area, announcing his approval of this romantic development to the entire island.
The stars twinkle over the grounds as if they’re celebrating the fact that sometimes, the best way to join a family is to fall face-first into their food while being chased by their livestock.
In Hawaii, that’s not just acceptance—that’s becoming a legend.