Chapter Seven
His assistant, Jessica, sat in her usual spot with her tablet, already color-coding the agenda.
Kai, the front desk manager, nursed a coffee that looked more milk than anything.
Malia from housekeeping had a neat stack of notes and a pen lined up with military precision.
Chef Lani sprawled in her chair at the far end like she owned the table, chef coat unbuttoned at the throat, dark hair twisted up in a messy knot.
David, head of food and beverage, tapped a pen against a legal pad, eyes on the glass wall that looked out over the lobby.
The only empty chair was at Everett’s right.
“He getting used to island time already?” Chef commented.
Jessica spoke without looking up. “He texted at eight fifty-eight. ‘Be there shortly, Don’t start without me.’” Her mouth tightened. “His capitalization, not mine.”
Everett kept quiet. Being late to the first meeting wasn’t a good look, but he knew shit happened. “We’ll give him a few more minutes, then we start.”
The door finally opened at ten past nine. Matthew Cole walked in like he wasn’t late at all. Like everyone else had simply been early as a favor to him.
He was older than Everett by at least fifteen years, maybe closer to twenty.
Silver hair, cut sharp enough to match the ironed lines of his navy suit.
His tie was a muted burgundy and probably cost more than the average airline ticket.
The years hadn’t gone soft on him—he seemed fit.
He gave a faint, polite smile, and Everett already knew it could cut as easily as it could charm.
“Apologies,” Matthew said, dropping his leather portfolio on the table and taking the empty chair without really looking at anyone. “Waikiki traffic.”
Malia gave the tiniest huff. Everett pretended not to hear it.
“No problem,” Everett said easily, taking his seat. “Everyone, this is Matthew Cole. He’ll be stepping into the GM role after opening. The plan is for him to shadow the next few weeks, get to know the property, the team, and the way we’re doing things here.”
Matthew finally gave the room his attention, gaze sweeping over each person in turn. It was polite, assessing, the sort of inventory a man did with spreadsheets and staff. “Looking forward to working with all of you,” he said.
Everett clicked a remote and a slide flashed onto the screen at the end of the room—a clean layout of the Purity Waikiki mission and core pillars. An image of the lobby glowed in the background, all monkeypod floors and lauhala mats and green wall.
“All right,” Everett began. “We’re three weeks out from soft opening. Today, I want to focus on two things: guest experience during opening month, and our local partnerships. We’re not just opening another luxury property. We’re opening a property that has to belong here, or it’ll fail.”
Jessica tapped her stylus. “We’ll start with local partnerships,” she said, sliding the agenda forward on the screen.
“We’ve already committed five percent of net profits to the Hōkū Foundation for reef restoration.
Staff volunteer days are on the calendar.
” She moved to the next bullet. “We also have proposals from local artisans for lobby retail and from three community groups for cultural programming in the atrium.”
“Cultural programming?” Matthew repeated, voice as mild as his expression. “Such as?”
“Traditional hula performances,” Jessica said. “Lei-making workshops. We’re talking to an elder from the community who does story circles about island history.”
“Once a week,” Everett added. “Short, intentional, booked through concierge so it’s manageable.”
Matthew nodded slowly. “Of course. Carefully curated authenticity. Always good for the brand.”
Something in the way he said authenticity scratched under Everett’s skin. He let it go—for now. “Chef,” Everett said. “Can you walk us through where we are with sourcing?”
Chef Lani lit up. “We’re in good shape. We’ve got contracts with three local farms on the windward side for greens and fruit. Fish will be straight off the pier as much as possible. I’m still wrestling with supply on beef, but we’ve locked in locally raised for our signature dishes.”
“Meaning what percentage of our menu is local?” Matthew asked, flipping open his portfolio. His notes were in tight, slanted handwriting; Everett didn’t miss that.
“Right now?” Lani drummed her fingers on the table. “About sixty, maybe sixty-five percent. For opening, we should hit seventy.”
“Seventy.” Matthew repeated the number like it was an interesting insect under glass. “And imported?”
“Supplemental,” she said. “Some specialty cheeses, certain wines, a few proteins we can’t get here reliably.”
Matthew leaned back, steepling his fingers.
“I understand the sustainability angle. Headquarters is very pleased with the marketing around it. But we do have to remember our guest base is used to a certain level of choice. If a platinum-tier guest wants Chilean sea bass or Japanese A5 Wagyu, they’re not going to appreciate a lecture about local food suppliers. ”
Lani’s jaw ticked. “Plenty of ways to impress without serving them a cow that’s seen more frequent-flier miles than they have.”
David cleared his throat, glancing at Everett. “We’ve been working on language for the menus,” he said. “Highlighting the story of each dish, the farms, the fishers. It’s selling very well in test groups. People like feeling good about what they’re eating.”
“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “as long as they’re eating what they want, when they want it. Let’s not forget that part.”
The room went quiet for a beat. Everett could feel every set of eyes slide his way.
He kept his tone even. “No one is suggesting we punish guests,” he said.
“We’re adding a layer, not taking away. We offer a steak, we just change whose cow we’re serving.
We’re not removing choice—we’re redefining what luxury looks like here. ”
Matthew’s smile smoothed. “Of course,” he said. “You’ve done excellent work, Everett. I’m only thinking ahead. Once you’re back in New York, these will be the pressure points we hear about. It’s easier to adjust before habits are formed.”
“Good thing I’ll still be here through full opening,” Everett said pleasantly. “We’ll have plenty of time to watch the numbers together. If guests are unhappy, we’ll see it in comps and return rates.”
Jessica’s stylus hovered for a second, then scratched again. Malia’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Everett let the moment breathe, then shifted gears.
“Housekeeping,” he said. “Malia, tell us about the refill program.”
Her expression brightened. “We’re ready to roll. No single-use plastic anywhere. We’ve got refill stations on every floor—filtered water, still and sparkling. In rooms, we’re using glass carafes and branded metal bottles. Bathroom product is in ceramic dispensers we had made by a local potter.”
Kai jumped in. “Guests so far love the bottles,” he said. “We tested them with our soft-soft open group last week. They’re already posting them on social. We had three people ask where they could buy extras.”
“Gift shop opportunity,” Jessica said, flagging it.
Matthew tapped his pen once against the table. “And the bottled water contracts we had in place?”
“Phased out,” Everett said. “We’ll honor the last shipment, then we’re done. We ran the numbers. What we save on shipping and storage goes straight into the refill program and guest amenities. Net neutral within six months.”
Matthew tilted his head. “Again, I’m playing devil’s advocate here. We get a lot of guests who travel with expectations. They like to see certain brands. They trust them. We may get pushback.”
“Then we train staff to explain why we’re doing it,” Malia said quietly. “We’re still offering water. More, actually. Just without putting more plastic into the ocean we’re marketing in the brochure.”
The table went still. Everett watched Matthew take her in—small, sturdy, dark hair braided back, eyes steady. She wasn’t challenging him; she was stating a fact.
“Housekeeping has spoken,” David said lightly, breaking the tension. A few people chuckled.
Everett leaned into that little crack of humor. “Our guests are smart,” he said. “They picked this property over others because they liked what Purity stands for. If we can’t stand behind it when someone asks why there isn’t a plastic bottle by the bed, then we’ve already lost.”
Matthew’s gaze met his. Something measured passed between them. Not open hostility. But not agreement, either.
“Understood,” Matthew said finally. “I’ll want to review the talking points before we finalize staff training. If we’re going to lean into the eco angle, it needs to be consistent across all departments.”
“Happy to,” Everett said. “Consistency’s the whole point.”
They moved on. Discussion shifted to valet logistics, shuttle schedules for staff, the trial run of a local musician rotation in the lobby. Jessica kept them on track with quiet efficiency, redirecting when conversation threatened to spiral, logging action items with time stamps.
Matthew stayed engaged, asked sharp questions, offered thoughtful suggestions on yield management and VIP handling that Everett had to admit were solid. He wasn’t a hack—headquarters had handpicked him for a reason. He knew Purity. He just didn’t, yet, seem to know this place.
When Kai floated an idea about inviting local schoolkids for a behind-the-scenes tour of the hotel’s sustainability features—“Like a field trip, yeah? Show them the solar and the water system, make it fun”—Matthew’s pen paused halfway down the page.
“And what do we gain?” he asked.
Kai blinked. “Uh . . . goodwill? Future staff? Kids talk. Their parents talk . . .”
“Community trust,” Everett added. “The Hōkū Foundation’s already offered to send an educator to co-lead. They’re excited. And we owe people transparency about how we’re using the land.”