The Flaming Luau of Death by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online Page A

checked out our party scene. Surreal orchid arrangements were placed everywhere. At the far side of the beach, a master sushi chef was preparing the freshest seafood into butterfly rolls to order, and a vintage bamboo bar was set on the sand nearby, the cute bartender blending outrageous fifties-style tropical drinks and pouring them into hollowed-out coconut shells and pineapples. It was all exactly as I had designed it in my office back in Hollywood. Only better. Much better.
    It seemed to be a night made for hugs. Wes came up and put his arm around my bare shoulder. “Warm enough?”
    “It’s perfect,” I said. I was wearing a gauzy black dress with spaghetti straps, but I wasn’t even chilled.
    “I love seeing you enjoy your own party,” he said, sipping something potent through a long orange straw, his nose close to the foliage atop a huge pineapple.
    “Wes, we simply have to get ourselves invited to more of our parties.” A good-looking waiter stopped by with a tray, and I was soon nibbling a large coconut-crusted shrimp.
    “The shirtless thing for the waitstaff?” Wes said, watching the server as he moved along. “That was a stroke of genius.”
    I checked out the stage. We had hired a rather large array of musical entertainment for the evening, following our general life philosophy that “more is more,” but also, when planning a long-distance luau, it’s easy to getcarried away with the variety of options. I mean, who could resist hiring a group of men called the Fire Dancers of Death?
    After the ukulele performance, four handsome beachboys had set up their island drums on the low stage. As soon as these guys began playing, beating out a passionate Polynesian rhythm, the Nichols sisters and Liz, who had been sampling from the appetizer buffet with gusto, perked right up and started bopping along—even Holly.
    “Hula lessons!” called our hostess, Keniki.
    In a heartbeat, all of us, even Wesley, were lined up behind Keniki, kicking off our sandals, waiting for instructions. Azalea retied her sarong lower on her hips. Marigold and Gladdie had stripped down to their bikinis. I’m sure the men playing the stirring island music didn’t miss a beat—but only by dint of their staggering professionalism.
    “This step is ’ami. Bend your knees like so,” Keniki said. “To the right, move your hips clockwise, see?”
    All around me hips were swiveling.
    “Good! Now, hela. Point your right foot forward, like this, and bring it back. Good. Now your left foot. Good. Okay, now huli. Rotate around, swaying your hips. Keep going all the way around.”
    The drums began to beat faster and, if possible, louder, and we all concentrated on throwing our hips around just like Keniki. Daisy, with all her yoga training, was the hands-down best at undulating her stomach, but then her identical sister, Azalea, was laughing too hard to get her stomach into motion at all. By the time Keniki finished running us through the steps for kaholo, ka’o, and lele, we were all feeling pretty proud of ourselves.
    But then she said we were ready to learn what our hands and arms should be doing. Oh, man. Hands andarms? While it was fascinating, sure, to see the graceful motions of the dance that told the story, I was not strictly confident that I yet knew my hela from my ka’o. I stepped behind Wesley, who was having no trouble keeping up with the lessons at all. The song stopped, and we all took a second to catch our breaths. Then Keniki brought out a pile of authentic hula skirts, thick with ti leaves and beautiful beading on the hip-circling belt, and told us to try them on. How cool was this?
    “Watch me,” Keniki instructed. “Hands cross at chest to show embracing love.” She demonstrated while keeping up the haholo side-to-side step in rhythm with the live music.
    I tried my best, but I was just about done in. But not Wes. Wesley was one mean hula girl, swinging his grass skirt in perfect sync with the pounding beat,