The sound of chattering female voices drew my attention. “Talk about hanging loose. I think the entertainment just arrived.”
The eyes of every man in the place veered to the five bronzed beauties moving through the restaurant. Their fluid grace was either hereditary or acquired through years of hula lessons. The women ranged in size from a five-foot tall gal whose dark hair flowed past her knees, to a lithe dancer whose coconut-shell bra struggled to contain her mammary exuberance, to a woman on the far side of middle age and middle girth. A wreath of woven green ti leaves perched on each dancer’s head.
The female leading the procession, who seemed to be drawing the majority of male attention, was Keiki, a server at the restaurant. Keiki performed in their Saturday night shows and on special occasions such as tonight’s reception. Her facial features were exotic perfection as was her Hawaiian Barbie body.
The last dancer to climb on the stage also wore a matching sarong and coconut bra, although his shells dangled limply above his skinny waist. What was my friend and Hangtown Bank co-worker, Stan Winters, doing among all of these women?
Liz burst out laughing at my surprise in seeing our gay friend’s insertion in the troupe. “You know Stan. He’s never met a stage he didn’t want to perform on. At least he’s not wearing his Zorro outfit and dancing the Argentine tango.”
Brian and Dave joined us at our large table, which overlooked the crashing surf far below. The bride welcomed her groom with a lusty kiss. My brother sat down and directed his gaze to the dancers on the small stage. As the owner of the restaurant, Dave obviously wanted to ensure every part of Liz’s reception was perfect, even the entertainment.
My mother appeared behind me, her smile as wide as the Pacific Ocean that normally separated Dave from the rest of the family. Ten years ago, Dave had moved from the foothills east of Sacramento where we all lived, to Hawaii. Our reunion s were infrequent and always far too short.
My mother, the former Barbara Bingham had recently wed Robert Bradford, a retired detective. Despite my initial misgivings about my widowed mother getting involved with the man who’d been determined to prove I was killing off my dates, true love won out. I now couldn’t be happier they’d found one another. It helped that my teenage daughter, Jenna, and seven-year-old son, Ben, adored their new grandfather. He’d agreed to babysit them while my mother and I attended Liz and Brian’s island wedding.
“I’ve been looking forward to this show,” Mother said. “Maybe I can pick up a few tips and perform a private hula for Robert when I return home.” She giggled and attempted to roll her hips, proving once again that the two of us are related and that Hawaiian hip rolling is not in our DNA.
I loved that my tall, elegant sixty-two-year-old mother wasn’t as uptight as she used to be, but remarks like that made me want to stick my fingers in my ears.
Keiki grasped the microphone. Her sultry voice sounded as seductive as her body looked. She introduced the dancers and congratulated the bride and groom. “Tonight we will perform several dances for you. By special request,” she turned and winked at Stan, “our first number is the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song.’” Stan bowed and his wreath slipped onto the stage. He plopped it back on his head where it hung over his left ear.
Three musicians in Hawaiian shirts and khakis strummed their guitars and ukuleles as the dancers began to move. The five women moved as one to the sensuous rhythm. The youngest musician couldn’t keep his eyes off Keiki. Although all the women were graceful, she shone like the star she clearly was.
Stan moved like no other Polynesian dancer, sort of a cross between Derek Hough from Dancing with the Stars, and MC Hammer, the father of hip-hop. Despite Stan’s wild gyrations, when the song ended, I teared up all over again. Just like I’d done earlier at the ceremony.
When a huge round of applause erupted, I worried Stan might plan on becoming a permanent fixture with the troupe, but Dave strode on to the stage, thanked him, and gently shoved him in the direction of the stairs. Stan nimbly hopped down and dragged a bamboo-backed chair over to our table, squeezing in between Liz and me.
One of the servers stopped to take our drink order. “Would you like another daiquiri?” she asked. I nodded and she turned to Stan.
“I’m thinking of going with a Tropical Itch,” he said.
I stared at him. “Is that a drink or a disease?”
“Ha, ha. Fruit juice, rum, vodka, and a backscratcher. You can’t beat that combination,” Stan replied. “Although maybe I should hold off in case they want me to perform an encore.”