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of course. And I imagine a few of Brad’s co-workers will be coming
over; probably more for the ghoul factor than to support Lisa Marie.”
    “Too weird. Well, don’t sweat it,
I’ll get abundantly creative.”
    “In this case, less isn’t more; more is more.”
    “ Da kine . I got it.”
    By early afternoon I finished
lining up the remaining details—printers, caterers, guest favors, hair and
make-up, limo service, all of it. My friends and colleagues had all gushed
their gratitude for the business. The only glaring omission was a venue. I told
everyone I’d be back to them that afternoon with the exact location.
    I called the pricier hotels with
private beaches. Since Brad Sanders’ disappearance had made him something of a
local celebrity, I was concerned a public beach could attract the press or
curious onlookers. Maui’s notorious for local gossip. If just one vendor
slipped up and told his cousin who told his neighbor who told his boss’s wife,
a beach parking lot would fill up with looky-loos hours before Lisa Marie’s
“perfect” wedding.
    “Not possible,” sniffed the special
events coordinator at the Maui Prince Hotel. “We limit our beach access to
weddings coordinated by our in-house bridal staff.” The sentiment was echoed by
the Grand Wailea, the Four Seasons, and all the other high-end Wailea hotels. I
didn’t bother calling the Ritz-Carlton in Kapalua because not only did I figure
the response would be the same, but it creeped me out to imagine conducting
Brad’s proxy wedding on the beach where his empty boat had washed ashore.
    I was left pondering if I could hold
it at a less swanky oceanfront hotel or one of the more obscure public beaches.
I hadn’t asked Lisa Marie if she had a particular beach in mind, and I wasn’t
even sure where she was staying. Maybe her hotel would sanction a quickie
wedding on their property if I cajoled—a nicer word than bribed —someone
at the concierge desk.
    I called her cell.
    “What is it now, Pali?” she
said in an annoyed tone that made me want to pipe, Sorry, wrong number and hang up. “I hope this is good news. I’m just about to get a massage and I
don’t want any stress following me onto the table.”
    “Yep, I’ve got great news.
Everything’s lined up for next Thursday. Only one little detail left to
decide.” I took a breath to allow her time to congratulate me on being so damn
good at my job. All I heard was the low murmur of New Age flute music in the
background.
     “Which beach?” I said.
    “What do you mean which beach ?
Are you talking about my wedding?”
    I started to say something smart-ass,
like ‘No, I’m calling to ask if you know where they’re gonna shoot next year’s
Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition’but I held back. No doubt she was
feeling a ton of anxiety over Brad. I needed to remain supportive, upbeat.
    “Yes, I need to tell the people
working on your big day where we’re holding it.”
    “I can’t believe you’re asking me
this. I already told you where I want it.” She blew out an irritated breath.
“Don’t you write anything down? I think it’s incredibly unprofessional of you
to ask me to repeat myself simply because you’re so ditzy.”
    Had she mentioned the venue? My
brain raced around like someone looking for their car keys. Nope, not there.
Not over there, either.
    “I’m sorry, Lisa Marie. Your
consultation folder says you want a ‘beach wedding’ but there’s nothing
specific about which beach.”
    “Well, duh. The beach right here on
the property, of course. I’m sure I went over all of this on the very first
day. How would Brad know where to come if we held it anywhere else? Look, I’ve
got to go—my masseuse is waiting. And Pali, please don’t bother me with stuff
like this again. If I need to talk to you, I’ll do the calling.” She clicked
off.
    I’ve worked with difficult brides
before. Not anyone I’d go so far as to label mentally ill, but women teetering
darn