the season for sidewalk seating, and only one of the wooden picnic tables was occupied, despite the mild spring weather.
After an easy stroll under Hudson’s glowing streetlamps, Matt and I entered the softly lit front room to find Koa Waipuna sitting at the magnificent mirror-backed mahogany bar (the original one, circa the nineteenth century). I hadn’t seen Koa in years, but there was no way to miss the man. He was big. And exotic didn’t begin to describe him.
Along with his name, Koa had inherited his deep olive complexion and black, expressive eyes from his native Hawaiian father. His frame was heavily muscled, yet he had the delicate facial structure of his Japanese mother. Fluent in Japanese as well as his native Hawaiian, he still wore his long black hair in a samurai-style topknot, an offbeat crowning to preppie khakis, an aquamarine Izod, and polished loafers.
Koa spotted Matt first and grinned. Then he shifted his gaze to me.
“Clare!” He stood and wrapped his beefy arms around me in an enthusiastic hug only slightly less forceful than a boa constrictor’s. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight!”
I’d visited the Waipunas’ farm only once in my life, years earlier, when Matteo converted a Kona buying trip into our hastily planned but spectacularly romantic Hawaiian honeymoon. Back then, Koa had been a wild young teenager who refused to wear a shirt, bristled at farm work, and was constantly surrounded by his five giggling sisters. Today he was in his thirties, married with children, and responsible for the coffee farm’s day-to-day operations. He was serious as a heart attack, according to Matt, until he set foot off the estate. Then his wild streak returned with a vengeance.
“Come with me,” Koa said. Grinning wide, he led us toward the bar’s back room. “The gang’s all here.”
Matt shot Koa a confused look. “The gang? What gang?”
“Oh, uh . . . I just meant that I brought Mr. Koto and Mr. Takahashi along. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Matt said. “I haven’t seen Junro since my trip to Malaysia last year.”
Matt had mentioned that Koa was working on a business deal with a Japanese company—a plan to host special tours of his estate since Kona-drinking had become pretty popular in Japan.
I was about to ask Koa about it, but I never got the chance. He opened a thin wooden door, and a dozen male voices shouted Matt’s name. That’s when I saw the hanging banner:
BON VOYAGE BACHELORHOOD!
Clipped to the banner was the poster of a blown-up photo, obviously doctored. Matt was on all fours with a ball and chain on his foot and a rope around his neck; his beautiful bride-to-be was dressed to the nines in a floor-length burgundy gown, dripping in diamonds, holding one end of Matt’s rope like a pet leash.
“Surprised?” Koa yelled over the din.
“Am I ever,” Matt replied.
Oh, God. I could see the muscles in Matt’s face had frozen. He’d gone slightly pale, and sweat was starting to bead his upper lip. He glanced at me and then behind him, clearly in a panic about Randall Knox’s stalking gossip column photographer.
I looked behind us, but there were no paparazzi in sight. Then I glanced around the crowded party room. Apart from the embarrassing poster of Matt and Breanne, there was nothing here to warrant tabloid scandal. Sure, Matt’s friends had gotten a good head start on the consumption of alcohol. But it was a tavern, after all.
Two of Matt’s buddies thrust a mug of beer into his hand, pounded his back, and led him farther into the back room—the same one where Dylan Thomas purportedly drank himself to death (not a good omen).
“I should go,” I told Koa, turning to do just that.
“No, Clare, stay!” Koa pulled me back. “Have a drink at least, and say hello to the guys. You know a lot of them—look!”
I did, actually. Some of them were now smiling at me, waving me over.
“This part of the party’s going to be tame, anyway,” Koa confided.
“This part of the party?” I frowned. “Sorry, I need a little more.”
Koa pointed toward Matt, now chugging his mug of beer in front of the room’s giant portrait of Dylan Thomas. (Actually, the entire room was a makeshift shrine to the dead Welsh poet, with pictures of his home, framed newspaper clippings, and a special plaque.)
“Once Matt gets drunk enough”—Koa paused to give me a meaningful wink—“we’re taking him to Scores.”
“The yuppie strip joint?”
“Gentlemen’s club.”
Okay, I thought instantly, I’m definitely