by Karen Quinn
As the bus pulled into a parking lot, I saw the ocean liner looming ahead.
“Whoa,” I cried, pointing to the lustrous ship that glistened in the Greek sunlight. It was enormous, like a bobbing white skyscraper. “Is that ours?”
“Yes, that’s her,” Carleen said.
She patted my leg. “Don’t feel bad about losing your fiancé like that, darlin’. Something worse happened to me.”
“Not possible,” I said.
She whistled. “Oh, but it is. You ever heard of Haroldson Lafayette Hunt?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, H. L. Hunt was one of the richest men in Texas, in the whole country at one time. That man was slicker than snot on a doorknob. When I graduated college, he proposed marriage and naturally I said yes.”
“Was he your first husband?”
“Hay-ell no,” she said. “The night before the rehearsal dinner, he dumped me for my maid of honor’s second cousin, Lyda Bunker from Little Rock.”
“That swine,” I groused on Carleen’s behalf.
“Come, off we go.” Carleen stood and gathered up her pooch and packages. I followed her out of the bus. “The point is, darlin’,” she said, “I made out much better, although it didn’t seem like it at the time. For ten long years, I felt like the biggest loser in the Lone Star State. He and Lyda had kids and lived the good life. Spent their summers at Lake McQueenie. H. L. was so loaded, he’d buy a new boat every time his other one got wet. I was green with envy. But then H. L. married Fran something-or-other without even divorcing my poor cousin. Can you imagine? He had a second family with kids and pets and everything. I couldn’t put up with that kind of bigamy bullshit, not me. So you see, in the end, what seemed like a tragedy turned out to be a blessing. Ten years later, I met my Tex, and I fell for him like an egg from a tall chicken. Same thing’ll happen to you. Be patient.”
“I hope you’re right, but somehow I doubt it.”
Carleen pointed to a small tent where two men in crisp white uniforms sat behind a table.
“Welcome to the Tiffany Star,” an officer cheerfully piped. I gave my ticket to the one with the most ribbons on his pin, turned in my passport, had my picture taken for an ID card, and rinsed my hands with disinfectant gel. Apparently that was to stave off gastrointestinal outbreaks that plague so many cruise ships. Just before we started up the gangway, a photographer asked Carleen and I to smile for the camera. “Oh, I hate seeing pictures of myself,” I said. “I’ve barely slept in two days. I must look a sight…”
“You’re nothin’ short of gorgeous, darlin’,” Carleen said.
We stood under a huppahlike structure, posing in front of a fake ocean backdrop and a Bon Voyage sign while the photographer got off a few shots. Suddenly I felt very appreciative of this old woman who was taking me under her wing for no reason at all. I turned and gave her a hug. “Thanks, Carleen. You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me in two days.”
She smiled brightly. “Well, your life will get better from here on out, I promise you that. And if you need to borrow some clothes until they find your suitcase, just ask me.” She looked me up and down. “Lordy, you’re just a pair of tits on a stick. But I’m pretty sure you’ll fit into Lucille’s clothes.”
“Who is Lucille?” I asked.
“She’s been on board for eleven months. Her family built the Chrysler Building.”
Gee, Baby, Ain’t I Good to You?
AS SOON AS WE stepped inside the ship, what little energy I had evaporated in a pouf. I was so wiped out that I could hardly appreciate the magnificence of the six-story lobby in which I was standing—its ice palace decor, the white marble floor, the three-story ceiling-to-floor waterfall, the staircase so grand and sweeping that Rhett Butler would have found it suitable for hauling Scarlett O’Hara up its steps were they alive and cruising today.
Waiters in black tuxedos offered champagne and hors d’oeuvres while passengers buzzed about with excitement. In the center of the room was a table filled with shrimp, crab, and lobster encircling a giant ice sculpture of a mermaid. A band made up of four men, one black, one Latino, one white, and one Asian—a pu-pu platter of nationalities—played “Hot, Hot, Hot.” I looked for Pops, but he was somewhere else, in la-la land most likely.
“What do you think they do with the ice sculptures after they melt?” I mused. Did I just say that? Okay, now I was starting to scare myself. “Thanks for everything, Carleen. I’ll meet up with you later. I need to catch some Z’s.”
Carleen handed Famous and her packages to a tuxedo-clad gentleman. “Oh, no you don’t, darlin’. No one sleeps until they see the maître d’, make their Il Valentino and Au Mandarin reservations, and set up their spa appointments. If you don’t do it now, you’ll be shut out. Follow me.”
I felt like I was in a dream, but tagged behind Carleen nonetheless. As we floated up the grand stairway and down to the back of the ship (aft? port? I had no idea), we passed a Sotheby’s showroom with artwork that would be auctioned on the ship. There were Monets, Picassos, da Vincis—surely they weren’t real, or were they? This didn’t seem like a reproduction-type crowd. An old but well-maintained woman ambled toward us. She was tall, grasshopper-thin, and green-eyed, with beauty-parlor-teased hair the color of wet sand. With the help of a walker, she shuffled steadily but slowly. The walker looked like it was gold-plated, but that would be ridiculous, or would it? She gave Carleen a nod and asked how she’d spent the day.
“Lucille, this is my new young friend, Holly. She’s going to be speaking on the ship, but really she’s here to nurse a broken heart. Do you know that her boyfriend was arrested for child molestation? And then he dumped her? Can you believe it?”
Lucille gasped and regarded me with pity. “You poor lamb,” she said. “You must hate yourself.”
“She’s sick about it,” Carleen said. “Practically suicidal.”
So much for Carleen’s sacred vow to never reveal my private business to a living soul.
“I’ve recently suffered a broken heart myself,” Lucille confided.
“Really?” I said squeezing her bony, gnarled hand until the canary diamond on her finger made a ten-karat indentation in my palm.
“Don’t let the age fool you,” Lucille said under her breath. “There’s a smoldering cauldron of sexuality bubbling under these liver spots.”
I laughed. This old bird was a hoot.
“Do you think you can cool your flame long enough to lend Holly some clothes?” Carleen asked. “She lost her luggage and is going to need to borrow some things from you. I think they’ll fit.”
“Of course,” Lucille said. “It would be my pleasure.”
“So what do you think?” Carleen said. “Can you fix her up with your son?”
“He’s on this leg of the trip with my granddaughter,” Lucille explained. Then she leaned into me and whispered, “And his fiancée, whom he’s marrying when we dock in Rome.”
“That girl’s as useful as goose shit on a pump handle,” Carleen stage-whispered.
“Hush, Carleen,” Lucille said, wagging her finger.
“She’s colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra.”
“Stop it,” Lucille said. “You know this marriage is my raison d’être. It is the coming together of two of America’s top industrial families, like a Rockefeller marrying an Astor.”
“Lucille, it’s the twenty-first century. People marry; they don’t merge. Wouldn’t you like your son to be happy? After dating a pedophile, don’t you know that a wounded sparrow like poor, pathetic Holly here would appreciate what he has to offer and would treat him like a prince?”
“Carleen,” I said, “I’m standing right here. I can hear you. I wish you wouldn’t talk about me like that. My troubles are personal and you promised.”
“Don’t you fret, darlin’. The one person I’ll tell is Lucille and only because we need her to lend you clothes. Tomorrow’s a sea day and dinner’s formal. Sh
e’ll set you up. And, Lucille,” she said, turning to her friend, “not a word to anyone about Holly’s troubles, and I’ll tell you all the rest later.”
Lucille pretended to zip her lips. “I’ll take your secrets to my grave.”
The deep baritone whistle of the ship sounded. I looked out the window and realized we were sailing. It felt like we were standing still, but the shoreline was moving. That was my clue.
“We’re off to see Bradley. We need to get Holly set up for dinner,” Carleen said.
“Oh, fabulous,” Lucille said. “You simply must be seated at the right table.”
As we walked along the corridor and talked, Carleen pointed out the library, cigar, piano, and champagne bars. She told me where to find the various boutiques, the casino, the gym, the spa, the tennis and basketball courts, and the computer room.
“I’ll bet you’re dying to know Lucille’s story,” Carleen said with no prompting from me whatsoever. When it came to other passengers’ personal affairs, Carleen was the human Google. “Well, she’s been suffering a deep depression ever since May, when her favorite dance host died. Claude Chavasse—he was French. They were ‘sinking the titanic’” (wink, wink).
“No!” I said. “He was on top of her when he died?”
“Yes!” Carleen said. “For weeks, she was so upset she didn’t know daylight from dark. Claude was dumber than a toothbrush, but he was good-looking and a marvelous dancer. For the last three segments, he’d been pleasing the ‘elder floozies,’ and I include myself in that category.”
“He wasn’t just Lucille’s lover?”
“Oh, no, darlin’. You get to be a certain age and there aren’t enough eligible gentlemen to go around. So we shared. If you don’t use the equipment, it rusts.”
“Nobody minded?”
“For goodness’ sake, no. With Viagra, every coot with a cock thinks he’s Hugh Hefner. Who can keep up with that? But back to Lucille. Dance hosts are strictly prohibited from bedding the passengers. So it was a good thing Claude died because he would have been fired anyway.”
“And that’s why Lucille’s family came on board?”
“Yes, to cheer her up,” Carleen continued. “Not that the rest of us weren’t sick over losing Claude, because we were, but since she’s the one he died pokin’, she gets to play the grieving widow. Anyway, her family’s here and her son decided to get hitched in Rome since everyone would be together and it wasn’t his first marriage anyway. They’re having the ceremony at Palazzo Ferrajoli, an old mansion from the 1500s. They’ll honeymoon at the Ritz in Paris. Lucille refuses to invite me to the wedding because she believes I’m against this union.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Oh, I tell her every day.”
Love for Sale
WE ARRIVED AT THE end of a long hallway where passengers sat patiently waiting their turn as if at a doctor’s office. A computer-printed sign on the closed door said MAÎTRE D’.
“Why are we here?” I whispered to Carleen.
“Honey, getting seated at the right table can make or break your trip. And it’s highly competitive. But luckily, you’re with me.”
I took a seat. Soon Carleen shook me awake. “It’s our turn.”
We entered what appeared to be a card room. Seated behind a table was Bradley, the maître d’ (it said so on his name tag). He was thirtysomething, with a pink scalp fringed by wispy brown hair and searing blue eyes that lit up when he saw Carleen. “It’s my favorite girl,” he said, rising to hug her. I could see that with Carleen by my side, I had real juice on this ship.
Carleen asked Bradley to check my table assignment.
“Let’s see, you’re at a table for two in the south end of the dining room.”
“Well, darlin’, Holly can’t sit in Siberia. She’s one of the top fashionistas in New York City.”
“Really?” Bradley said, his eyes wide. “Have I seen you in the papers?”
“Well I was on the front page of the News and the Post a few weeks ago,” I demurred modestly, as though I was practically Catherine Zeta-Jones but didn’t want special treatment.
“Bradley, be a dear and put Holly and her father with some nice people, would you?”
Bradley studied his online map of the dining room. Names of passengers were plugged into each seat. He shook his head. “Every table’s full. Look.” He turned the monitor around so we could see it.
I perked up, scanning the map for Denis King’s name. “Oh, what about here? This looks like a better location,” I said when I found him.
“Impossible,” Bradley said. “That’s the captain’s table.”
“Yes, that’ll be perfect,” Carleen said, “Move me there too.”
“But, Carleen, I have the Kings there, along with Baron and Baroness DuLac. Every seat’s taken.”
“Move the DuLacs somewhere else,” Carleen said, waving her hand. “Baroness DuLac’s sat with the captain a hundred times. Between you and me, she says he’s windier than a bag of assholes with all those goddamn sea stories he’s always telling.”
“But they’re Tiffany Star Society Members,” Bradley said.
“Bradley, darlin’, Mommy will make it worth your while.”
Bradley flinched ever so slightly, punched a few keys on his computer and the dirty deed was done. Nya ah ah, I thought. My dastardly plan had been set in motion. There was no turning back.
Next, Carleen whisked me over to Il Valentino and Au Mandarin, the two private restaurants on the ship, where I reserved a table for four at each place, but not on formal nights, as she instructed. We followed this with a trip to the spa and beauty salon, where massages and hair appointments were booked at Carleen’s insistence, and at her expense.
“Oh, you really shouldn’t,” I said. But wait! How could I not assist my new best friend in her quest to deplete her bank account so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of her evil stepchildren? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. So I didn’t.
I yawned. “Is there anything else, Carleen? Do we need to reserve deck chairs? Meet the social director? I’m exhausted.”
Carleen checked her watch. “You really ought to sign up for some land trips. Come, we’ll do that quickly.”
“Do you have to get off the ship to take those?”
“Never mind, darlin’,” Carleen said. “You’d best catch some sleep. I’ll take care of your tours.”
“Yes, g’night,” I said. “Let’s hope my room has an ocean view.”
Too Marvelous for Words
A WHITE-JACKETED BUTLER NAMED JOHN Savoy showed me to our tenth-floor penthouse suite. John was exceptionally yummy-looking for a butler, at least compared to Mr. French on Family Affair, the only other butler I knew. Of course, there was also Cadbury, Richie Rich’s butler, but he was a cartoon. John was in his early twenties, slim with coal-black hair, dark watery eyes, a deep tan, and lashes so thick they cast a shadow on his cheeks.
I asked if he could get me an outfit from one of the shops on board, plus clean underwear to last me through the cruise. “No problem,” he whispered so as not to wake Pops, who was sacked out on a fold-out bed in the living room. “I’m at your service.” He handed me a brochure that had been clipped outside my door. “Here’s your Tiffany Tattler. It tells you what’s happening tomorrow.”
I could so get used to having a butler. John was from Italy (it said so on his name tag). “What city are you from?”
“Roma,” he said. “My family is royalty.”
My eyes widened. “What are you, like a prince?”
“I am cousin to the prince,” he said, “named after American royalty, Mr. John Kennedy Jr. My sister is called Caroline.”
“I didn’t know Italians had a royal family,” I said. “Why are you working on a ship as a butler? Shouldn’t you be cavorting on a yacht in the South of France with William and Harry?”
John smiled. “I wanted to see the world and this has allowed me to do that. I’ll be leaving when we dock in Roma and
starting university in a few weeks.”
So not only did I have a butler, I had a smart, educated, royal butler. This was good. I was going to need his help tracking down my lost bags. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I told John what had happened, gave him the luggage receipts and the name of the person traveling on the Golden Goddess whom I suspected of having my stuff, thanks to the inexcusable mixup by Jorge the butler.
“Do you know Jorge?”
“Yes, I do,” John said. “Sometimes we run the same itinerary as the Golden Goddess and the butlers from the two ships meet and share best practices.”
“Really?” I said, impressed.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “We take our jobs seriously and constantly strive to find new ways to delight and astonish our guests. When I go to university, I plan to study Hospitality Science.”
“Wow,” I said. “If you could find my luggage for me, I would be delighted, astounded, astonished, and indebted to you for life. You have no idea.”
John executed a modest bow and then backed out of the room the way subjects remove themselves from the presence of the Queen of England. I had the impression that with a conscientious butler like John Savoy taking care of me, nothing bad could happen.
Pops sat up. “There you are, Holly,” he said, yawning. He donned his robe and joined me in the bedroom. “I was worried about you. Did you find the bags?”
I frowned. “No, not yet. Holy cannoli, would you look at that?” On my night table sat a brand-new box of cream-colored stationery with my name engraved in gold leaf, along with matching personalized Post-its. I stuck the Post-its in my purse since I’d never owned any that fancy and didn’t want to leave them there.
