Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “I just remembered,” Bunny said, “there’s a cooking demonstration with Enrico Derflingher at ten. I simply can’t miss that.”

  “Maybe you should go, too, Syd,” Denis said.

  “Why?” Sydney said. “We have a private chef.”

  “I meant so you could be with your mother,” Denis said. “You never have time together when you’re working.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “But when I’m not working working, I’m working out.” She made a fist and showed off her biceps. “Gotta be a buff bride.”

  “There sure are lots of options,” I said. “I hope someone comes to my talk.”

  “They will,” Lucille said. “How about you, Denis dear? Join us for a lecture on Hollywood style. It’ll be fabulous.”

  “I’d love to, Mother,” Denis said.

  Yay, I thought.

  “Then maybe I will come,” Sydney said.

  Boo, I thought. A wide yawn escaped from my mouth. “Oh, excuse me. I’m exhausted. I think I’ll say good night.” It had been a long two days and I still needed to shop for clothes from Lucille’s penthouse closet and catch some sleep before my lecture. Plus, I didn’t want to have a conversation with Denis. Not yet, anyway.

  Stormy Weather

  THE RING OF THE phone jolted me awake. The cabin was pitch-black and the clock read 3:07 A.M.

  “H-hello,” I mumbled.

  “Ship-to-shore call for Holly Ross,” said an operator with a heavy Italian accent.

  “Um, wait,” I said, groggily unhooking my headgear so I could speak properly. I tried to remember. Who did I know from shore?

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Holly, thank goodness you’re there.” It was Nigel, my colleague and best pal.

  “Of course I’m here. It’s the middle of the night. What is it?”

  “There’s been a crap development, simply crap,” he said. “I was out today visiting Madonna, you know, for the Denis King show. You should see her apartment, luv. It’s huuuuuge. And soooo opulent. She finally said yes on the nineteenth-century diamond tiara she wore for her wedding, the one from Asprey and Garrard? Seventy-eight karats of diamonds…”

  “Nigel, what crap thing happened?”

  “Right, well, while I was out, Sammie went through the Audrey exhibit boxes one last time. She realized the costumes were missing.”

  “Sammie? She had no business…this wasn’t her project…” I sputtered. “You promised no one would find out.”

  “I know, and I’m bloody sorry. The show was packed to ship. Why she opened the trunks, I cannot fathom. I never thought…”

  “What did she do?”

  “Wait, I’m not finished. The thing is,” he moaned and his voice trailed off.

  “What? What is the thing?” I insisted.

  “The thing is,” he mumbled, “the Jennifer Love-Hewitt garments are here. The trunk containing all the original Givenchy evening gowns is missing.”

  “What?” I cried. “But that’s impossible. You saw which case I took, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And the packing slip said it held the reproductions. I even looked inside to verify. Someone must have switched the paperwork on the trunks at the last minute.”

  My heart sank. I was sure I knew who that someone was. “Sammie must have overheard us talking. She wants to ruin me. But to do this?”

  “It’s an act of fashion terrorism,” Nigel professed.

  “By someone who claims to love fashion,” I snarled. “So what happened? Did she call the police?”

  “No, it’s worse,” Nigel said. “She called Tanya. Then Tanya called the police and the FBI because they thought the dresses might end up on the black market somewhere. By the time I got to the office, everything was cordoned off with yellow tape. They were dusting for prints, questioning everyone, trying to sort it out. Elaina had to be medicated. Tanya insisted everyone take a lie detector test.”

  “Now I’ll never get promoted,” I groaned.

  “That’s the least of your problems.”

  “My problems,” I said. “You’re my coconspirator.”

  “I had to tell them everything, well almost everything. I left out my involvement because I’m sure you’ll agree there’s no point in us both getting sacked and going to jail. Orange jumpsuits do nothing for my silhouette.”

  “SACKED? JAIL?” I was standing now. “If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re doing a first-rate job.”

  “I’m just saying…” Nigel started.

  My stomach was clenched tight. “Nigel, this was your idea. You know I didn’t plan to steal anything.”

  “Yes, well, and I explained all that, except for the part about my making you courier for the reproductions and you taking the wrong trunk, but they didn’t buy it. They think you acted alone.”

  “For the love of Pete! Of course that’s what they think if you didn’t tell them the truth.” I was seething.

  “The FBI called Interpol and now they’re coming to arrest you, so you need to be prepared. Just give the dresses back and I’m sure they won’t take you to jail.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “They were lost in transit.”

  “What?” Nigel exclaimed. “How is that possible? Didn’t you watch them load and unload the trunk?”

  “I watched the loading but not the unloading.”

  “You know you’re supposed to take custody of the goods at the gate.”

  “And you know you’re supposed to tell the truth,” I said, “so I guess we’re even. But the dresses are insured, right? At least they’re covered.”

  “Yes, for about eight million dollars,” Nigel said. “But if you didn’t follow security procedures transporting them—and you didn’t—the insurance company will never pay the claim. If you don’t find them, the museum will have to cover the loss.”

  “Oh, fuck,” I said, crumpling into the bed. “When are the police coming?”

  “Maybe at the next port or the one after that. Is there a lawyer on board?”

  “There’s a ship’s doctor, but no lawyer. Well, maybe there’s a passenger who’s a lawyer. Oh, hell, I don’t know.” My breaths came in shallow, quick gasps. “How could you do this to me? You fed me to the sharks.”

  Nigel chuckled. “Oh, that’s funny, the sharks. And you’re on a ship.”

  “Nigel, I’m not laughing, not one bit. You go back to Tanya and tell her what really happened, how this was your idea. How I thought I was carrying costumes worth eighty thousand dollars, not eight million, how I was planning to deliver them in Rome. I mean it. You have to tell her.”

  “Well, sure,” Nigel said rather unconvincingly. “But you have to find the trunk. Those costumes are irreplaceable.”

  “I know they are and I’m working on it,” I said, slamming down the phone.

  Some best friend Nigel turned out to be, I thought. I finally get a wonderful, luxurious escape from my problems at home and look what happened. This trip was a disaster. How was I ever going to fix this mess? I closed my eyes and prayed that tomorrow would be a better day.

  Let’s Kiss and Make Up

  MY TALK COULD NOT have gone worse, unless, perhaps, I had worn my clown underpants onstage.

  I couldn’t get those lost dresses out of my mind. What killed me was that I’d opened the trunk at the last minute to throw in my bras and panties. Why hadn’t I checked the clothes inside just to be sure? How could I have assumed I was carrying the right costumes? All night, I tossed and turned, frustrated with myself, also worried that the baggage manager in Athens had been wrong, that Jorge didn’t take the trunk to the Golden Goddess. If he didn’t have it, who did? I needed a plan B. But what?

  At sunrise, I gave up and did eight laps around the seventh-floor deck in the crisp morning air. The gray mist of the sea melted into the dawn sky. The only other person exercising at that ungodly hour was Sydney Bass, who was pumping her five-pound sparkly dumbbells as she did her roadwork. We said hello the first time we passed,
but ignored each other after that.

  Two miles later, I showered and put on a simple, navy-blue Armani shift I’d borrowed from Lucille’s amazing Technicolor dream closet. The entire suite was filled with dress racks bursting with designer and hand-sewn couture outfits. Plus, there were drawers full of belts, scarves, hats, and jewels. Her shoe collection was as complete as Bergdorf’s. Her bras and panties were exclusively La Perla, but I refrained from helping myself to those in the interest of sanitation.

  I was grateful to have met such a generous, well-clothed passenger. Now her exquisite wardrobe filled my previously bare cabin closet. Lucille’s taste reminded me of Corny’s—impeccable. I wondered if Tanya would forgive me for taking the real Audrey dresses if I could convince Lucille to leave her collection to the museum. I’ll start planting seeds for that at dinner, I thought.

  Eventually, I made my way to the Galaxy Lounge and prepared for my speech. Exactly three-and-a-half passengers came—Denis, Lucille, Carleen, and Famous. When I read my Tiffany Tattler I could see why. Besides the celebrity-chef cooking demonstration, the French Impressionist painting auction, and the scavenger hunt, there was an archeologist talking about the treasures of Ephesus, a yoga class, an ice sculpture demonstration, a bridge tournament, a golf lesson, submarine rides (limit ten), and the ever-popular World War II veterans reunion. There were only three hundred passengers on board. You do the math.

  I stepped off the stage and joined my meager audience. “Seriously, you don’t have to stay,” I said, not really meaning it. I’d have been delighted to give my speech to three people with such enormous donor potential.

  “Oh, goody,” Carleen said. “We’ll just mosey over to the veteran’s reunion and pick up some boys. C’mon, Lucille.”

  Lucille grabbed her gold walker and hustled behind Carleen to the World War II gathering. Those girls wasted no time hightailing it from my ill-fated talk.

  That left Denis and me, which would have been thrilling if I weren’t so nervous about being alone with him. How do I get him to forgive me? Do I come right out and ask or butter him up first?

  “May I?” I said, pointing to the seat next to his.

  “It’s a free country,” he said, turning on his BlackBerry and scrolling through his e-mails.

  “Lots of messages, eh?” I said.

  “Yes, lots.”

  My brain froze. Why does it always do that in emergencies? Why? Think, think. Dazzle him with an anecdote. Impress him with your intellect. I cleared my throat. “You know, on the flight over, I was reading this book on the history of the British royals. As a fashion historian, I…I’m intrigued by history, as you might imagine. Anyway, I cannot get over those English monarchs. They…why, they never cease to amaze.”

  “How so?” Denis asked as he typed an e-mail.

  “Well…Oh! Did you know that King George II died while straining to relieve his constipation?” Arrrrgh.

  “Fascinating,” Denis said, shutting off his BlackBerry. “Excuse me. I’m going to join Annie at the scavenger hunt.”

  “Denis, wait!” I blurted. “I’m sorry I called you Penis King.”

  “Forget it,” he said, averting his eyes.

  “I can’t. It was unforgivable. Especially in front of Annie.”

  Denis glared at me. “It’s been years since anyone called me that.”

  “You mean I wasn’t the first?”

  “I was a chubby kid,” he said, “with a name just begging to be made fun of.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “So why didn’t you go by your middle name?”

  “My middle name is Evelyn.”

  You can’t be serious, I thought.

  “Like Evelyn Waugh, who wrote Brideshead Revisited,” Denis said. “It’s a family name.”

  “I’m sorry.” I said. “About what I did, I mean, not your middle name.”

  “I should go look for Annie,” he said, dismissing me.

  “May I walk with you?”

  “I suppose,” Denis said. “Unless of course you want to…”

  “Have breakfast with you in the Bistro? Yes, I’d love to.”

  “I was going to say, unless you wanted to let the activity director know how your talk went,” he said.

  “Why ever would I want to do that? Breakfast with you sounds much more pleasant.”

  Denis sighed. “Okay. Sure, why not?” The wall was coming down.

  We strolled down the hall toward the small restaurant, passing a group of passengers looking at the photos that had been taken at the gangplank the day before. They were posted along the wall behind clear plastic holders.

  “Excuse me,” said a squat, gray-haired grandpa decked out in dark green Ralph Lauren shorts, shirt, and matching socks. He looked like an avocado. “How do you tell which picture is yours?”

  “Oh, it’s easy. You look for the one you’re in,” I said.

  “Of course, thanks,” he said thoughtfully.

  Denis let out a laugh when we were out of the man’s range. His eyes had softened.

  The Bistro was a small restaurant full of shiny brass fixtures and frosted glass windows. It offered a buffet of bagels, smoked salmon, cream cheese, Danish, muffins, and fresh fruit. The air in the room was warm and thick with the scent of freshly baked bread. We each fixed a plate and took a seat. Denis’ BlackBerry vibrated and he checked the message, then turned it off.

  “Listen, don’t feel bad that you didn’t get a crowd,” he said. “They offer so much on sea days, it’s hard to choose.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “There’s a lot going on. It’s just that I want to do a good job so they’ll ask me back. Plus, if I can rustle up a few donations, Tanya says she’ll promote me to curator.” I looked at Denis expectantly.

  “Good luck with that,” he said noncommittally.

  “Do you like my outfit? It’s your mom’s.”

  “I do. You look very pretty. So what’s your next speech about?”

  “The style of Audrey Hepburn,” I said. “It’s based on our last exhibit.”

  “I don’t know, after the showing this morning, you may need to spice up the topic to generate excitement,” he said. “Add some sex appeal, why don’t you?”

  I dropped my bagel. “Denis! How can you say that? Talking about sex in the same breath as Audrey Hepburn. That’s sacrilege. It insults her memory. The woman was a saint. Not only is the idea repugnant, but it devalues my entire fashion history education, which my ex-fiancé is still paying for, by the way.”

  “Hepburn was a real person,” Denis said. “She smoked, she drank…”

  “Oh…well…in that case, why not just call the talk Audrey Hepburn and the…the Thirty-Minute Orgasm for Seniors!” I proclaimed, waving my arms in the air.

  “Good idea,” he said with a chuckle. “But why not just call it The Thirty-Minute Orgasm for Seniors?”

  “No. Whatever I talk about has to have a fashion angle,” I said. “Gosh, I can’t believe I just used the word ‘orgasm’ in the same sentence as ‘Audrey Hepburn.’ Anyway, I can’t give that speech because what do I know about thirty-minute orgasms, even if they’re physically possible.”

  “Especially among the elderly,” Denis said.

  “Exactly. And how would I make the connection between Audrey Hepburn and orgasms? She played a nun, for heaven’s sake. You’re right about one thing, though. To draw a crowd, I need to come up with a different topic, something more provocative than what I’d planned.”

  Denis smiled at me. “You know what you remind me of?”

  “What?”

  “Spring,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re a breath of fresh air.”

  I Get a Kick Out of You

  A BREATH OF FRESH AIR! That was the nicest thing anyone had ever called me. I flashed my most adorable smile, in a modest and demure way.

  Denis signaled for the waiter, who came right over. “More coffee?”

  I nodded. “Thanks. With cream
. So where are your peeps?”

  “Syd’s exercising. She works ungodly hours. That’s her one release. And Annie’s at the scavenger hunt with Manny.”

  I giggled. “Annie and Manny. Cute.”

  “Yes, they’re a pair,” he said. “Annie’s mother got her a manny to take my place.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said. “No one can take a father’s place in a child’s mind.”

  “That was the idea, anyway,” Denis said. “One of the reasons I wanted to take this cruise was to spend time with Annie. She lives with my ex-wife during the school year. But Manny dotes on her. ’Course, that’s fine with Sydney. She’s not into children. And it gives me more time for Mother. She’s been depressed.”

  “I heard.”

  “You did?”

  “Oh, sure. There are no secrets on this ship. Her favorite dance host died doing the mattress mambo with her.”

  “No, it was the horizontal hora,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Your wedding will cheer her up,” I said. “I hear you’re getting married in Rome.”

  Denis nodded slowly. “Mother can die happy now. She and my father began orchestrating this match when my first marriage imploded. After Dad and Bunny’s husband died, those two yentas made this union their life’s mission. The Basses have the largest real estate portfolio in the city; we’re the biggest developers. The Kings and the Basses, together at last.”

  “But you’re marrying her for yourself, not because your mother wants you to, right?” I asked. It was none of my business, which was why I wanted to know.

  “Do I seem like the kind of guy who does anything he doesn’t want to do?”

  I looked into Denis’ eyes. “No, you don’t.”

  “So were you really engaged to that Broadway Hound?”

  “Ah, touché,” I laughed. “You read about him, I see.”

  The waiter returned with our coffee, but brought skim milk instead of cream. I hate when that happens. Then I have to send the milk back and wait for the cream. I’ve always heard that waiters spit in your food when you send it back, but maybe they don’t do that on such a fancy ship. Still, it wasn’t worth the risk of infection.