Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  A young officer knocked on the sliding-glass door and handed Paul a silver ice bucket with a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil and two crystal flutes. I had no illusions that Paul was interested in me for the long term, maybe just for this leg of his journey. He struck me as one of those “if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with” kind of sea captains. But that was okay. After what I’d been through with Alessandro, it felt good to know that another man found me attractive, even if he wasn’t going to stick around.

  Paul poured us each a glass, which I downed quickly. He took me in his arms and looked into my eyes for what felt like an intimately long time, then lifted my chin and covered my forehead and my eyes, and my cheeks, and my lips, and my neck with little soft kisses. When he bit my earlobes, butterflies fluttered inside my stomach. Soon his lips found their way back to mine. They were soft and moist, really lovely and sensual. He put his tongue in my mouth and flirted gently with mine. I encouraged him with the bedroom moan I had perfected while faking orgasms for Alessandro.

  Paul slowly unzipped the back of my gown and let the top slip down. I wasn’t wearing a bra. He bent down and sucked my nipples, which made my stomach flip all over again. Then he kissed my lips, running his hands through my hair, his hardness pressed against my groin, whispering, “Holly, I want to worship at the altar of your naked body.” It sounds hokey, I know, but it really turned me on. Maybe you had to be there—the sea, the stars, the moon—it was all so seductive. We were approaching the point of no return when someone rapped at the door. I pulled the top of my gown up and turned so our uninvited guest couldn’t see that my dress was unzipped.

  “Captain, sorry to disturb, but we have a passenger who is threatening suicide on Deck Nine,” said an Indian man in a turban wearing a blue “Security” windbreaker.

  Was this person insane? I wondered. What kind of sick passenger would kill himself on this magnificent ship with its gourmet food, synchronized waiters, and impeccable service? Hello-oh! Enjoy the cruise and then put a bullet in your brain.

  “I’ll be right there,” Captain said as the guy closed the door.

  Paul sighed and readjusted his crotch. “So sorry. Duty calls. We’ll have to resume this later,” he said, zipping me back up, and even hooking the eye. What a gentleman he was.

  “Of course,” I said, secretly relieved that we’d been interrupted.

  SNEAKING INTO OUR PENTHOUSE, I was surprised to see every light on. It was after 1:30 A.M. and Pops was still out. Well, good for him, I thought. Maybe one of us got lucky tonight.

  A few hours later, the ring of the phone jolted me awake. The cabin was pitch-black. The clock read 4:12 A.M.

  “H-hello,” I mumbled.

  “Ship-to-shore call for Holly Ross,” said a heavily accented operator.

  “Fine, fine,” I said. “Put it through.” I sat up and unhooked my headgear.

  “Holly, thank goodness you’re there.”

  It was Nigel calling with what I hoped would be good news.

  “I have more crap news for you,” he said.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Now what?”

  “The story is all over the papers. The Post has a front-page picture of you taken at the Hepburn opening with the headline ‘Roman Holiday.’ And the News has a picture of you from the Geisha Costume Exhibit with the headline ‘How to Steal a Million.’”

  “Oh, swell,” I said. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you told Tanya what really happened and that we think Sammie is behind this?”

  “But we have no evidence,” Nigel said, deftly evading my question. “There’s more. They interviewed Alessandro and…”

  “No!”

  “Yes, and both papers printed a picture of him holding up a pawn shop receipt. He said you’d most likely fenced the dresses just like you had the diamond engagement ring he gave you. They quoted him saying that you’d hocked everything you owned to go on vacation to get over the heartbreak of him dumping you, the daft prick.”

  “The lying liar,” I said.

  “Isn’t he just,” Nigel said. “Now they’re checking every pawn shop in town for the dresses.”

  “So you didn’t come clean, did you?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Did you?”

  “No,” Nigel whined. “You know I’m too cute to go to jail. They’d sell me to some big, hairy prisoner for a candy bar and a pack of fags.”

  “I thought I was worthless in the face of danger, but you win the prize.”

  “Please, Holly,” Nigel begged. “I’m doing everything I can to sort this out without implicating myself. Have you found the trunk yet?”

  “No,” I mumbled.

  “Buggers,” he said. “Are you looking?”

  “Of course I’m looking.”

  “Well, look harder.”

  “If it’s where I hope it is, we may find it tomorrow.”

  “Brilliant,” Nigel said. “Oh, one more thing. I think she’s got it.”

  “Who? Got what?”

  “Sammie. The million-dollar donation, the curator job,” Nigel said.

  “How? So fast? Are you sure? Who’s the donor?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It may just be a rumor. Let me do some digging.”

  I slammed down the phone. What was I supposed to do now?

  Blue Skies

  WHEN I AWOKE THE next morning, the ship was still and land was visible out the window. We had docked in Kusadasi. The light on my phone was blinking. There were two messages. John rang to say that he hadn’t been able to connect with Jorge on the Golden Goddess, but not to worry. That ship was at sea today and he was sure to reach him eventually. Carleen phoned as well, inviting me to join her, Pops, and a few others on a private tour of the ancient city of Ephesus. Dare I leave the ship? I wondered. I wasn’t sure, so I decided to get dressed and see what was what.

  Pops was just coming out of the bathroom. “Holly, would you mind giving me a touch-up?” He handed me his black Magic Marker and sat on the edge of my bed.

  “What time did you get home?” I asked, streaking his white-gray hair with touches of black.

  “A few minutes ago,” he said. “Carleen invited me to spend the night and we had quite a time.” He did the Groucho Marx eyebrow thing.

  “Carleen? Are you kidding me?” I said, shaking the Magic Marker at him.

  “Hey, be careful with that,” Pops said.

  “No, you be careful. You’re an unemployed cabdriver. She’s Carleen frickin’ kazillionaire. You’re reaching for the moon.”

  “Nope,” he said with a wink. “The moon’s reaching for me.”

  “Puh-leeze.” I rolled my eyes. “And what about Lucille? You’ve been spending time with her too. What if she finds out you’ve been courting Carleen? She could get upset.”

  “We’re on vacation. Do you know how long it’s been since a woman, any woman, found me attractive? But with these fancy clothes, and on this ship, I’m a babe magnet. Let me enjoy the fantasy before I go back to my doggie pillows at Muttropolis, okay?”

  “All right, but please don’t get Lucille or Carleen mad at you,” I warned. “Between them and Denis, someone has to write a million-dollar check to the museum. That’s our ticket out of the doghouse.” I filled him in on the missing trunk, how I had inadvertently been carrying original costumes and not copies, how I was in a hundred times more trouble than I thought, and how we needed the donation now more than ever.

  Pops was shocked and appalled at the news and promised to be on his best behavior. “We’re leaving at ten,” he said, checking his watch. “Meet us at the bottom of the gangplank if you’re coming.”

  I ate breakfast alone in the main dining room—scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, coffee. I was on red alert for any unusual activity, namely police on board, but everything felt normal. John was calling the Golden Goddess in search of my trunk. There was nothing more I could do, so I decided to chance the
outing.

  There were twenty or more gray vans waiting for passengers in the parking lot, all headed to Ephesus and Sirince, where the Virgin Mary was said to have lived out her final days. We, on the other hand, would be ferried in a white stretch Hummer with a driver and private tour guide, the ultra-elite in a sea of the merely privileged, thanks to our host and perpetual cruiser, Carleen Panthollow.

  As soon as I arrived, we took off. Pops, Carleen, Lucille, Denis, Annie, and Sydney (who was absentmindedly pumping her pink weights and staring out the window), were on board. In the searing sunlight, the limo was hot and stifling.

  Carleen fanned herself with her hand. “Can we get some air in here? I’m sweating like a whore in church on Sunday.”

  As a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, I was relieved by the whir of the air conditioner. “You have nice definition in your arm muscles,” I said to Sydney.

  “Yes, thank you, it’s true,” she said.

  Good answer, I thought, noting it for future use in my own bag of quips. “So where’s Manny?”

  “At the pool,” said Denis, as he tapped out an e-mail with his BlackBerry.

  “Where I should be,” Annie declared.

  “You got that right,” Sydney mumbled.

  “I heard that,” Annie whined. “Dad, did you hear what she said?”

  “Annie, I’m just saying that there’s more to life than swimming all day in a cruise ship pool.”

  “Like what?” Annie said. “Learning about culture?”

  “No,” Sydney said, “like swimming at the Hotel du Cap. Now they have a pool worth spending the day by.”

  “Well, I’m not there now and I won’t be until Christmas, will I?” Annie said.

  “Not a moment too soon,” Sydney muttered.

  “Da-ad,” Annie whined.

  “C’mon, you two,” Denis said. “Can we declare peace just for today?”

  “What about your mom?” I asked Sydney. “They didn’t want to come?”

  “Aston’s indigestion was acting up,” she said. “He wanted to take it easy.”

  “With the food on this ship, I’m not surprised,” Pops said, patting the blubber pad that protected his Olympian abs.

  “Where’s the captain?” Denis asked. “You two seemed awfully chummy last night.”

  I was surprised that he had noticed, and pleased too. “Oh, we’re just friends,” I said. “I’m sure he’s busy doing ship things.”

  “The two of you left the bar awfully suddenly,” he pressed. “First you were there, then you were gone.”

  “I was trying to escape the karaoke hostess,” I kidded.

  Our tour guide cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention and began talking about the lovely landscape of the countryside as we glided along the mountainous terrain toward our first stop. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect day to make this drive. Never had I seen a sky so blue (except in allergy pill ads, and those are Photoshopped). Our guide told us about Ephesus, which is one of the best-preserved ancient cities of the Mediterranean, having been founded in the tenth century BC. It was second only to Pompeii as a preserved Roman civilization tourists can visit today. Until this trip, I’d never heard of the place.

  We arrived at the upper gate, the highest point, where the religious and state ruins were located. The sun was sizzling and there wasn’t even a sliver of a breeze. Our guide explained that as we hiked down the main street to a lower elevation—twelve thousand years of history beneath our sneakers—we would see the public facilities such as baths, the library, theater, and whorehouse. I guess prostitution really is the world’s oldest profession.

  Speaking of sneakers, luckily I’d worn mine. The streets were made of marble. Yes, you heard right—Ephesus was the Beverly Hills of ancient civilizations. But marble streets make for slippery walking conditions. Sydney was in six-inch platform sandals that were ill suited to the terrain. Didn’t they teach her anything at Harvard? Denis held her by the shoulders while she clung to him like a blood-sucking tick. Seriously, who wears heels to visit an archeological site? I mean, really.

  As we descended a few blocks, we saw remnants of a town that was easy to imagine in its glory. Columns of porticos still standing, parts of fountains adorned with statues of the gods and headless torsos, the Gate of Hercules with two crumbly columns showing the hero wrapped in lion skin.

  I tried to imagine what the women of Ephesus wore: Grecian chitons, himations, and peplos, most likely. Wouldn’t it be fun to mount an exhibit of ancient drapery wear and the couture it inspired? I thought. Poiret reintroduced draping in the early twentieth century, freeing women from corsets forever (or at least until they came back in style). The Greek costumes Chanel designed for Cocteau’s adaptation of Antigone informed her collections for years. I’ll bet we could get our hands on one of those. Let’s see, the silk chiffon evening dresses from Dolce & Gabbana’s 2003 collection would be a perfect modern addition. And just this last season, gladiator sandals returned with a vengeance—yes, we could absolutely create a show with this theme, I thought. That is, if I still have a job after this.

  Wandering down the gently sloping path past the remains of the Temple of Ephesus, our guide pointed out what was left of the Baths of Scholastic, including its original mosaic floor. My personal favorites were the Library of Celsus and the latrine. The library was amazingly intact, with three stories visible in a horseshoe-shaped gallery. That’s where scrolls and books were stored for literate citizens who were allowed to check out reading material.

  The public latrine was amusing. It consisted of an enormous U-shaped marble bench with lines of holes where men of yore would sit side by side to do their business and discuss current events. Pipes with running water ran through the trough and the whole city—who knew! Wealthy men would send their fatter slaves ahead to sit on the marble benches and warm them up—the first known incidence of heated toilet seats.

  “Someone get a picture of me,” Pops said, sitting on one of the toilets, pantomiming that he was doing number two.

  “Pops, stop,” I said, embarrassed for him.

  “Oh, me too, me too,” Annie said, taking the hole next to his.

  “Annie, don’t be vile!” Sydney yelled.

  “Nobody strain too hard,” Denis said. “That’s how King George the Second died.”

  “Do you see how information like that comes in handy?” I giggled.

  “Take our picture!” Annie yelled.

  “Okay, you guys, say ‘stink,’” I said, capturing for posterity Pops, Annie, and Carleen on the ancient cans, a photo they were sure to cherish. Sydney refused to pose in such a lewd manner. I swore to her I wouldn’t e-mail the photo to gawker.com, but I don’t think she believed me.

  You Make Me Feel So Young

  AFTER EPHESUS, OUR GUIDE encouraged us to skip the home of the Virgin Mary, which she said was a modest house (if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all), in favor of shopping for Turkish carpets where (I was sure) she would secretly collect a commission on any rugs our party purchased.

  She took us to a government-sponsored school and shop set in a luscious green oasis, where young women were taught how to make the traditional designs using natural vegetable dyes and hand looms—an attempt to maintain the ancient art for which Turkey has long been known. While everyone else shopped, I took Annie outside to see how the silk for the rugs was made. A girl named Khanti, not much older than Annie herself, walked us through the whole cycle. First she showed us a bucket of live silkworms they had extracted from the mulberry trees. They wiggled about, some as fat as my ring finger. Then she let us hold the creamy white cocoons the silkworms had spun. Finally we were taken to a special loom, where the cocoons were carefully un-spun to preserve the silk from which they were made. Later the silk would be dyed, and hand knotted into the gorgeous, intricate patterns that make Persian carpets so irresistible.

  “This is really cool,” I said to Annie. “You should take pictures and do a report on it for sc
hool.”

  “Good idea,” she said, snapping shots with her digital camera. “I have to think of something to write about.” She went back to the bucket of worms and peeked inside. “Khanti, I’ll give you ten bucks for a bag of these.”

  Khanti shrugged, grabbed a sack from beneath the loom, and filled it with live, wiggling worms.

  “C’mon,” Annie said. “Follow me.”

  My eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “This’ll be so much fun.” She giggled.

  As I watched, Annie went into the car, opened Sydney’s Prada canvas bag, and poured the worms inside, zipping it behind her, then changing her mind and unzipping it. “Worms need air,” she explained, slamming the limo door shut. “Don’t tell anyone I did it, okay?”

  “Did what?”

  “Watch me do cartwheels,” Annie said.

  I clapped while Annie executed three perfect cartwheels in a row.

  “Now you watch me,” I said, as I did a wobbly headstand. It had been years since I’d even tried one.

  Annie tickled my nose with a live worm she had stashed in her pocket, causing me to collapse in a fit of laughter. I sat next to her on the grass.

  “You’re cool. You should marry my dad.”

  “I can’t,” I told her. “He’s marrying Sydney.”

  “Yeah, the queen of the pig people.” Annie pushed the tip of her nose up and snorted a few times.

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “It’s obvious,” Annie said. “Dad’s got a daughter complex. He doesn’t see enough of me, so he has to marry a daughter substitute. That’s what Mom says.”

  “Nah,” I said. “I’ll let you in on something. Men don’t need daughter complexes to marry younger women. They do it because, well, it’s a reluctance to grow old. A young woman gives a man the illusion that youth is still his.”

  “You think?” Annie said. “C’mon, let’s tell them it’s time to leave. I want to go swimming.”

  When we stepped inside the shop, a man was serving our companions hot apple tea in clear mugs. Lucille and Carleen had bargained for rugs they would have shipped home. Denis and Sydney were choosing between six intricate silk pieces of varying size, no doubt for their new love nest.