Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  Tea for Two

  THAT NIGHT, BEFORE DINNER, I asked Carleen to meet me for tea in the dimly illuminated Crystal Cove. The Tiffany Line, in an act of pure genius, lit its rooms with special pink-tinted bulbs that made anyone appearing in their soft glow look ten years younger—instant face-lift! Naturally, they sold the bulbs in the gift shop. That’s what I love about the Tiffany Line. No detail is too small.

  Carleen was on time, wearing a vintage black chiffon Poiret with a skirt depicting the jungle designs of Henri Rousseau in white pearls, seed beads, rhinestones, and silk embroidery. It was the kind of important piece I would love to showcase in our museum if I didn’t get fired. The Met had already done a Poiret exhibit, but we could show it as part of a different theme, maybe designers inspired by art of the twentieth century. If we did it in conjunction with MoMA, we could exhibit paintings right next to the dresses they inspired. Just last fall, I recalled, Marc Jacobs showed his line in Bloomingdale’s windows with Jean Claude Wouters’ photographs hung behind the mannequins. Yes, this was an idea with legs. But back to the business at hand—enlisting Carleen’s help in getting the fuzz off my back.

  “Carleen, you are chic, chic, chic,” I marveled.

  “Thanks, darlin’. Priceless gowns become me.”

  I leaned into her. “I have something really important to tell you,” I whispered. “But it’s a secret.”

  “You’re a lesbian! I knew it.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I said. “Why would you say that?”

  “Your short haircut.”

  I sighed. “Carleen, seriously, this is very important and you have to swear not to tell anyone. If you do, I could end up in big trouble, jail even.”

  A soft gasp escaped her lips. “Then, darlin’, don’t tell me,” she said. “I can’t be trusted. I’ll forget and blurt it out at dinner or write about it in my memoirs.”

  “Carleen, please, I need your help.”

  She raised her hand and snapped her fingers twice. “Waiter, drinks.”

  “You don’t want tea?” I said.

  “I’ll take something stronger.”

  I lowered my voice and leaned forward, explaining that there would be a new man at our table who was investigating me for a crime I didn’t commit (it’s true—I was hand delivering those costumes, not stealing them, and they were supposed to be knockoffs, not originals). I asked Carleen to get to know him and to distract him from watching me. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “Holly, I may be old, but I’m not dead. Of course I can.”

  “I knew I could count on you. His name is Frank Flannagan. He claims to be an orthodontist, but he’s really with Interpol.”

  “Interpol,” Carleen said. “Sounds like James Bond.”

  A waiter in a tux offered us antipasti from a silver tray. I took a piece of shrimp wrapped in prosciutto.

  “Flannagan’s cute for a cop,” I said. “My butler pointed him out before you came. Looks about sixty, olive skin, deep brown eyes, very dark hair—in fact, he seems hairy all over.”

  “Mmm, I like ’em hairy,” Carleen mused. “Aston had the hairiest chest. Did you notice that when he was lying in state? Why is it always the hairy ones who die young?”

  “Carleen, his heart gave out.”

  “Yes, darlin’, but I read in USA Today that hairy men die earlier than their bald counterparts. It’s because of progesterone.”

  The waiter came by and brought us each a glass of wine. We didn’t specify what we wanted. The ship kept track of each passenger’s preferences and served them before we even asked. Talk about service that delights and astonishes.

  “To Aston,” I said, clinking my glass with Carleen’s. “A good man, a hairy man.”

  OUR CELEBRITY CHEF, ENRICO Derflingher, prepared that night’s feast. Naturally, the Tiffany Line spared no expense, flying in ten members of his staff to join the ship in Athens. The dining room had been transformed to resemble a romantic Italian palazzo illuminated by thousands of tall flickering candles, casting a mellow golden glow. We started with risotto served alla pescatore (with seafood), followed by fillet of turbot, lobster, or lamb. (I went with medium-rare leg of lamb, hoping it had been taken out of the freezer before Aston was interred.) Dessert was a mascarpone cheese tart with fresh whipped cream. It wasn’t chocolate, but it was tasty. In deference to Aston’s passing, Captain joined us even though it wasn’t technically a formal night. Plus let’s face it; no one wants to miss a meal prepared by Chef Derflingher. As was the custom, Captain sprang for the booze. Whoo-hoo!

  Later, as we were meandering over to the Saloon, I sidled up to our newest tablemate. “Excuse me, Frank. I’m wondering if you can help me with something.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  I whipped my headgear out of my bag. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Sure, it’s a headgear.”

  “Yes, well, it got bent and I’m wondering if you could adjust it for me.”

  “Gee, I didn’t bring my tools with me,” Frank said. His left eyelid twitched as he spoke.

  I knew it, I thought. First he called it a headgear instead of by its professional term, appliance. Then he came up with a likely excuse as to why he couldn’t fix it. And then he called his instruments his “tools.” Last but not least, his eyelid twitched when he lied. This man was no orthodontist. I would have to tread carefully around him.

  We all gathered in the Saloon. Pops and Lucille brought Bunny, who was dressed in full widow’s weeds (veil included). I wondered whether she traveled with funeral attire or bought it in the gift shop. With so many old passengers, they’d have to carry mourning clothes in the store. In fact, I think I recalled seeing them near the granny panties. Pops was plying her with gin so she was feeling no pain.

  That gave me an idea. Why not hold an exhibit of widows’ weeds through the ages! That would be fun. Well, maybe “fun” is not the operative term. We could show the dress Jackie donned at JFK’s funeral, the outfit Audrey Hepburn (as Reggie Lampert) wore at her husband’s viewing in Charade, the hoop-skirted widow’s weeds Scarlett O’Hara donned as she danced with Rhett Butler, and…well, there have to be other famous mourning dresses we could feature. But I’ll think about it tomorrow, I decided.

  In front of the bar, two passengers were rolling out the Persian rugs they’d bought in Kusadasi, asking people what they thought of them, showing them from both sides so they could demonstrate how the colors went from light to dark depending on where you stood, telling anyone who would listen what they cost. I thought that was tacky, but the guests acted interested. By the time we finished our second round of drinks, the piano player ended his last set. So Pops approached the ivories and stopped the room with his music. Some of the songs were old favorites, others he improvised, blowing everyone away with his talent. I was awfully proud of him.

  “Play ‘Our Love Is Here to Stay,’” Bunny slurred. “It was our song.”

  Pops lifted his glass of whiskey. “To Aston and Bunny,” he toasted.

  It’s very clear, our love is here to stay…

  Captain joined our table and bought yet another round of drinks. It felt good that he wanted to be with me. He was the ship’s Sting and I was his Trudie Styler, basking in the glow of his celebrity. I looked around the bar for Denis, hoping he’d see me with the captain, but he wasn’t there. “Where’s your son?” I asked Lucille.

  “Oh, he took Annie to the outdoor movie tonight,” she said. “Sydney didn’t want to go. Something about those silly worms.” She gestured with her head toward Sydney, who was at the back of the bar whispering into Manny’s ear, a drink in one hand, a pink five-pound weight in the other.

  “I thought you liked her,” I said under my breath, lest Bunny hear.

  Lucille hiccupped. “Excuse me,” she whispered. “Don’t get me wrong. The dynasty that will be created with this marriage will be fabulous, fabulous! My husband would have been proud of what I’ve engineered. I just wish the girl were more
mature and less tiresome. I don’t think she likes kids, and they’ll have to produce an heir. Seeing how she is with Annie, I’m not sure what kind of mother she’ll be.”

  “If she fails, they can always breed poodles,” I joked.

  “Excuse us,” Frank said. “We’re going to the bar by the pool.”

  Carleen gave me the thumbs-up signal as she followed Frank out the door. I could relax. The cop was off my tail.

  How Long Has This Been Going On?

  DURING POPS’ SECOND SET, Bunny lay her head down on the table and simply deflated. When he and Lucille tried to rouse her, she mumbled something about throwing herself off the balcony and into the ocean. “Come,” Pops said, helping her up. “You can use some fresh air and I could use a smoke.”

  “Good idea,” Captain said to me. “How about a walk? There’s nothing like sea air right before a storm.”

  “Did you say storm?” I said. “Do I need Dramamine?”

  Captain laughed. “It’ll be mild and gone by the morning. You’ll sleep through most of it.”

  Lights from a town on the distant shore twinkled dimly. Captain took my hand and we strolled the Lido Deck, where I noticed we were having trouble walking straight. It was the weather, not the alcohol. “I should hire your father to perform on the ship,” he said. “He’s fantastic.”

  “Yes, he’s a wonderful musician,” I said. “I’m sure he’d say yes if you offered him a job. What’s that noise?”

  Captain pointed to the stairs leading to the Platinum Deck. “They’re showing An Affair to Remember on the outdoor screen.”

  “That’s one of my all-time favorites,” I said. “Whoa.” Captain caught me as I momentarily tipped sideways.

  As we rounded the bow of the ship, which was swaying and rolling just enough to make me feel nauseous, we heard the moans and groans of a couple going at it in a secluded area where the chaise lounges were stored at night. Captain put on his official face and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “You’ll have to take that inside.”

  “Oh, puh-lease,” the woman said. “Mind your business.” She threw something at him.

  He jumped out of the way, but not before a loud whump sounded. “Yeow!” Captain shouted. “My toe!”

  “I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain…” voices sang out.

  I looked over. There was Pops linking arms with Lucille, Bunny, Carleen, and Frank Flannagan, just like Dorothy and her motley crew as they made their way to Oz. Only Pops and his pals were tipsy, tripping and laughing, stumbling as they sang—that is, until they ran into us.

  “Captain, are you all right?” Pops said. “Did you fall?”

  “No, I did not fall,” Captain said, limping over to retrieve a pink, jewel-encrusted five-pound weight. “Someone threw this at me.” Captain hopped on one foot to the dark corner and switched on a light. Oops. There were Sydney and Manny in all their natural glory.

  “Hhhhuuuuuh!” Lucille gasped, her eyes boinging from their sockets.

  I couldn’t believe it. This was no random act of sex we had stumbled upon. Au contraire, it was Sydney, and she’d been caught in flagrante delicto by her future mother-in-law. Sodom and Gomorrah on the Lido Deck. Yikes! Let the fireworks begin!

  Sydney tried to cover herself, but what could she do with two hands and three private parts. It was impossible not to stare at her nuda (that’s Italian for naked) bits. I’m talking boiled-chicken naked, not a pube on her vajayjay. Her full, round breasts defied gravity. She obviously worked her tushy off to achieve that level of perfection. Sydney was a Greek goddess, a Girl Next Door, and a Victoria’s Secret model all rolled into one. Seeing Sydney Bass and her perfect ass(ets) helped me understand why men who had everything always wanted one of those for their very own.

  “Promise you won’t tell Denis,” Sydney begged Lucille. “He’ll call off the wedding. You don’t want that.”

  Tee-hee, I laughed (on the inside).

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bunny said, sounding surprisingly lucid considering how liquored up she was. “You don’t fool around until you have a ring on your finger. How many times have I told you that?”

  “I have to say something,” Carleen said.

  “Don’t,” Lucille admonished. “This is our family business.”

  “That’s what I mean, it’s business,” Carleen said. “The boy should marry for love.”

  “A union with infidelity can never work,” I declared.

  “Holly, hush,” Pops said. “Just because that was true for you doesn’t mean it’s true for everyone. C’mon, let’s give the lovers their privacy.” He gathered up his posse and moved them along. I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain…” The group skipped off with Lucille looking back nervously.

  “Goddamn you, Manny,” Sydney said, retrieving her clothes, which were scattered about. “This is all your fault. Where’s my BlackBerry? I can’t find my BlackBerry.”

  “You’re the one who likes to do it in public places,” Manny whined.

  Captain sat on a deck chair and rubbed his foot. “I think you broke my toe.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that. If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have thrown it,” Sydney said. “Holly, you’ll cover for me if Lucille says anything, right?”

  I gaped at Sydney and thought, Why would I want to help you? Why? But as I prided myself on not being impolite, I didn’t say that.

  “Will you?” she pressed.

  “You want me to lie for you?” I said. “Tell me, do you love him?”

  “Who? Manny?”

  “No. Denis,” I said.

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “Why would you ask me such a ridiculous question?”

  Thank you. I had my answer.

  THAT NIGHT, I BARELY slept as the “little” storm Captain predicted raged, raged, raged against the dying of the night. The wind howled and the ship pitched and groaned like it was about to break in half. One of the tenders that hadn’t been tightly secured banged against the hull—boom, boom, boom. I peeked out the window and watched the lighting make the sea appear and disappear in gray ghostly flashes. Little storm? I think not. Oh, how I wished I’d never seen the remake of The Poseidon Adventure. I kept imagining a rogue wave whooshing out of nowhere and swamping the ship. Why hadn’t I mustered for the safety drill? Why? Of course, if we were to find ourselves capsized and upside down, it would be impossible for me to swim to safety, not with my terrible sense of direction. It felt like the night that wouldn’t end. Eventually, I must have passed out because next thing I knew, the sun was sifting through the part in my curtains and the ship had docked in Istanbul.

  Just in Time

  SINCE I WAS EXHAUSTED (and in deference to the Midnight Express prison), I turned over and went back to sleep. Sadly, I would miss the spice market, the grand bazaar, the Blue Mosque, and the Topkapi Palace, all of which I had been looking forward to seeing. I would just have to read about them in Fodor’s and pretend I’d actually visited for my friends back home if they asked. Could I be any sorrier about borrowing those Audrey costumes? Losing them was ten times worse than losing Alessandro, which, by the way, didn’t seem quite so tragique anymore.

  A knock on my door interrupted my drowsy contemplation.

  “Just a minute,” I said, thinking I must have forgotten to put out the Do not Disturb sign. Donning the luscious Frette bathrobe that came with the suite, I opened the door.

  “May I come in?” John looked both ways.

  “Of course,” I said, pointing toward my balcony. I slid open the glass door, stepped outside, and gestured for John to sit in one of my teak chairs.

  “I have the trunk and your suitcase,” he said under his breath.

  “Hhhhhh,” I gasped. “Already?” I said. “What time is it?”

  “It is after ten o’clock. I retrieved them as soon as we docked. The trunk, it is hidden away in the ship where no one will find it. You needn’t give it another thought,” he said. “Th
e bellman will bring your suitcase within the hour.”

  A feeling of such enormous relief swept over me that I practically swooned. “Thank you,” I said, hugging him. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

  “No, I could see you were concerned, but now you must relax and enjoy the rest of your trip,” he said. “I will deliver the trunk in Roma. Tell me, which museum is hosting the exhibit?”

  “It’s the Istituto di Moda,” I said. “That’s in the Galleria Borghese.”

  “I know it well.”

  “Wait,” I said, “don’t you think we should inspect the trunk, make sure nothing’s missing?”

  “I don’t believe it’s necessary,” John said. “Jorge said they realized the mistake when his passenger’s key wouldn’t open the lock. Nothing has been touched.”

  I sighed with relief. “Let me pay you something extra for all your trouble,” I said, stepping inside to get my wallet out of the safe.

  “No, no, no,” John said, shaking his finger as though insulted. “Pleasing you is what pleases me.”

  “Well, you’re my hero,” I said. “You have delighted and astonished me.”

  As soon as John left, I remembered that my bras and panties had been thrown in the trunk at the last minute. I wondered, would it be too much to ask him to get those for me so I could be liberated from the underpants-for-two I’d been wearing? I decided to leave well enough alone. Surely I could pick up new panties in Santorini, our next port.

  I celebrated the safe return of the Audrey costumes with a Pilates class, followed by a Lomi Lomi massage and then an antiaging facial (where they dipped my hands and feet in paraffin just for good measure). The spa was practically empty, since most people were touring Istanbul.

  After lunch, I went to see the Whirling Dervishes of Rumi, who were performing on board for the passengers who hadn’t gotten off the ship. For some odd reason, I had always thought whirling dervishes were twirling birds. But no, they were men who took vows of poverty and danced as a way of worshipping God. Wearing dramatic, flowy white robes and tall black hats, they raised their arms, with one palm facing heaven, one facing earth, and spun counterclockwise so fast and furiously that you couldn’t believe they didn’t fall over when they were done, and yet they did not. The costumes were beautiful and the music hypnotic, but I finally left because I was feeling dizzy. As I exited the theater, I caught Frank Flannagan’s eye and he smiled. What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he touring with everyone else?