The Jetsetters

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  The wind whipped her hair as she burrowed against Matt on the long ride home. He had been her savior. But that was a long time ago.

  Regan didn’t have to open the email from Zoë. What was the point? She was furious that Zoë had called Cord. They all thought she was so dumb, that she had no plan, and was just going to float along like a goddamn cruise ship, letting everyone walk all over her.

  They were wrong.

  LEE WOKE UP TO kisses along her neck and rolled into Luigi’s sweet embrace. He was one of the captains, not the main one but still Italian, and had sent her a bottle of Cabernet at the Capitano Cocktail Lounge, where Lee and Cord had ended up after dinner. It was dimly lit, and Lee had had to squint when their waitress brought the wine and pointed to the table of men in uniform. Luigi had stood and bowed, blown her a kiss. He was a bit too old for her, but when he stopped by their table and asked if she’d like to walk along the Promenade, she’d smiled and said yes.

  “Hey,” Cord said, grasping her wrist as she stood. Lee looked at her brother, his drunken, pleading expression. “Lee Lee,” said Cord. “Come on. Don’t go. I haven’t seen you in so long. We need to talk.”

  “Oh, Cord,” said Lee. She looked at Luigi, waiting. “This is a cruise,” she said. “I’m just having fun.”

  “Just having fun,” said Cord morosely. “I get it, Lee Lee. I fucking get it. Adios.”

  Lee wanted to ignore Cord’s words—write them off to his being drunk—but of course, he did get it. For a moment, Lee contemplated sitting back down and talking to her brother, confiding in Cord about her botched career, her confusion, telling Cord how their father’s face had been blue when she found him hanging from the bathroom door. How she’d lifted him, wrapping her arms around his legs, and screamed. She’d stood in the bathroom holding him up for what seemed like hours. But Winston was already dead.

  Cord looked bereft. But being with him reminded Lee of a time she wanted to forget. Cord and Regan didn’t even know about Winston’s suicide. Charlotte had told them their father died from a heart attack.

  “I’m just having fun,” Lee insisted both to her brother and to herself. Luigi put his arm around her waist.

  Cord didn’t answer, didn’t look at her, just raised his hand to order another drink.

  * * *

  —

  THE PROMENADE AT NIGHT was magnificent, so high it felt as if they were closer to the starry sky than to the sea. How could Lee help but submit to Luigi’s embrace?

  She’d thought the awkward but appealing moonlit kisses might lead her to his secret, fancy captain cabin, but he’d taken her to her room instead. The sex had been pleasurable—Luigi’s unabashed thrill at her body was a huge turn-on—but then he’d gotten a call and had rushed off.

  Luigi phoned late at night and asked if she’d like some dessert. She would, Lee told him. He arrived a few minutes later with a molten chocolate cake and coffees. Lee enjoyed both, then another round of lovemaking.

  Afterward, he climbed from bed. Lee gazed up at the ceiling to avoid seeing his belly and wrinkled skin. “If I encounter you tonight,” said Luigi, “I will be with my wife and my family. The next night, I am free for a visit, if you like.”

  “Your wife?” said Lee. Her head began to pound: she should have known.

  “I told you, did I not?” said Luigi, standing and struggling into his pants.

  “You did not,” said Lee. She was surprised by her anger. The sight of Matt and Regan together had made Lee realize how fiercely she wanted something real, something she could count on. Yet here she was, discarded by a married man.

  “I think I did so, yes,” said Luigi.

  Lee knew how to feign strength. She strode to the door and opened it wide. “Get out,” she said, blinking back tears.

  “Americans,” said Luigi, shaking his head condescendingly.

  Lee took his shirt and captain’s hat and threw both into the hallway. Luigi sat on Lee’s bed, his arms folded over his chest. “Bring me back my clothings,” he said.

  “GET OUT!” screamed Lee.

  Luigi stood, and got out.

  Lee collapsed on her bed and pulled out her phone. She scrolled—as she often did to alleviate loneliness—through Regan’s pictures of her family with Matt. Somehow, the images produced not only envy but also a painful pleasure. It made Lee glad to look at photos of these well-loved girls as they moved through the world, a peace in their smiles unlike any Lee had ever known. What must it be like to feel safe?

  Regan, holding a girl by each hand as they watched a Georgia sunset.

  Lee wanted to be mothered.

  Isabella, one front tooth missing.

  Lee wanted to be a mother.

  Regan, looking rumpled in the background, admiring the girls in pink leotards.

  Lee would be a terrible mother.

  Flora and Isabella, sharing a milkshake.

  Lee’s period was late.

  CHARLOTTE WAS APPLYING LIPSTICK when she heard a knock. She admired her Fun Day at Sea ensemble—a yellow shift dress with gold ballet flats—then turned and opened the door.

  “Where shall I put your breakfast, ma’am?” said Paros, awkwardly balancing a tray with a carafe of coffee and covered dishes.

  “Oh, Paros. Thank you for helping me get home last night. I’m so embarrassed. How could I get lost like that? Though the hallways do look very similar.”

  “The tray?” said Paros, looking strained. “Where would you…?”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Anywhere is fine.”

  Paros laid the tray on her desk, then took a napkin and placed it with a flourish on her coffee table, setting a coffee cup upon the napkin. “How do you take your coffee?” he asked, lifting the carafe.

  No one had asked Charlotte how she liked her coffee in…maybe ever. She made her own coffee every morning in her Mr. Coffee, adding one Splenda and a dollop of milk to her cup. After Winston died, she stopped moving the milk into a china creamer, just grabbed the carton, used it, then put it back in the fridge. Young Charlotte had presented sugar cubes with silver tongs, had arrayed the Splenda packets in a shallow bowl! Charlotte was both sorry for and proud of the woman she had been.

  “A bit of milk and a Splenda, thank you,” said Charlotte.

  His brow furrowed. “I have a Sweet’N Low,” he said. “Will that do?”

  Will that do! What a hunk, thought Charlotte. A hunk—there was no other word! And there they were, in her cabin. What if he simply took her in his arms (oh my, they were hairy. She could see wiry gray and black hairs at the edge of his crisp shirt), dipped her toward the floor, as if in a movie, and touched his lips to hers? Charlotte covertly admired his strong shoulders. Heat rose in her chest. She had to stop reading her naughty novels!

  “Mrs. Perkins?” said Paros. “Will Sweet’N Low do?”

  “Sweet’N Low will be fine,” she stammered.

  As Paros prepared the coffee, Bryson’s dulcet tones came over the loudspeaker: “Good morning, Splendido Marveloso passengers! Are you ready for a full day of FUN FUN FUN aboard the Splendido Marveloso? Did you hear me? I hope you heard me say FUN because today is going to be a FUN day at sea!”

  Could one turn off the loudspeaker? Charlotte looked around the room for a switch. She couldn’t even figure out where the thing was located.

  “Let me start with the Poolside Fun,” crowed Bryson. “At noon, there’s an ice carving demonstration. At twelve-thirty—get ready, ladies and gents—it’s the Very Hairy Chest Contest!”

  Paros stepped into the hallway. “Paros!” cried Charlotte.

  “Ma’am?” said Paros, turning.

  Don’t leave! was what she wanted to say. “Are you Italian?” said Charlotte.

  “I am Greek,” said Paros.

  “From Athens?”

  “I’m from Ikar
ia. It’s an island.”

  Casting about for a way to keep the conversation going, Charlotte blurted, “Do you miss it?”

  “Yes,” said Paros. “Very much. Enjoy your breakfast, ma’am.”

  “I’ve never been to a Greek island. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Mrs. Perkins, have you ever had honey and yogurt for your breakfast?” said Paros.

  “Please, call me Charlotte.”

  “If you like,” said Paros.

  “I do. And I’m a widow, by the way.”

  “My sympathies,” said Paros. “My wife has also passed away.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Could he possibly be interested in her? In moving close enough to touch? Charlotte berated herself—she was an old woman. She knew that no one saw her as an object of desire. Yet how she wished that Paros’s formality was because he was at work, or unfamiliar with English. Or maybe—just maybe—nervous.

  “Honey and yogurt?” said Paros. “Have you had honey and yogurt for breakfast?”

  Charlotte knew he wasn’t flirting. He couldn’t be. Could he be? She felt giddy. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe I have. I’m a fan of English muffins for the most part.”

  Zip it! Charlotte admonished herself. A fan of English muffins?

  “I can bring you Greek honey,” said Paros. “My daughter makes it. It’s darker than American honey. It tastes like honeydew and thyme.”

  “I’d love that,” said Charlotte.

  Paros nodded. “Ikaria,” he said, without looking at her. “My island, it’s near Turkey.”

  “Oh,” said Charlotte. She tried to think of something more to add, a way of connecting, but Paros departed, the cabin door shutting behind him with a sound as final as the metal strike of scissors.

  Charlotte sat down on her bed. If she were the type of person who dwelled, she would feel sorry for Paros and his colleagues, who were surely paid badly and housed in cramped, below-the-water cabins. But Charlotte was resolutely not a person who dwelled. How could she be?

  Charlotte had once been someone who tried to get to the bottom of things. Winston, for example. She had continually tried to figure out what was wrong with him, attempting to anticipate what he might need or want so that she could keep him from sadness and, later, scotch. She had made his dinners with care, submitted to sex, woke early to shower and dress so that she could serve him breakfast with her face on.

  But all that changed one Saturday morning. Charlotte was sitting at the kitchen counter in her tennis whites, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. She’d dropped the younger kids at the Club and was waiting for Lee to wake up and pack her swimsuit. Winston had taken to falling asleep in the den, which was fine with Charlotte. She knew not to bother him until lunch, when he would like a turkey on rye with Grey Poupon mustard and Lay’s potato chips.

  Charlotte heard a scream. She looked up from five across (“Bobby Short’s ‘saloon,’ ” obviously “Café Carlyle”), her pencil still finishing the last “e.” There was no other sound. Charlotte waited, then returned to her puzzle. (Five down: “A pilot’s living room.”) Her brain whirred, and she counted the spaces—yes! “Cockpit.” She filled in the letters, then set down her pencil. She was still someone who investigated things, for a few more moments.

  Charlotte climbed the stairs slowly. She paused at the top, ears straining, but heard nothing more. Had she imagined the shriek? “Lee?” she called quietly.

  Lee’s response was a wail of agony. Charlotte rushed toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from Lee’s bathroom. Charlotte was wearing tennis socks with pom-poms. Lee’s room smelled of drugstore perfume. In her bathroom, Lee was standing on tiptoe, hugging Winston, whose face—

  Why did he do it in Lee’s bathroom?

  How could she tell her friends?

  What if Charlotte had looked for him before she took the kids to the Club?

  How could he leave her alone?

  What was she supposed to do now?

  Oh, Winston, why?

  * * *

  —

  YOU COULD KEEP ASKING questions, or you could stop. To survive, Charlotte did what she had to do. To this day, she could hardly look Lee in the eye. Only Lee knew how profoundly Charlotte had failed. Charlotte knew the truth weighed heavily on her oldest girl. She knew that Lee was breaking. The questions loomed: could Lee bear—

  No. Charlotte swallowed. You could keep asking questions, or you could stop. Charlotte bowed her head and prayed, asking God to take care of Paros and Lee; Cord and Regan; her mother, father, and Minnie in heaven; and last, Charlotte herself. Then she stood, readying herself for a fun day at sea.

  WHEN SHE OPENED HER curtains, Charlotte was amazed by the lively scene that had replaced the placid horizon. Pulling on her bathrobe, she stepped outside. Below the ship, a wide parking lot was lined with tour buses and taxis. Past a highway lay a medieval world: fortress walls, crenellated at the top, met deep blue sky. And was that a turret? Charlotte imagined a knight on his steed, cantering against the Greek breeze, brandishing a silver shield. And a dagger! Entering one of the dark passageways that led into…a moat? That the steed could leap over? A harem of lovely…princesses? A lawn-like battlefield? Charlotte definitely needed to brush up on medieval Europe. She went back into her room to find her coffee tray and a tiny, wrapped box.

  Her heart beating fast, Charlotte opened the present and found a jar of honey. In the mirror above her dressing table, her expression was delighted, her cheeks rose-colored without any blusher.

  Charlotte remembered her mother, how she never emerged from her room in the morning without a full face of makeup. When Charlotte was fifteen, Louisa had taken her to a beauty counter and bought Charlotte a bag of cosmetics. “Why do I need these?” Charlotte had asked on the way home, poking through the tissue paper to fondle jars of foundation and liquid rouge.

  “Can you imagine what would happen if I stopped putting on my face?” asked Louisa. She barked, a sad laugh.

  “What?” said Charlotte.

  “Your father would find someone who hadn’t let herself go,” said Louisa.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” said Charlotte.

  Louisa stared out the window. “Let’s not find out,” she said.

  Charlotte’s parents had acted as if they were always on TV. They evaluated themselves and each other, speaking in fake voices. Charlotte’s father called Louisa “darling,” but they were rarely alone, and Charlotte never saw them embrace.

  Maybe this was why Charlotte yearned for sex. It was messy and real. You couldn’t be naked with another person and remain perfectly put together. Sure, your lover might leave you, might think you were ugly and wrinkled. But maybe that was the risk you had to take to connect to another. Was it too late for Charlotte to take the risk?

  She slipped the jar of honey into her beach bag.

  CORD HAD READ THAT the medieval city of Rhodes had actual castles, Byzantine temples, knights’ buildings, mosques, stone-paved streets, and a moat. As they shuffled off the ship into a parking lot filled with idling tour buses, he put his hands on his hips and envisioned himself from above: just a small dot on a crazy island between Athens and Turkey in the midst of the Aegean Sea. How far away his actual life seemed.

  He put his arm around his mother and smiled as one of the ship’s ever-present photographers snapped a picture of them behind a cardboard cutout of a life preserver with RHODES, GREECE printed in (what else?) glowing orange. His sisters crowded in, unable to resist a chance to preen: Lee with her giant sunglasses and cosmetically enhanced lips pouted in what she’d told Cord was called “duck face” and Regan with an “oh, who me?” expression better suited to a twelve-year-old. Cord’s spirits sank; he was glad he’d had a few mimosas to buffer the misery of being with his family.

  “Look!” cried Regan.
“A little trolley!”

  There was, indeed, a tiny trolley in the parking lot, accompanied by a man who looked a great deal like Zorba the Greek, if Zorba had worn a conductor’s hat and held a sign advertising RHODES TOWN CITY TOUR 7 EUROS ONLY!

  “Let’s do it!” said Regan, grabbing Cord’s arm. When he snatched it away instinctively, she looked stricken.

  “Sorry,” said Cord. “I just…we already have a tour arranged, so I thought…”

  “It’s fine,” said Regan, her voice steely.

  Matt the Philanderer had stayed on the ship for the day, telling them at breakfast that he had some work to catch up on. Cord wanted to punch him. He turned to Charlotte, who—despite her extremely bright beach outfit—looked small and a bit overwhelmed. “Mom?” he said. “Do you have the tickets?”

  “Tickets?” said Charlotte.

  Cord’s stomach ached. He yearned to reach into his pocket for the tiny bottle of Jägermeister he’d stuck there for emergencies.

  “Yassus! Yassus!” said a young woman, approaching them. “You are for the beach?”

  “We are for the beach,” said Charlotte proudly, gesturing to her monogrammed, terry-cloth cover-up (which matched her monogrammed visor and monogrammed beach bag).

  Regan strode ahead of them toward the bus, followed by Charlotte. Cord turned to his older sister. “We need to talk about Regan,” he blurted, desperate to share the bad news. “Zoë called me. There’s some very bad news. About Matt.”

  “What?” said Lee.