by Dillon, Paul
“Eric said to head for the biggest boat,” said Ben.
“How many people are onboard?” she asked.
“Six. Oh, and Eric’s son—seven. I should have joined the cruise earlier but I was tied up in London.”
“Then we wouldn’t have met.”
“That’s right. Corfu, Paxi, Lefkada, I gave those islands a miss. Something told me to come straight to Kefalonia.”
“So this is the last island on the trip? You left it late.”
“There’s still Zante. I think the plan is to sail to Argostoli in the morning then Zante before dark; it’s pretty close. They’ll drop the boat off there and fly back to the States.”
A voice called above their heads. “Hey, Ben.”
Ben stopped, gave a mock-salute to his friend then stepped onto the gangway, stretching out his hand for Elena.
“Eric, good to see you.” Ben shook his friend’s hand at the bottom of the stairs.
“Glad you could make it. Joe’s up top, the girls have gone into the village.” Eric looked at Elena. “You didn’t say you were bringing a guest.”
“Oh, this is Elena. We just met. Elena, this is my good friend, Eric.”
In his early forties, and heavily tanned from a week in the sun, Eric stood six foot three in his flip-flopped feet.
“Welcome aboard, Elena. Why don’t I give you the tour?”
Stepping into the main cabin reminded Ben of his father’s yacht; sumptuous, with white leather seating and mahogany woodwork. An action movie played on a large-screen TV at the far end of the salon; its sound muted.
“Nice, eh? There are plenty of spots to hang out and enjoy a cocktail; here, the flybridge or the lounge area on the foredeck,” said Eric. “I’ll make up some drinks after I’ve shown you around.”
“Flybridge, foredeck,” Ben turned to Elena. “I forgot to pack my nautical phrase book.”
“You’ll get used to it.” Eric smiled. “This is the galley—kitchen to you.”
“You cooking tonight?”
“Not on this trip.”
“Eric’s quite a cook,” Ben explained.
“Here’s the cockpit, where all the technical stuff happens.” Eric pointed at the instrument panel in front of the wrap-around windshield.
“Is it German?” Ben sat down and played with the helm.
“French; we wanted something bigger but this was the largest bareboat we could find.”
“It doesn’t look bare to me,” said Ben.
“As I think you well know, a bareboat is a charter boat without a skipper. All the ones seventy feet and up had a crew and you know how I like to be in charge.”
Further aft, under the windshield, three steps led down to the staterooms. Ben’s feet sank into the plush white carpet that brushed up against the polished mahogany walls.
Eric opened the portside cabin door.
“Joe and Clotilde,” he said, allowing a few seconds for his guests to glance inside before closing the door. There was an identical bedroom on the starboard side.
“Alan’s sleeping in the skipper’s cabin, under the stern,” he went on.
“Alan is Eric’s son,” explained Ben. “How old is he now?”
“Ten.”
“Main bathroom … shower room’s opposite. And finally … the master’s suite.”
“Yours perhaps?” Ben stepped aside, letting Elena enter first.
It was hard not to be impressed. The stateroom had a king sized bed, closet space, mirrored wall and its own en-suite bathroom.
“So, what do you think?” asked Eric.
“Time for cocktails is what I think,” said Ben. He turned to Elena. “Do you like mojitos? Eric makes the best in all of Southern California.”
“Are you kidding? I love mojitos.”
Back in the main cabin, Ben stood, leaning against the small bar area, watching the maestro work on the drinks. “You’re having one, right?”
His friend grimaced at the redundant question.
As Eric mashed mint and lime juice into a Collins glass, Ben’s thoughts returned to scheming and Elena.
“So Eric, what’s the plan for tonight? I’m hoping the lovely Elena will be joining us for the evening.”
“Dunno, the only plan is, we have no plan. The girls will probably want to eat at a restaurant later; or we could have food delivered. I’m easy.”
He handed the mojitos to Ben, who passed one to Elena.
“Cheers.”
They chinked glasses.
“Let’s go up top,” suggested Eric.
Outside on the stern deck, Ben headed for the stairs.
“Not those,” said Eric. “They lead to the aft lounge.”
He started to climb a much steeper flight. Half way up, he stopped and looked back. “Be careful Elena, they’re very steep.”
Ben insisted she go before him, his chivalry brought his face its first brush against the silk of her legs.
Stark whiteness dazzled Ben as he poked his head through the trap door and got his first glimpse of the flybridge. The floor, the seats, the table; nothing of color existed. He flipped on his sunglasses and took stock of the view.
The upper deck was about twelve feet from the water, an excellent vantage point for observing the village street life. Ben noticed the second cockpit; the thought of steering the craft under a starlit sky flashed through his mind. Close to the trap door, a circular table sat in the center of wrap-around seating; a retractable canopy provided shade.
“Joe.” Ben raised his glass to a thickset man who leaned against the guardrail. By way of acknowledgment, the man lifted his beer bottle a foot off the rail and let it drop down again.
“So, you only got here last night and you met a girl already?” growled Joe.
In his mid-forties, Joe Marchetti was of Italian descent and fiercely proud of it. He had a grouchy manner, but possessed a sense of humor with a razor sharp wit. Joe liked to poke fun at people and Ben was often the butt of his jibes.
“Joe, meet Elena.” Ben’s wry smile let Elena know Joe’s remark was playful.
They both said ‘Hi’ at exactly the same time.
“So where’s the new French girlfriend?” asked Ben. “I’m dying to meet her.”
“She left him already. Gone looking for younger guys,” chipped in Eric.
“Guys?” said Ben.
“She told me she’d have more fun with two twenty-five year olds than with a fifty year old.”
“Fifty, who the hell’s fifty,” said Joe.
“Is the old Italian charm starting to wear off, then?” said Ben.
“Are you Italian, Joe?” asked Elena.
Ben replied on his behalf.
“No, he's American, from New Jersey. For some unknown reason, he just likes to think he's Italian.”
Joe let Ben finish.
“I was born in New Jersey. Both my parents are Italian.”
That was the about the limit of Joe’s sincerity. He reverted to type, turning his attention to Elena. “Where are your girlfriends? Call them up; we can all go out for a moonlight cruise.”
“You’re out of luck, Joe. They’re in Argostoli and it’s an hours’ drive from here. My cousin Sophia will be here soon though…”
“Sophia … there you go, Joe,” said Eric.
“Joe’s always babbling on about Sophia Loren,” Ben explained. He tried mimicking Joe’s accent, adding a whiny tone, “The most beautiful woman of all time.”
“My Sophia is pretty too, but she won’t be able to stay for your midnight cruise,” said Elena.
“That’s a pity. And even more of a pity that you hooked up with this guy.” Joe nodded at Ben.
In need of a wisecrack, Ben was beginning to flounder; he was no match for the Jersey boy. Clutching at straws, something popped into his head.
“Hey Joe, you just reminded me of an article I read on the flight over.”
“Yeah, what was that?”
”Some university research group
conducted a worldwide study of women’s sex lives…”
“You reading women’s magazines, now?”
“It was a science publication.”
“And?” said Joe
“So each time the women had sex, the researchers had them record how long it lasted.”
“Sounds like a woman’s mag to me,” said Joe.
“Get this … contrary to popular belief; the Italians didn’t perform too well. Apparently, Northern European men outperformed the Southern Europeans by a factor of thirty percent.”
Joe let out a gasp. It wasn’t surprise or laughter, but a strange mannerism of his. “Bullshit, go screw yourself.”
“No, honestly, I'm serious. In fact, Englishmen came out on top.” Ben paused to allow his audience to get the pun. “Followed by the Americans.” He was making it up as he went along.
“Who conducted the survey then, the BBC?” snapped Joe.
“I'll find the article on the Internet, and send it to you. In the meantime, try searching online for Italian Sex Rapido.”
“What’s a bonehead like you doing with a science magazine anyway?” Joe turned to Elena. “Ben can only manage really small books like The History of Great English Lovers.”
“This guy’s too good,” said Ben. “I just can't compete with him.”
“You are both funny,” she replied.
The banter paused. Sparring with Joe wasn’t easy. Still, he’d come away unscathed; was in good spirits and the mojito tasted good.
Elena’s phone beeped with a text message. She reached into her bag, retrieving the handset and turned to Ben. “It’s Sophia. I need to call her.”
“You’re going to be staying, aren’t you? You can’t leave yet.” His question, couched in a playful tone, masked his concern that Elena might be unable to persuade her cousin on board. “Tell her she’s invited to a party on a yacht.”
Elena got up, descended the steps, and stepped off the boat. Ben watched anxiously as she walked down the jetty with the telephone to her ear. He strained to hear her voice but could not.
“You dog, you,” said Eric.
“What?” Ben forced a smile. The guy talk had started, right on cue, the minute Elena moved out of earshot; Joe would surely say something next. Typically, Ben didn’t engage in the kind of lewd banter that was about to ensue. He preferred to keep low key and feign amusement. He kept his focus on Elena; she was outside one of the restaurants, seventy yards away.
“Look! He can’t keep his eyes off her. What are you, desperate or something? The guy’s tongue’s hanging out.” Joe was beside himself with glee.
“She probably has to go back to Argostoli with her cousin.” Ben refused to take the bait.
Depressing thoughts began to cross his mind. She might just carry on walking and not come back. He didn’t have her number. Her cousin might insist she leave right away; she may have no choice. He would not be able to find her again.
Being more anxious than the situation warranted concerned him. She was triggering unusual emotions.
Elena turned into a side street, disappearing from view.
“Ha, she’s left you,” said Joe. “So much for the great English …French lover—whatever the hell you are; she’s gone off to find an Italian.”
Repeatedly checking the time, made the minutes pass slowly. He kept calm, thinking logically. The girl was unlikely to walk off without saying goodbye, without so much as a wave. It was possible; perhaps there was an emergency. The obvious explanation; she was having difficulty persuading her cousin to come to the boat. He braced himself for further delay.
“Nobody can predict what a woman will do. Hey, I only just met her.” Ben’s reply was weak; he was unable to concentrate enough to continue the repartee.
Something in Ben’s tone must have dampened his friends’ enthusiasm for the topic. Their thoughts moved on; his did not.
“I’ll call the girls, see where they’re at,” said Eric.
More than ten minutes elapsed with no sign of Elena. Ben debated the merits of looking for her, deciding against it. He would look a fool chasing after her and he could hardly make an excuse like he’d left something at the hotel.
“They’re having coffee and ice-cream on the promenade,” said Eric. “They’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Relief came only after Elena and another girl emerged from a side street, heading towards the boat. He looked away, reengaging in the conversation; he would feign nonchalance should one of his friends spot them. Now that she was back, he analyzed the swing in his emotions: disappointment, lest she not return, followed by joy. He resolved to stop being so ridiculous about a girl he had only just met.
From his vantage point on the guardrail, Joe spotted them first. “Looks like your girlfriend’s back—she’s so-so but her cousin’s not bad.”
“I’ll get them a cocktail,” said Ben, heading for the stairway.
“Wow, pussy-whipped already,” barked Joe.
As Ben descended the stairs, Sophia and Elena reached the gangway. “Hey, you’re back. I thought you’d left me.”
He waited until they were on board before turning to the stranger. “This must be Sophia, the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She looked puzzled. Elena explained the remark.
“I’m a little overdressed, I’ve been working today,” said Sophia.
Ben took this to mean overdressed for a party, tonight’s party. “No worries. Let me get you a drink, what would you like? How about a margarita? These guys FedExed cases of tequila to the charter company.”
“Okay, but not a strong one. I have to drive back to Argostoli soon.”
“Another mojito, Elena?”
She nodded.
***
The excited shouts of a child heralded the return of the women. They paused at the sight of strangers. Recognizing Ben, the young boy rushed onto the boat and into the main cabin.
“Hey tiger,” said Ben. “Did you catch any fish yet?”
“Lots of them,” said the boy. “We caught a baby shark.”
“No way.”
“Yeah, way. It was like … this big.” The boy stretched his arms to their limit.
As Ben clowned, he weighed any advantage the child’s affection for him might have with Elena. No sooner had he earned the imaginary Brownie points, he promptly lost them. Ben’s eyes locked onto a stunning girl, who had just entered the cabin. By the time he realized he was ogling, Elena was glaring at him.
“This is Clotilde, from France; Joe’s friend.” Eric stepped up to make the introductions. “Clotilde, this is our friend, Ben.”
They shook hands, Ben greeted her in French and they continued conversing in that language.
“I was just telling Clotilde … I was born in Paris and my mother’s French,” Ben explained to Elena. As he spoke, he realized how presumptuous it was to assume Elena did not understand French.
“This is Elena, from Boston, she’s on vacation,” said Ben. “And this is her cousin, Sophia. Sophia is Greek and lives in Argostoli.”
He left the women to their introductions and leant against the table. Eric, like some Roman emperor, proclaimed a party underway.
“Everything okay?” Ben asked Elena.
She had disengaged from Sophia and was standing a few feet away.
“Sure,” she replied.
Lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, she confessed to a dilemma.
“Sophia wanted to drive back to Argostoli. I had a hard time persuading her to come.”
She touched his wrist, holding on to it momentarily, making Ben feel like a co-conspirator.
“There’s no way she will stay later than six-thirty,” she went on.
That left Ben less than two hours to work on Elena.
“Who’s the French girl?” Elena kept her voice to a whisper.
Clotilde had already been introduced to Elena. He interpreted her question as—don’t converse in French with her again—or worse, she
understood the conversation and was baiting him.
“That’s Clotilde, Joe’s girlfriend. I’ve never met her. Eric told me she is a model or actress … aspiring actress.”
He kept glancing over at Clotilde despite the risk. She wore a short cotton dress, black, like her hair, which reached down to her lower back. By any standard, this was a woman of outstanding beauty; he could recall seeing no finer. As far as looks were concerned, Elena didn’t compare to Clotilde. Shallow though Ben felt, comparing the two, a similar divide existed between his wealth and Joe’s. Somehow, this banal thought satisfied him.
Clotilde and Sophia stood by the main cabin door, chatting away like long-lost friends. Ben thought Sophia looked chic in her black business suit.
“I’ll go and bring them over.” He adjusted the pneumatic drinks table to a comfortable height. A white leather couch wrapped around, making an intimate space for conversation.
“You two seem to be hitting it off. Come sit with us.”
“Sophia was telling me about her grandfather’s gallery. I used to work at an art gallery in Paris. We have much in common.” Clotilde’s English had a heavy French accent. “We both studied art history.”
“Why don’t we visit the gallery tomorrow in Argostoli,” suggested Ben. He hoped to tie Sophia deeper into the plot.
“I’d like that. Is it in the center of town?” asked Clotilde.
“Yes, it’s close to the boutiques and restaurants. I can show you the sights if you like,” replied Sophia.
Ben decided it was time to isolate Elena from Sophia. He turned to Clotilde. “You must have seen some beautiful sunsets on the trip. Which was your favorite?”
“I think, maybe … Paleokastritsa.”
“I was in Paleokastritsa about ten years ago. Were you moored out in the bay?”
“Yes, right out in the channel. It was breathtaking,” said Clotilde.
“I bet Sophia knows all the best sunsets in the islands,” said Ben. “Have you got any recommendations for Clotilde?”
It was a calculated guess that Sophia would be familiar with Paleokastritsa and probably most of the other Ionian beauty spots. He rose and grabbed Elena’s hand. “Let s explore the aft lounge, we’ve not seen that yet.”
Clotilde could keep Sophia occupied for a while; he had to get Elena to himself if he stood any chance of keeping her on the yacht this evening.
