CHAPTER TWO
Mammoth.
Megan had never seen a cruise ship up close, and that was the first and only word that repeated through her mind. Turning from the 15-story-high ship, she faced the expansive concrete dock that was about the size of two football fields. It teemed with masses of people, luggage, and uniformed help in all shapes and sizes, shouting in various languages and competing with the squawks of birds overhead. Smaller vessels were tied up farther down the pier while seagulls flew constantly in search of leftovers. Various groups of people clustered around tall signs announcing names of companies, and young children laughed and chased one another in between the moving humanity. So much stimulation—every sense and nerve felt strung like the rope on the gangways.
But the salt air was heavenly, and she breathed it in. For the past few days, Megan had finally begun to feel ready for this new phase, wrapping her mind around performing. A few painful and very long days in the dance studio had yielded sore muscles and the need for a lot of ibuprofen.
“Last call for Premier Performers,” a voice blared from a megaphone.
Megan moved toward the sound and away from the vast ship. A crowd of 20-somethings gathered—tanned, pert, and talkative. She shook her head. Of course that was them.
Jillian saw her first. “Megs, over here!” Notifying the group, she hurried over to Megan, giving her a quick hug. She eyed the one small suitcase and Megan’s normal-sized purse. “This is it? Good thing there’s outlet shopping at two of the ports.”
“I don’t shop anymore.”
“Uh-huh. Just keep saying it like a mantra.” Jillian moved her through the crowd toward the group where a silver gray-haired man with a deep tan stood next to a woman in an obvious black-hair wig and red sequin show dress. The woman directed a blond, nicely built young man in a mango colored T-shirt carrying stacked boxes labeled “Premier Performers.” Megan smiled as the woman couldn’t decide where to put them and the young man patiently acquiesced to her repeated change of mind.
“Come on now, gals and gents,” said the tanned man. With a charming smile he carried himself like he’d been a catch in his day. “Welcome. We’re so glad to see so many familiar faces, although Kyle, we’ll be confiscating any contraband fireworks before boarding this time.” A spiky brown-haired young man waved to the laughing group.
“And we welcome someone new to the Premier Performers team this year—Miss Megan McCormick, thanks for joining us.” He made a slight bow toward her. She returned an awkward smile, feeling 20 pairs of eyes suddenly on her. “Very pleased to have you here, Megan. And hope you brought bunion pads and Band-Aids, you’re gonna need ’em.”
Some laughed, some nodded seriously.
“I’m Clint—as in Eastwood, except I’m much younger of course—and this is my wife, Minerva. But only I get to call her Marvy,” he said, winking at his wife. “Well, we’re all here now, and I’ve just a few bits of vitally important information that can’t be missed, which means you will keep right on texting.”
A chuckle rippled through the group.
Megan glanced at the human sea of tan and sparkle, noting a few differences here and there. One guy stood playing on a handheld video game with an intense focus and junior high hairstyle.
Definitely crew.
She scanned to a slim peroxide blonde sinuously shrugging her shoulders as she spoke to the guy next to her. Megan leaned into Jillian. “Okay, that’s a Tiffany, Bambi, or a Brittany.”
“Straight up,” said Jillian out of the side of her mouth. “Brittany Shay Weller.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t forget the Shay. She doesn’t like that.”
Clint began detailing luggage information and meal times. As Megan listened, she felt a slight pressure close in on her, like someone watching her. Discreetly turning her head, she saw a caramel blond-haired surfer wannabe staring at her through the listening heads. Megan squinted, recognizing the mango T-shirt he wore. Was it the same box mover guy? He was part of the performance company? The surfer continued to unabashedly stare but not in an interested way, more with a perplexed look. She couldn’t tell what it meant. Not that she cared.
Megan turned her attention back to Clint. After a few minutes she glanced sideways. Surfer Boy still looked at her.
What is his deal? Megan ignored his distinctive jawline and checked her T-shirt and khakis—no, no stains. She looked up and saw him chuckle, as if he knew what she had just done. She scowled.
Men.
Inwardly, she mocked his tousled hair just to make herself feel better: that wavy kind of casual thing as if he’d just gotten out of bed. It reminded her vaguely of a magazine cover. She shifted her gaze to appear mesmerized by a seagull standing still.
She could feel it. He still looked at her.
Totally uncalled for, and frankly, downright rude. Probably from California, where the “rolling stop” originated. Abruptly, she turned her head toward him and stared right back, telepathing, “You. Are. A. Jerk.”
He smiled. A wry, knowing smile.
Was he telepathic?
Narrowing her eyebrows, she telepathed, “Leave. Me. Alone,” and turned away.
“We’ll have a cast orientation and first rehearsal in one hour—”
A collective groan went through the group.
“That’s right, on the Coral Stage. My Marvy will hand out your cabin assignments. I’ve already got mine,” he said, looking at his wife.
“Go on.” She sheepishly smiled back then clapped her hands, ample bracelets jangling as she distributed slips of paper. The group dispersed amidst friendly chatter with roommate assignments in hand. Jillian took the paper and hurried over.
“Vista Deck, cabin 535. We’re in the same one, isn’t that perfect?” Jillian was breathless, her ponytail bobbing behind her so that she looked sixteen instead of twenty-three. “There are four to a cabin, minimal space. But don’t worry,” she said, immediately scanning the crowd. “There’s more room for makeup and stuff in the stage closet. Oh!” Jillian was up on her toes. Apparently she’d seen Derek.
“I’ll be right back.”
Megan had a feeling she would hear that phrase most of the summer.
That pressured sensation of being watched came again. This time, Megan turned with her hand on her hip, only to see Marvy walking towards her.
“Hello, dear.” She gave Megan a hard peck on the cheek then took her hands and pulled them out to survey her. “Lovely to have you here. I’ve heard such rave reviews about you.” The sunlight glanced off the sequins on her polyester dress. “If you should need any little thing, just let Clint or me know.”
Marvy tugged Megan’s shirt at the shoulders, fitted it at the waist, then ran her hand down the side of her pant leg and pulled at the khaki pant cuffs as if assessing an imaginary fit. Megan looked around awkwardly.
“Um, yes, I will,” said Megan.
“Well then, a delight, a wonder, a treat to have you.” She pulled Megan’s chestnut hair to the side, checking it as a different style, then shaking her head, smiled and moved onto to the next unsuspecting person.
Recovering from the on-site fitting, Megan had almost reached the gangplank when she stopped.
The paper. Her room assignment. Jillian had it, meaning it was long gone in a starry-eyed haze. Well, the cabin couldn’t be that hard to find.
Stepping on the short black bridge from the dock to the ship with her ID card ready, Megan paused. This was it. Now or never, no turning back, no crying to Mama—though she would never do that anyway. Gazing up at the massive ship and back down to her small feet, she breathed in the salt air, adjusted her luggage hold, and strode across the gangplank.
Somewhere behind her, Megan felt that same impression of someone watching her. But this time, she tossed her head and walked on.
***
Megan searched the hallway signs for “Vista Deck,” trying to remember Jillian’s breathless information on the dock. If only she ha
d the paper. For no reason at all, a tall, blond man in a mango T-shirt came to mind.
Jerk.
Mentally, she continued to deride him for five more minutes, noting the way his white teeth had stood out against his tanned face. Why had he looked at her that way? It had been so odd—and yet compelling. Megan shook her head, ignoring a small flutter in her stomach. It didn’t matter, anyway. She had more important things to focus on. Like not making a complete fool of herself at the first rehearsal. And finding her room.
After a few more minutes of wandering hallways, Megan paused. Angry sounds echoed from around the nearest corner and she edged closer for a look.
A large man standing with his back to her wearing bright shorts and black socks berated a maid standing at her cart.
“I said fresh towels. Does it look like I have fresh towels?”
“No, sir, bery sorry. No one say to me.” A Latino girl—maybe in her early twenties—standing next to a cleaning cart handed him a stack of white towels. She bowed her head apologetically.
“And I asked for them ten minutes ago. What’s wrong with you people?”
The man stomped away in the opposite direction while the girl wiped her eyes and began placing golden wrapped chocolates in a decorative bag.
Megan wasn’t sure what to do until the girl looked up at her and gave a hesitant but courteous smile.
Megan walked toward her. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes watered slightly but she nodded.
“You must work very hard,” said Megan, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes, I work bery hard,” she said it quietly, as a statement. But there was a confidence to her, and an optimism in her tone.
Megan took in the light sheen of perspiration on the girl’s skin and the dark puffy circles beneath her eyes. “Thanks for all you do. I’m sure there are some long days. Hopefully you know the passengers appreciate it.”
With a shy smile the girl passed Megan a chocolate, which she accepted. “Thanks. I mean, ‘gracias.’ I don’t remember much of my high school Spanish. But your English is very good.”
The girl nodded as a little child. “I teach you. My name. You say, ‘Cómo te llamas.’ Okay? You try?”
Megan unwrapped the chocolate. “Cómo te—was it llamas?”
“Rosa. Mucho gusto. Dat means, nice meet you. I speak only English, dat is good, no? So I ask you, what your name?”
“Megan McCormick.”
“Very pretty name for pretty girl. Now, how help you? Are ju lost?”
Megan felt the watched feeling again and looked around the fluorescent-lit hallway, barely wide enough for the cart and another person. She thought she saw a blur of mango color at the hall intersection but maybe she was wrong. “I’m trying to find the Vista Deck, and I think room 535.”
She nodded knowingly. “Dis good news. Dis Vista Deck. All singers and dancers stay on dis floor, no? Boys here, girls dere. Make it separate, good idea, no?” Rosa shared an earnest look that made Megan laugh.
“Good idea, yes,” said Megan. “Thanks, these chocolates are really tasty. I mean, gracias for la chocolate?”
Rosa’s smile spread over her face. “Bery good, Megan McCormick.” She handed Megan several more chocolates and pointed to the right hallway with her other hand. “Buena suerte. Dat good luck.” She entered the open room door behind the cleaning cart.
“Buena suerte, Rosa.” Megan turned and walked a few feet to the end of the hallway when she saw a familiar back of a head walking away from his room—the video gamer with the junior high hair cut from dockside, it had to be. He would know where the Coral Stage was.
He turned the corner and she hurried after him only to smack into Surfer Boy.
“Oh, I’m so—you?” Megan blushed.
“Still me, last time I checked.” He just stood there—a six foot two, massively attractive mango road block. How long had he been standing there—was he the color blur from earlier? Possible, but realistically, what reason would he have for watching her talk with a maid?
Megan needlessly adjusted her shoulder luggage strap. “I meant … I mean—” She couldn’t gather her thoughts. Looking down at her, he wore a particular smile—less arrogant than before, this time more gentle and appraising. As Megan tried to get by him they sidestepped a few times before she finally put her free hand on his chest to stop him.
In a shocking second, something of a tingle passed through her, like the first seconds of immersing her cold body in a hot bath. Touching a man—it had been a while and she had forgotten how it felt, like this.
No.
She did not want to feel that, to feel anything.
“Okay—I’m passing on the right,” she said.
“Need help with your—”
“Nope, I’m good.” She had already moved beyond him, striding down the hall without looking back. She refused to think about the hot bath tingle.
A few minutes later she found room 535 but realized in the surprise meeting of Surfer Boy, she still didn’t know the location of the Coral Stage. Megan groaned. After pulling out her dance wear, she quickly stowed her luggage in the cabin’s miniscule drawers and—as she was the only one present—chose the left bottom bunk. Jillian was apparently still with lover boy and there was no sign of her other roommates, except for an expensive-looking set of baby blue embossed suitcases. Megan located a ship’s map and after changing clothes headed in the right direction.
By the time she entered the theater doorway, Megan could see that most of the cast and crew members sat down near the stage in the cool, dimly lit room. Clint was talking to a few of the cast, and though she couldn’t clearly see, one of them looked like the surfer boy. To her immediate right she noticed Marvy standing a few rows close to her, holding onto some costume pieces and looking perplexed at several large boxes on the ground.
“Can I help with something?” said Megan.
“Ah, Michelle.” Megan smiled at the mistake but said nothing. “No, I’m—well, yes, maybe you can, just for a minute.” She stole a glance at the stage. “I need to find the matching waist sash to this one skirt but my silly sciatica is acting up right now. Makes it hard to bend. I don’t want Clint to know because he’ll make a big tadoo about it and think I need to go lie down, like I’m an old woman or something.”
Though she’d spoken lightly, Megan could see the deep lines in her face beneath the stage makeup Marvy typically wore. For the first time Megan thought how hard it must be for a woman to age in this business.
“Not a problem,” said Megan, keeping her voice private and surveying the blue skirt. “It’s probably more about these boxes, sitting down on the floor like this.” She lifted up one of the narrow but deep boxes onto the seat. Though heavy it was doable, and she quickly sifted through for the match.
“Bingo,” said Megan, handing her the blue ribbon sash that had slid near the bottom.
Marvy smiled and thanked her, seeming suddenly shy and embarrassed. “Just my silly back. Sometimes it has a mind of its own.” Megan gave her a comforting smile then hurried down to the front, scanning for Jillian, who was in earnest conversation with Derek, and sat beside her.
Amidst the murmur of chatter, Megan looked around the medium-sized hall which appeared fairly new and able to hold maybe 150 or more. She was about to mention this to Jillian when someone plopped down next to her. The scent of ocean surf and man hit her first, and then the realization.
Megan stared at him. Where had he come from? She did not want to think about men, especially hot performers who were likely I’m-too-sexy-for-my-shirt kind of men.
She took in his easygoing manner as he settled back in the chair. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem like that kind of person. In fact, he reminded her of her brother, Sam. A smile started on her face, then she stopped. No, she would not think that. Just because he looked fairly harmless meant nothing. Like a mantra, she must remind herself of that very point, several times a day. It was crucial she kept up her guard, espe
cially in this environment where looks could definitely be deceiving.
He turned and smiled—relaxed, and completely unaware of the stomach flutter he caused in her again.
Megan shifted to a cool demeanor. “You again?”
“I was actually given a Christian name.”
“St. Annoying?”
He showed no response and bent a knee over his leg, tanned calves showing below khaki shorts.
“Bryant, actually. And this is Chad.” He thumbed to the person next to him.
The video gamer guy. Still intent on his game, he nevertheless looked up. “Hey,” he said, and returned to his game.
“A pleasure,” Megan said to Bryant, her voice syrupy. His wavy caramel-colored hair touched a shaving knick along his strong jawline. For no reason Megan smoothed her hair.
“So, what did Marvy need?” He had a kind of bemused, interested look on his face.
Marvy? Had he been watching them? “Oh, nothing, really. Just girl chat.” His eyebrows raised and Megan faced front, her face beginning to get warm.
Clint and Marvy now entered stage left, parading out and touching hands like it was opening night. He gave her a slight twirl, and they took a mock bow to the applause.
“Sorry we’re late getting started—it was my toupee. But don’t say anything, Marvy still thinks it’s real.” He raised his eyebrows in a dramatic gesture. “All right folks, thanks for coming on time and seeing as we don’t have much of it, we’ll cut to the chase. Marvy?”
With a slight flourish she moved to center stage. “You all look lovely, truly lovely.” She beamed. “Now, remember, rehearsals are today and tomorrow, that’s all we have. Then it’s show time, as they say. Matinee performances are at 4:00 on sea days and night performances at 8:00 and 10:00 p.m. Green room is an hour before performance, but of course it all depends on your makeup and costume needs.” She gazed meaningfully at a few people.
Clint stepped up beside her. “Thanks, Marvy. Now people, your orientation packet has all the details but I want to emphasize the basic rules. Don’t forget that you’ve all been hand-picked—the best that west coast Christian schools have to offer. That means you’re gonna see a lot of things happening on this ship that you’re not to participate in.”
Caribbean Crossroads Page 2
