Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

We shoved the Kindles into the laptop cases and hurried to the muster station, confident we had saved what was most important.

  We knew we couldn’t eat our Kindles or drink our computers, but our manuscripts were in the laptops, so no way would we leave without them. When we arrived at the muster station sans life vests, hugging our computer bags, we once again drew the attention of the crowd and crew. As our stupidity became apparent, Mom and I looked at each other and giggled uncontrollably. Fortunately, the group assumed we were still drunk from New Year’s Eve.

  While waiting for the crew to douse the small fire in the breakfast buffet and evacuate the smoke, I began writing this account of the first twenty-four hours of our fourteen-day cruise. I could hardly wait to discover what stupid things I’d do next. Too bad I left the sensible part of my brain in the Boeing cockpit.

  My next blunder was sitting next to the only man at our dinner table for eight. Frail and balding, he appeared to be in his seventies. I attempted to engage him by inquiring if he’d served in the military.

  “I served in the Canadian military as part of a U.N. peace-keeping mission in Palestine in the sixties,” he said.

  “Sorry, did you say you were in Palestine in the 1960s? Did you mean Israel?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

  His voice increased by about twenty decibels. “No! I mean the nation of Palestine. They still have their own country.”

  “Really? Where? I don’t recall seeing it on a recent world map.”

  “It’s there! They have their own government leaders and everything.”

  “Then why are there Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon? Wouldn’t they rather live in their own country if it still exists?” I asked. Big mistake.

  He blasted into a loud tirade about the Jews stealing Palestine. All the women at our table glared at him, siding with me. A woman from Texas reminded him the land had belonged to Israel thousands of years before the Palestinians took it over.

  Spittle spewed from his frothing mouth as he raged on about how wrong we were. He finally stopped yelling when his wife gave him the evil eye.

  I never sat near him again. I try to learn from my mistakes.

  The next night, I savored Wild Horse merlot and listened to a talented young man play guitar and sing on the afterdeck. A man resembling a scrawny old rooster danced alone in front of the singer. He wore swim shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and flip flops while everyone else was dressed in formal evening attire.

  His dancing was the strangest I’d ever seen. He looked like he was constantly getting zapped by a Taser as he jerked and contorted his body. It was apparent large quantities of alcohol were involved. He almost fell several times. Then he dragged a woman onto the dance floor and grabbed her every time he lost his balance.

  The spastic dancer entertained the crowd through several songs before he staggered over to me and said, “Come on, baby, you know you want to!” He tried to pull me out of my chair.

  That’s when the Russians came to my rescue.

  According to our cruise director, there were eighty-two passengers from Russia. I noticed the men were tall and broad-shouldered with deep voices. After all those years of repression, they were making up for lost time in the fun department. A giant Russian bear pulled the rooster away from me and crushed him against his chest in a silly man-on-man slow dance. His buddies shared a good laugh. When the dance ended, the rooster stumbled away in a daze.

  When I smiled at the Russian and said, “Spasibo,” he bowed.

  As Mom and I headed downstairs for the evening show, she did something completely unexpected. I sensed she wasn’t behind me when I reached the bottom of the two-story stairway. When I looked up, she was still at the top.

  “Stay there and catch me!” she shouted as she hiked up her black chiffon gown, swung her leg over the railing, and proceeded to slide down.

  Mom was eighty-five and a non-drinker, so you can imagine my surprise.

  “Slow down! There’s a painful-looking lip at the end of the banister!” I managed to stop her before she reached it. “Mom, what the hell?” I said when she climbed off.

  “It was on my bucket list,” she said with a defiant look. “Well, okay then. Dare I ask what else is on your list?”

  “I’d like that darn fairy book I worked on for twenty-five years to be published!”

  “Journey into the Land of the Wingless Giants will be published this year. That’s a promise,” I said as we strolled into the theater.

  I met the handsome captain of the ship, Alexandros Andreas, in his fancy uniform the following day. He was from Greece—aren’t they all? I convinced him to give me a tour of the bridge. Afterward, he invited me to join him for a private dinner.

  Cruise ship captains are treated like kings. His steward served us steak Diane and new potatoes with a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild. I must admit I was impressed. And the decadent chocolate parfait was the perfect finale.

  Over the next several days, we enjoyed each other’s company.

  As the cruise neared its end, Alexandros confided in me that he was deeply depressed. “If you don’t sleep with me, I’ll end it all and sink the ship.”

  That night, I saved the lives of thirty-five hundred people. Twice.

  Melanie

  D.M. Littlefield

  “Tom!” I shouted and waved.

  He hurried to my table in the restaurant. I stood to give him a warm hug. He had been away for eight weeks on a business trip and European castle tour. Of course, I wanted to hear all about his trip, but I was excited and anxious to tell him about my own amazing experience.

  “Did you see any ghosts in the castles?”

  “No, but the tour guide assured us the castles were haunted.” He grinned. “Let’s order lunch. I’m hungry.”

  Soon the food was served, and we exchanged small talk while enjoying our meals.

  “Okay,” Tom said after we finished eating, “you can stop with the pleasantries and tell me what’s on your mind before you burst.”

  I leaned forward. “It was the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. For the past six weeks, I lived on a beautiful historic estate in Savannah, Georgia and substituted for my Aunt Sue as a governess while she recuperated from a car accident.”

  “Is she okay now?”

  “Yes, thank God. She’s back to taking care of precious little Cindy, who’ll be four years old next month. She’s a sweet child. I miss her.”

  “Tell me everything.” He arched his eyebrows and crossed his arms.

  “Okay.” I took a sip of my ice tea. “A nice middle-aged chauffeur named George met me at the train station. As we drove through the iron gate of the mansion, I was impressed by the huge oak trees that flanked the drive. It was like driving through a long green tunnel as the boughs overhead blended together with dangling Spanish moss.

  “The grounds of the estate are extensive and well kept. George told me he felt sorry for the little girl because her mother had died giving birth to her. Cindy’s father, a wealthy businessman, travels extensively and is seldom home.”

  “That’s sad. Sounds like she’s essentially parentless.”

  “The little girl only has the servants to keep her company, so she invented an imaginary playmate named Melanie. Aunt Sue and I played along to keep Cindy happy.”

  “Sorry, but there’s nothing exciting about this. What aren’t you telling me?” He leaned forward.

  “Hold on, I’m getting to it.” I took another sip of ice tea. “The mansion reminds me of the movie, Gone with the Wind. It has six huge white columns in front of its three stories. French doors open onto large verandas on each floor. The view from my room was spectacular.” I sighed. “Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, is the stern type. She manages all the help and doesn’t put up with, as she called it, imaginary nonsense.”

  “Describe Cindy. Is she a troubled child?” He sat back and sipped his beer.

  “She’s shy and small for almost four but pretty with long blond hair
and blue eyes. She reminds me of the Precious porcelain statues I’ve seen in the Hallmark shops. When I met her, she hid behind the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Stevens pulled Cindy in front of her and said, ‘This is Cindy. She has an imaginary friend named Melanie. Cindy never does anything wrong, but her friend, Melanie, does. Isn’t that right, Cindy?’

  “The little girl lowered her head and said, ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ I felt sorry for her. It didn’t take long for me to win her over. You know I’m good at that, don’t you?” I grinned at Tom.

  He nodded and smiled. “Yes, we all know you’re charming.”

  “So Cindy took my hand and led me to my room upstairs next to hers. The chauffeur followed us with my luggage. Cindy showed me her bedroom and the connecting playroom filled with toys, dolls, and books. It was furnished with a table, chairs, and two children’s rocking chairs. The new rocker was by the bookcase, and the antique rocker was placed in front of the French doors. I pointed at it and asked her if she liked to look outside while she rocked in the chair. She said, ‘No, that’s Melanie’s rocking chair. She doesn’t like anyone to touch her things. Besides, mine’s newer.’”

  “If she’s an only child, why are there two rocking chairs?”

  “Good question. I wondered the same thing.”

  “Did you discover the answer?”

  “Ah, yes. Cindy loved having someone read stories to her, and shelves of children’s books lined the playroom. I enjoyed my time with her, and we got along fine.

  “One day, Mrs. Stevens accused Cindy of not putting her toys away before she went to bed. But I told Mrs. Stevens I had helped her put them away. She glared at Cindy and said, ‘Am I supposed to believe Melanie played with your toys while you slept? Don’t lie!’ Cindy’s lip quivered, so I put my arm around her.”

  Tom’s face reddened. “What a bitch!”

  “She sure was. Mrs. Stevens glared at both of us and stomped out of the room. I pulled a book from the shelf to read to Cindy and found an antique music box hidden behind it. The lid had an inlaid picture of a lovely woman asleep in bed. The label inside said the song was ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ by Stephen Foster, one of my favorites. I didn’t see the key to wind it up, so I asked her if she had it. She claimed she’d never seen the music box before, so I set it back on the shelf and read her a story as I held her on my lap.

  “That night I couldn’t sleep, wondering if Cindy walked in her sleep like I had done when I was a child. In the wee hours, I heard faint music. My French doors to the veranda were open, and so were the ones to her bedroom and playroom. I put on my robe and slippers and tiptoed into her room. She was sound asleep. The music was coming from the playroom—the music box playing ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “So what happened next?”

  “I slowly turned the doorknob to the playroom and opened it without a sound. A little girl bathed in moonlight was rocking in the antique chair in front of the French doors. She had long brown hair and wore an old-fashioned dress with a pinafore. She was holding the music box and staring out across the lawn toward the old wishing well.

  “When I gasped, she vanished, and the music box clattered to the floor. You see, Melanie wasn’t imaginary after all. She was a little ghost from the past!”

  Wife Wanted

  D.M. Littlefield

  Twenty-eight and homeless, Stacie drove her SUV loaded with all her belongings to a park in Boca Raton. It was her favorite place to relax. She bought an assortment of muffins for breakfast and pondered her dilemma while watching the dogs catch Frisbees. She missed Lady, her German shepherd, who had died a month before she moved to Florida two years ago.

  She grabbed the bag of muffins and munched on one as she leaned against the car door. Perplexed, she stared at an unusual sign on the front lawn of a stately two-story home across the street.

  She turned toward whistling in the park and saw a big German shepherd prancing in front of a tall, muscular man carrying a Frisbee. When the dog saw her, he grabbed the Frisbee, ran to her, dropped it at her feet, and sat up to beg. She laughed.

  The man smiled. “He has a nose for goodies and can spot a soft touch a block away.”

  She leaned down to pet the dog. “I love dogs, especially German shepherds. Is it okay if I give him a muffin?”

  “Sure, Barf will like it.”

  She raised her eyebrows and chuckled. “His name is Barf?” The man’s brown eyes twinkled as he smiled and ran his hand through his dark hair. “Yeah, when he was a puppy, he ate everything that wasn’t nailed down. Then he barfed most of it back up.”

  She smiled as she fed Barf a muffin and then held the bag out to the man. “Would you like one? I bought six. They’re delicious.”

  “Thank you.” He took one, leaned against her car, and bit into the oat muffin.

  “Do you know who lives there?” Stacie asked, pointing at the house with the sign.

  He nodded. “Mark Taylor. I know him well.”

  She crinkled her nose. “What’s with the sign? Is he weird?”

  He shook his head. “His dates don’t seem to think so.”

  She bent down to pet Barf again. Her long dark-brown hair fell off her shoulder and hid her face. “Since you know him, maybe you can give me some advice. I’m desperate.”

  When she stood back up, her blue eyes pleaded for understanding. “I had to move out of my furnished apartment this morning. Two weeks ago, I gave my landlord and my boss notice that I had accepted a job in Atlanta. Yesterday, Atlanta rescinded their offer because of the recession, so now I don’t have a job or a place to live.”

  The man shook his head. “Bummer.” He waved for her to follow. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mark. I’m sure you can work something out.”

  When she hesitated, Barf nudged her forward.

  The man smiled. “Looks like you already have one good reference.”

  He rapped the brass knocker on the front door of the two-story mini-mansion. No one answered. “He’s probably in the shower. Let’s go in and wait for him.” He led her into the living room, and they sat next to each other on the sofa.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Stacie Sinclair.”

  “I’m Mark Taylor, pleased to meet you.” He kissed her hand.

  She gaped and sputtered, “But ... you ... I ... don’t understand.” Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “You seem nice and are quite handsome. You can probably get any woman you want. Why would you put a Wife Wanted sign in your yard?”

  He grinned. “Thanks for the compliment. I’m thirty, and I’ve dated a lot of women but haven’t found one I’d want to marry. It’s imperative that I be married by the end of this week, and I couldn’t advertise in the newspaper. I’ve had the sign up for four days. None of the applicants were suited for the position, but I think you are. You’re intelligent, well spoken, pretty, kind, and most important, Barf approves of you. He has good intuition about people. Are you married, or do you have a boyfriend?”

  She frowned and shook her head with a puzzled look. “I date occasionally. Nothing serious. I’m on a deadline to finish the novel I’m writing in my spare time, but a deadline to get married sounds odd. What’s the deal?”

  Mark sighed. “I’m the district manager for Trend Corporation. The vice-president is retiring and told me the board agreed I’m the best qualified of the three men being considered for his replacement, but they prefer their top executives to be married. They vote in two weeks. That doesn’t give me much time to get the license, get married, and introduce my bride to the board of directors.”

  “What would you expect from me as your hired wife?”

  “You’d be my wife in name only. Your duties will be business related, such as dinner parties, business functions, etc. I’ll pay you five-hundred dollars a week, plus free room and board. I have a housekeeper, and I rarely eat at home. I’ll hire a catering service for dinner parties. And you’d have a lot of free time to finish writin
g your novel.”

  Stacie nibbled on her lip while weighing the pros and cons. This seemed too good to be true. If she had written this scene in her novel, no one would’ve believed it. She didn’t know anything about this man, except where he lived and what he’d told her about himself. She had four days to find out if what he said was true. He seemed very nice and needed her as much as she needed him. And Barf was a definite plus.

  “What about sleeping arrangements?” she asked.

  “You’d have the guest suite upstairs. I’ll convert the spare room next to it into an office for you. It’ll be like your own apartment.”

  She blushed. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  He hid his amusement with a stern face. “My bathroom, bedroom, and office are downstairs. I rarely go upstairs.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Rarely?”

  He held up his hands. “Okay, how about never, after we set up your office ... unless I’m invited.” He smiled. “If you agree, we’ll draw up the agreement with my lawyer tomorrow. You’ll have time to think about adding any stipulations.”

  Mark knelt on one knee and held her hand while gazing into her eyes. “Please, Stacie, will you marry me?”

  Barf had been sitting in front of them with his ears alert, turning his head to look at each one as they spoke. He pawed her leg, laid his head on her lap, looked up at her with the same pleading look as Mark, and whined.

  She looked at Mark. “Did Barf understand everything we just said?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? He’s uncanny.”

  She laughed. “How can I refuse? It’s two against one.”

  Barf wagged his tail and barked.

  Mark pulled her up and hugged her. “I think this’ll work out well for both of us. Let’s unload your car and get you settled.”

  Barf gently took her wrist in his mouth and led her to the front door. When Mark opened the door, Barf ran to the Wife Wanted sign and tugged on it.