Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “Good thinking,” Pops said. “I packed my stickies already, along with stationery, soap, shampoo, cotton balls, toilet paper, a feather pillow…”

  “Pops, that’s stealing,” I said.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “They want you take that stuff. They expect you to take it. They’d be disappointed if you didn’t take it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Can you believe it?” Pops said with a wide grin. “The two of us living in the lap of luxury? I love it!”

  “Me too.” I giggled. “It’s a far cry from Muttropolis.”

  “Or eating out of trash cans,” Pops said.

  “Or panhandling in the subway,” I added.

  Pops whisked me into his arms and began twirling me around the room. “Fairy tales may come true, it could happen to you…” he crooned. When the song ended, he dipped me back most of the way to the floor, then dropped me on my butt. “Are you okay? I need to practice my dancing.”

  I laughed heartily. “It’s okay. Just don’t drop any old ladies. They have brittle hips.” As I sat on the floor, I looked around, taking in the cabin for the first time. It was exquisitely appointed (and I say this not just because it said so in the brochure). Decorated in muted tones of tan and white, with walls sheathed in exotic bamboo, furniture straight off the pages of Architectural Digest, a flat-screen TV in both rooms. My queen-size bed was topped with a luscious feather-down duvet. Fresh orchids graced my nightstand. The butler had laid out a luxurious Frette bathrobe and plush slippers.

  I pulled myself up from the floor, slipped on my robe, and padded to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, donned my headgear, and then got all comfy under the covers, resting my head on the cool goose-down pillow. It felt like heaven. “’Night, Pops. I’ll see you in about eighteen hours.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Someone from the cruise director’s office called to say that your presentation is at ten A.M. tomorrow in the Galaxy Lounge. They wanted to know if you needed anything.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I mumbled.

  “One more thing. Don’t fall asleep yet,” Pops said. He was sitting on the edge of my bed. “We’re supposed to muster for the safety drill at five.”

  “Take notes for me, will you?” I said.

  “You’re not missing dinner, are you?”

  I opened one eye. Pops looked earnest, afraid, and slightly desperate. It had been years since he’d flexed his polite society muscles. Sure, I thought. I may as well “bump” into Denis King and get it over with. “Of course not,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the dining room at eight thirty. We’re at the captain’s table, by the way.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Long story, Pops. ’Night.”

  The Best Is Yet to Come

  THE RING OF MY seven thirty wake-up call jolted me. It was still light outside. I’d only gotten two hours of sleep, but it would have to do. It occurred to me that something was very wrong, but I couldn’t remember what. Then it hit me. The lost luggage. How could I have left those costumes unattended? What if Jorge from the Golden Goddess didn’t take them and they were just randomly missing, misplaced by baggage handlers in Athens? How would I find them then? But there was nothing I could do about it now, so I tried to put it out of my mind.

  I considered the donation I planned to solicit and wondered what Denis King would say when he saw the woman who had so publicly humiliated him seated at his table. My stomach flipped at the thought. I prayed to the Lord for forgiveness (from Denis, not the Lord).

  What to wear? After I pressed the call button for my butler (ooh, how I like saying those words), John was knocking at the door within minutes.

  “Here you go, Miss Ross,” he said, handing me a shopping bag. Inside was a powder-pink velour running suit with the name “Tiffany Star” emblazoned across the back of the jacket. There was also a white T-shirt with the name “Tiffany Star” spelled out across the chest in rhinestones. What can I say about such an outfit? It was clean.

  Another tissue-wrapped package revealed five pairs of cream-colored satin underwear. But yoinks! I’d never seen granny panties in size jack-o’-lantern before. I supposed they had to be extra large to accommodate those passengers using colostomy bags, but what about the rest of us? “Nothing smaller?”

  “This was it,” John said. “Women on this ship don’t wear sexy mutande.”

  “Wow,” I said, holding a pair up, imagining them on. If we were to get stranded on a desert island, I could build a boat and make a sail out of them. “Thank you, John. You’re a dear to help me.” I reached into my purse for a tip.

  “Oh, no, Miss Ross. No gratuities along the way,” he said. “If you’re happy with the service you can tip at the end.”

  “Okay, but wait,” I squealed. “Let me take your picture. I never had a butler before.” John stood next to me and I held out my digital camera and snapped. I wanted to remember what it was like to live the good life in case it never happened again. Looking at the photo though, I cringed. What a mess—bed hair crushed into an asymmetrical Mohawk, raccoon under-eyes, glasses, and don’t forget the headgear. I wished I knew how to delete it.

  After John left, I headed to the bathroom to pull myself together. The room was marble from floor to ceiling and there was a switch to turn on the heated floor. Heated floors! The tub doubled as a Jacuzzi and there was a glass-enclosed steam shower. There was no soap or bubble bath because Pops had stolen it all. That was inconvenient. The hand towels were arranged to make perfect little swans and the end of the toilet paper was folded into the shape of a sunflower. Next door, there was a huge teak-paneled dressing room with double closets that I hoped to fill with the recovered costumes. Why did I take those stupid dresses? I wondered. I should have gone shopping for cheap new clothes at the City Opera Thrift Shop. That would have been easier—and safer.

  At eight thirty, I left for dinner, wearing my new pink running suit and the underwear I’d had on for the past forty-eight hours. I couldn’t bring myself to put on the monster briefs—not yet, anyway—so I rinsed my old panties out, dried them with the blow-dryer, and freshened them with lemon-scented Endust I’d stolen off the maid’s trolley.

  I wandered down to the fifth-floor dining room, where the ship was most stable. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach at the thought of seeing Denis King. “You can do this,” I chanted. “You have to do this.”

  The dining room was gorgeous with its round tables dressed in crisp pink linens graced with fresh red roses, Versace china, Riedel crystal, and Christofle silver (I knew only because it said so in the brochure). Dazzling hand-cut chandeliers hung like sparkling waterfalls from the ceiling. Off to the side, a Stradivarius string quartet played Mozart, and quite beautifully I might add. The convivial buzz of travel-weary passengers chatting away on nothing but adrenaline filled the air.

  Enrico Derflingher, the world-famous Italian restaurateur, introduced himself. He was the guest chef on this leg of the cruise. Waiters in tuxedos were lined up at the door to escort guests to their table. A young man gallantly offered his arm and escorted me toward the center of the room. As we approached our destination, Lucille, the depressed dance-host killer, bolted out of her seat and cornered me. I was surprised at the old bird’s energy.

  “Holly, dear, you smell fabulous, simply fabulous. What’s that you’re wearing? Eau d’Hadrien?

  Eau d’Endust, I thought, but didn’t say. Instead, I just smiled. “How’d you guess?”

  “Here, dear, the key to my closet. You can go after dinner and pick out whatever you like.”

  I looked at the card, which had a room number written on it with Magic Marker. “Is this your cabin key? I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Oh, you won’t,” Lucille said. “It’s for the suite next to mine. That’s where I keep my clothes.”

  “You have a penthouse suite just for your clothes,” I said. “Wow.” That’s rich, I thought.

  “By the way,
I want you to meet my family.” Lucille gestured toward the others at the table. “Everyone, this is Holly, the girl I was telling you about.”

  Her son put down his BlackBerry, stood, and offered his hand. It was Denis King.

  As we shook, Denis gave me a searching look. “Excuse me. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  Naturally, I froze under the pressure. So I just smiled.

  Lucille continued her introduction. “Darlings, Holly’s the one whose fiancé turned out to be a pedophile and who then had the audacity to dump her, can you believe it? Oh, and then she lost all her luggage; I’m going to lend her clothes and she was just passed over for a big promotion at work. Did I leave anything out?”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “No, you covered everything quite well.”

  Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

  SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT your troubles,” Denis said.

  “Thanks,” I said, sorry that he had heard about them too.

  Lucille introduced me to her son’s fiancée, the exquisite blond-haired, blue-eyed Sydney Bass. She was stunning—more beautiful than any of her pictures. All her edges were soft, as if she were airbrushed by God.

  “Hello,” she said politely. There were two five-pound pink-crystal-encrusted dumbbells in front of her place setting. Dumbbells at the dinner table? Was she raised by wolves? Okay, I admit it. I can be judgmental to a fault. It’s something I picked up at church as a kid.

  Denis’ ten-year-old, Annie, was too involved with her Game Boy to say hello. Her manny, Manuel, actually said, “Call me Manny,” when we were introduced. Manny (who was indeed a man) was twentyish, thin like a distance runner, with thick black hair and heavy-lidded smoky-colored bedroom eyes. Why one would hire a manny with bedroom eyes, I’ll never understand. Why one would hire a manny instead of a nanny for a little girl, I’ll never understand that, either.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked Annie.

  “I’m getting to miss it for my dad’s wedding. Whoo-hoo,” she tooted.

  “But you’re keeping a trip diary and writing a report, right?” Denis said.

  Annie rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

  “This is Sydney’s mother, Bunny,” Denis said, gesturing toward a blue-black-haired, patrician seventy-something woman attempting to pass herself off as late fiftyish (the crepey neck, smooth face mismatch was the giveaway). Nothing makes a woman look so old as desperately trying to look young. Coco Chanel said that and she should know. Bunny was impeccably dressed and coiffed, her skin tan and her lined lips like two perfect pincushions. With an icy smile and silken tone, she said, “So nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “You too,” I said. Bunny frightened me.

  A man seated to her left jumped up and took my hand, squeezing it. “Jolly good to meet you,” he said breathlessly. “I’m Bunny’s third and newest husband, Aston Martin. That’s just like the car, only no relation.” Aston was a tall, lanky chap with a shiny bald noggin. With his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses and skinny tie, he looked he’d stepped out of a black-and-white TV show from the 1950s.

  I glanced at Pops, who was already seated, grinning amusedly and sipping a martini. He had relaxed considerably since last I saw him, no doubt after several cocktails. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass my way.

  “Has everyone met my father?” I asked.

  Pops raised his glass. “Sven Ross, man of the people,” he said.

  “Darlin’, you never told me your father was such a fox,” Carleen whispered.

  “You think?”

  “Hubba hubba,” she said under her breath. “At my age, any man without stiff whiskers growin’ out his ears is hot. Tell me, is there a Mrs. Ross?”

  “Mama died when I was young; she’s long gone. Speaking of gone, where’s the captain?” I asked, sitting down next to Carleen. There was one more empty seat at the table. I assumed it belonged to him.

  “He only comes on formal nights,” she explained.

  Denis King was staring at me. How could he not remember the girl who called him Penis in public? Frankly, I was hurt.

  We studied our menus as the headwaiter, assistant headwaiter, and sommelier glided noiselessly about, delivering bread, pouring water, and popping open bottles of champagne. I started with deep-fried zucchini flowers with shellfish and saffron consommé, then ordered lobster medallions with a puree of green apple and black truffle, and finally millefoglie stracchin, a delicate pastry filled with vanilla soufflé. Hopefully I’d put on a few pounds.

  “Aren’t you speaking tomorrow?” Carleen asked.

  “Yes, at ten in the Galaxy Lounge. I hope you’ll come.”

  “What’s your topic?” Bunny asked.

  “Hollywood legends as style makers.”

  “So you’re what, some sort of fashion expert?” she asked.

  Denis’ eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Bingo! If this were What’s My Line? he would have slammed the buzzer.

  “Bugger,” Aston said. “That’s exactly when they’re having the auction for French Impressionist paintings. I have my eye on the Degas.”

  “You mean the ballet dancer?” Pops said. “I was intent on acquiring that for my collection.”

  “Don’t think you can outbid me, old chap,” Aston said. “I’m a force of nature.”

  “If it’s that important to you,” Pops conceded, “then I shall refrain from bidding.”

  “You, sir, are a true gentleman,” Aston said. “May I buy you a drink after dinner?”

  “You may buy me several,” Pops said, “plus a Cuban cigar.”

  I gave Pops a “Shut your trap; remember what we’re here for” look.

  “I want to do the scavenger hunt tomorrow,” Annie said.

  “Cool, I love scavenger hunts. I’ll take you,” Denis offered.

  “No, I want to go with Maaaanny,” she whined.

  Denis gazed at his daughter with a pained expression and started to object.

  “I don’t mind,” said Manny the manny.

  Sydney rolled her eyes and turned to Denis. “Scavenger hunts. Do you see what I mean about public cruises? I told you we should have taken the yacht.”

  Denis turned to his young bride-to-be. “They do that sort of thing to entertain the kids on board. I think it’s nice. And anyway, Mother loves the Tiffany Star. We’re here for her.”

  “I thought we were here for our wedding,” she said. “Thanks for taking my feelings into account.”

  “But you’re here now,” Carleen the peacekeeper said. “And you’ll have a ball if you let yourself. Holly, darlin’, I’ll come to your lecture.”

  “Me too, dear. I think anything to do with fashion is simply fabulous,” Lucille declared.

  Nine waiters magically materialized at our table, all carrying covered plates on silver platters. Each waiter positioned himself behind someone’s chair and then, in perfect lockstep, whisked off the domed top, set the plate on the table, and stepped back, retreating into the buzz of the dining room. It was a gastronomic ballet.

  “Bon appétit,” Aston said.

  “Oh, waiter,” Sydney said, catching hers by the tail of his tux. “In the future, bring me quarter portions. I just want to taste.”

  “Great idea,” Pops said, setting down his drink a bit too hard. “In the future, would you bring me double portions of what I order?”

  “Pops,” I whispered.

  “We don’t have to pay. It’s free,” he blurted.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “If it’s my weight you’re worried about, don’t. I’m working out. In fact, I’m meeting with Horace, my new trainer, tomorrow at ten,” Pops said. “You don’t mind if I miss your lecture, do you?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, biting into my lobster, which was broiled to perfection.

  He rubbed his ample belly. “Horace says I have the body of an Olympian covered in fat.”

  “Daddy,” Annie said. “Did you know that Sydney
is closer to my age than she is to yours? She’s sixteen years older than me, but twenty-two years younger than you.”

  “What are you, the human calculator?” Sydney said.

  Denis laughed. “No, but she’s a whiz in math. You’re right, Annie,” he said. “Sydney is closer to your age than mine.”

  “So I should marry her, not you,” Annie said. “But I can’t.”

  “Oh, no, why not?” Denis asked.

  Annie laughed. “Girls can’t marry girls.”

  “Not yet,” Denis explained. “But someday the laws will change.”

  “But how would we have babies?” Annie asked.

  “Could we please talk about something else?” Sydney said, rolling her eyes.

  “You could adopt,” I suggested.

  “Or have artificial insemination,” Carleen said.

  “The ol’ turkey baster method,” Pops added.

  “Pops,” I growled.

  “See, Daddy,” Annie giggled, “I’m not the only one who says inappropriate things at the table.”

  “This conversation is killing my appetite,” Sydney said, throwing her napkin on the table.

  “Forgive me,” Pops said.

  “Saves her having to stick her finger down her throat,” Carleen whispered.

  “Daddy, may I please be excused?” Annie said. “I need to go urinate.”

  “Yes, of course,” Denis said, waving her away. “But next time…come here.”

  Annie walked over to her father, who whispered something in her ear. “Excuse me, everyone,” she announced. “I’m going to go powder my nose.”

  After the plates were cleared, the waiter stopped by for coffee orders.

  “You having dessert?” I asked Carleen.

  She patted her nonexistent stomach. “No, darlin’. I’m just as full as a tick.”

  “So can anyone else come to my lecture tomorrow?” I asked.