Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “You know what I’d really like?” I said. “A glass of champagne.”

  “For breakfast?” Denis said.

  “Absolutely,” I declared. “I’ve never had champagne for breakfast and I want to commemorate my crushing defeat this morning in the Galaxy Lounge.”

  Denis raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention. “Two glasses of champagne.”

  “Pink champagne,” I said.

  “Like Deborah Kerr drank with Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember?” Denis said.

  “Well, cross my heart and kiss my elbow. You like old movies? So do I. You know what I’ve always wished? That my life would have been like a 1950s romantic comedy. Wouldn’t that have been great?”

  “Of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been,” Denis said.

  “Shakespeare?”

  “It’s from an old movie, The Lavender Hill Mob,” he said. “Everyone has might have beens in their lives, things they wish had been different.”

  “Do you?” I said, moving my face a little closer to his. He smelled really good, like bath soap, only manlier. Never in my life had a man wearing black socks with brown leather sandals seemed so yummy. And that full face, those misty kohl eyes, those thick lashes—what I wouldn’t give for a pair of those (thick ones, I mean; I do have lashes). I wanted to plant soft butterfly kisses on his eyelids right there in the Bistro. That would give those cruise passengers something to gossip about, but I reminded myself that I was here on a mission and he was engaged to someone else. So I maintained strict military discipline.

  “I played baseball in college,” he said. “After my senior year, I was drafted into the Columbus Clippers, the Yankees farm team. I’d just been accepted into Harvard Law. I suppose because I felt a sense of duty to the King family business, I chose law school. Bad move. My whole first year of Harvard, I was sick about it. I almost dropped out four times to get back to baseball. The next summer, though, I developed bursitis in my knees from the years of playing college ball. That would have killed my athletic career.”

  “So it was good that you chose law school.”

  “No, it was terrible. One year of baseball would have been a dream come true. Better to have played and lost…” he mused.

  The waiter returned with two glasses of pink champagne. “Cheers,” I said, clinking my glass with Denis’.

  “Sometimes things happen that seem terrible, like me not playing ball or you falling for a creep, but later they turn out to be blessings.”

  I nodded. “That’s exactly what Carleen said. My father too.”

  “It’s nice that you brought your father with you,” Denis said. “I like that.”

  I smiled. “Pops has a few might have beens in his life.”

  “Who doesn’t? It’s like that old Indian story.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard it. There was a brave who went riding one day and his horse fell on top of him, breaking his leg. The next day, all the young braves in his tribe went to fight in a battle. The young Indian was despondent that his injury kept him from joining his brothers. But then all the braves were killed in battle. So the Indian’s bad break turned out to be a blessing. Just wait. That may be true for you.”

  “Well, if it is,” I said, “I wish the blessing part would reveal itself.”

  “Patience, woman,” Denis said, smiling.

  “So did you finish law school?” I said. “It’s always good to know a lawyer on a cruise.”

  “Why, you planning on getting arrested?”

  “No-oh,” I said, maybe a little too defensively.

  “Even if someone was arrested, I couldn’t help them,” Denis said. “Local laws apply. ’Course, the last place you want to end up in jail are the countries we’re cruising, like Turkey.”

  “Really,” I said, my voice cracking. “Why?”

  “Remember Midnight Express, that guy who was caught trafficking drugs in Istanbul? They strip-searched him, hung him naked upside down, and beat him, tortured him. Their prisons are barbaric. That’s based on a true story.”

  “Whoo boy,” I sighed.

  “There you are,” a woman’s voice squealed.

  I glanced up to see Sydney clacking toward us on the marble floor in a pair of stilettos and teeny white shorts that framed her annoyingly jiggle-free legs. “I’ve been looking everywhere.” As she walked, she pumped her five-pound weights up and down, sculpting those already ripped arms.

  Syd pulled up a chair, leaned over, and gave Denis a kiss on the lips. She handed him a stack of “while you were out” messages that the butler had put under their door. “What happened with the lecture?”

  “It ended early,” Denis said.

  “Oh, word around the ship is no one came,” Sydney said.

  “Yes, it’s true,” I said. “Denis here was my audience of one.”

  Sydney looked at him and then at me, pumping her five-pound weight more furiously. “Well, I don’t care what anyone else says, the lectures you’re giving don’t sound as dull as dishwater to me. Excuse me, waiter.” Sydney snapped her fingers twice and a young man appeared to take her order. “Can I have six almonds, roasted, no salt?”

  “I appreciate your support,” I said. “See you guys at dinner.” I needed to find John to see if he’d been able to reach Jorge, the butler on the Golden Goddess. He’d promised to call him while I was giving my lecture. If we didn’t locate those clothes, I would surely get arrested. Lord have mercy, if I end up getting hung upside down and tortured in a Turkish prison over those missing costumes, I will be so pissed off.

  “I heard you’re judging the hat-making contest this afternoon. That’s very cute.” Sydney laughed.

  “Well, I am the resident fashion expert. Hope you guys’ll enter.”

  “Sorry,” Sydney said, cuddling closer to her fiancé. “We have real work to do. Then I think we’ll settle in for a little…skyrockets in flight…afternoon delight,” she sang.

  Denis turned bright red and looked the other way.

  “Toodles.” Sydney wiggled her fingers at me.

  BACK AT OUR SUITE, Pops was partying with Carleen and two elder floozies I hadn’t met before. One was wearing a Burberry plaid life vest that had been personalized with her initials (another perpetual cruiser, no doubt), and the other, a yellow bikini under a see-through orange muumuu. John was serving cocktails and finger sandwiches.

  “Holly,” Pops said, “join us. We’re celebrating.”

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “Life,” Carleen said. “Ain’t it grand?”

  “It’s all too marvelous,” the Burberry lady exclaimed.

  “Here, here,” they all said, clinking their glasses together. Famous chased her tail at the ping.

  “Here, here,” I offered with limp enthusiasm. “John, can I see you in the bedroom for a minute?”

  I took a deep breath, then came clean with him about the missing trunk, explaining how I’d accidentally taken costumes worth millions so he’d understand just how dire the situation had become, and how my very life and freedom were now at stake. He said he had called the Golden Goddess three times already, but was having trouble reaching either Jorge or the man whose name I had taken off the luggage tags in Athens. Apparently everyone was touring Kusadasi. John vowed to do everything humanly possible to find those clothes and keep me from getting arrested in Turkey. If he didn’t reach Jorge today, he wouldn’t stop calling until he connected with him tomorrow when the Golden Goddess was at sea. I promised to give him a generous tip at the end of the cruise, assuming I wasn’t arrested first.

  The Way You Look Tonight

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS formal. I wore one of Lucille’s smashing confections—a floor-length, strapless, nude tulle that glittered with clear iridescent sequins. Carleen lent me a pair of Christian Lacroix sparkly stilettos that were slightly loose until John added some Dr. Scholl’s gels, which tightened them right up. Shoe inserts
—just one more reason why I love having a butler. Also courtesy of Carleen was a ten-karat Christian Tse platinum and diamond necklace with matching earrings. Personally, I always thought it would be tacky to wear diamonds before I turned forty, but I made an exception.

  On the way to dinner, everyone posed for pictures. The women were swathed in chiffon gowns peppered with beads or crystals, the men in sleek designer tuxedos. Never in my life have I seen so many jaw-dropping gems in one place. Wait, I take that back. Once we held an exhibit of the Russian crown jewels at the Fashion Museum. There were some serious rocks in that show, let me tell you. The ladies of the Tiffany Star sported dazzlers in the same league—no doubt having raided their safe-deposit boxes before coming on board. The men wore cuff links of gold or platinum, set with rainbows of precious stones. You’d never guess these were the same fellows in Bermuda shorts with black dress socks and sandals, or lizard-skinned women in teeny bikinis all buttered up and frying by the pool this afternoon.

  Even though I preferred not to have my picture taken, the ship’s photographer insisted. “But I never take a good one.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been photographed by me,” he said. “Allow me to be the first to capture your dangerous beauty.”

  How could I refuse? No one had ever called my beauty dangerous before. I had my portrait taken alone, then with Pops, then with Pops, Carleen, and Famous. The Yorkie now sported pink highlights, after having spent the afternoon at the beauty salon.

  Our meal that night was divine. For appetizers, there were escargots, beluga caviar, and wild mushroom torte. For dinner, we could choose between tenderloin beef, crab-stuffed artichoke, duck with cherry sauce, or lobster prepared any way you wanted. Personally, I went with the duck and ordered chocolate puss for dessert.

  “That’s chocolate puss,” the waiter said.

  “Yes, that’s what I want,” I repeated. “The chocolate puss.”

  “No, puss,” he insisted, pointing to my evening bag.

  “Oh, purse.” I giggled. “Sorry, the accent threw me off.”

  Denis and his crew sat across the table. Tonight he was more involved with his BlackBerry than his fiancée, although he did stop to teach Annie the proper way to eat her artichoke.

  “Pull off the leaf like this and pull it between your teeth like so.” He demonstrated.

  “Like this?” Annie tried it, but put the pointed end in her mouth.

  “No, the other way,” Denis said. “Then put the leaves on this little plate.”

  Annie dipped her leaf in dressing, tried it again, and got it right. “Yummy, it’s good. I’m eating my whole dinner with my hands tonight.”

  “No, that would be bad manners,” Denis explained. “Only certain foods can be eaten—”

  “Hello, I’m Captain Paul Roffe.” A tall man with thick strawberry-blond hair, a matching beard, and twinkling green eyes introduced himself. “But you can call me Captain.”

  I shook his hand as he took the seat next to mine. He wore his formal dinner uniform, which was like a sea-themed tuxedo in white with a short jacket and lots of navy, red, and gold stripes. Captain called the sommelier over and ordered wine for the table, which is apparently the custom when you sit with Captain—free booze, whoo-hoo!

  “So I understand you’re a speaker on the ship,” Captain said. “What is your topic?”

  “Bread?” I said, offering him the basket.

  Steam poured from the loaf as he tore off a piece.

  “I did Hollywood Legends as Style Makers earlier, but no one came. I was planning to do The Life and Times of Coco Chanel and Audrey Hepburn as a Fashion Icon, but I don’t know, the other programs on the ship are so exciting I may need to spice up my topic.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about doing my next talk on the history of undergarments, maybe give everyone a pair of edible panties.”

  Captain turned bright red and spit out the bread he had just put in his mouth.

  “Captain, are you all right?”

  “Please, call me Paul,” he said, coughing. “So, are you an expert on the subject?”

  “It’s one of many speeches I’ve written for the Fashion Museum. Everyone gets a kick out of it. ’Course, we don’t give away edible panties, but I thought perhaps you could ask the chef to make some.”

  “Darlin’, if you’re giving out edible undies,” Carleen said, “I’ll be there and so will a lot more people besides me.”

  “If you’re going, I’m going,” Pops said.

  “Me too,” Lucille said, grinning and raising her hand from across the table. “That sounds fabulous.”

  “So what do you think, Captain—I mean Paul. Should I do it?”

  “By all means,” he said. “I may even come.”

  Ten waiters magically appeared at our table, all carrying covered plates on silver platters. The waiters positioned themselves behind each chair and then, in precise lockstep, whisked off the domed tops, set the plates on the table, and stepped back in perfect harmony.

  One returned to say, “Be careful. Your plate is hot.”

  “That’s not all that’s hot at that seat,” Captain said, touching my shoulder and saying, “Tssss.”

  “Oh, Captain—I mean Paul,” I purred, “it’s just edible undies.”

  AFTER DINNER, WE GATHERED in front of the maître d’ station. Captain—I mean Paul—invited me to the Saloon for a nightcap. Pops asked Carleen and Lucille to twirl the night away with him in the Milky Way Ballroom. Even though Lucille used a walker, Carleen insinuated it was mostly for sympathy. Apparently she did a mean tango. Bunny and Aston were off to see the Irving Berlin Extravaganza with the almost-ready-for-off-Broadway cast.

  Captain Paul and I made our way to the Saloon. Everyone stopped to try to shake his hand, but when they did, he handed them a card saying he didn’t shake hands or make skin contact in the interest of not spreading germs. It was very sanitary of him. Being on the captain’s arm made me feel special, like I was a ship celebrity.

  We sat down and Captain Paul ordered champagne. When the karaoke hostess asked for volunteers, the woman next to us who had to be one hundred—I was sure I’d seen Willard Scott wishing her happy birthday on the Today show—raised her gnarly wrist, which was weighted down with oversize diamonds. Her husband pushed her wheelchair center stage. He was at least thirty years her junior.

  Next thing we knew, they were showing the Celine Dion video from the movie Titanic and the words to “My Heart Will Go On” were skipping along the bottom of the screen. The old lady held the mike in her hand, and sung the most beautiful rendition of the song you can imagine, looking straight into her lover’s eyes:

  Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you…

  Everyone in the bar was enraptured by her performance. She was incredible. When it ended, we all stood to applaud her. You couldn’t help but be inspired by the passion she had for her husband and her will to go on, even after she was worm bait and he was spending her fortune. I noticed Denis and Sydney in the corner. They were sending messages on their his-and-hers BlackBerries.

  “You are such a talented singer,” I told the old lady when she finished.

  “I performed in musicals in the forties. If I hadn’t married my first husband, I would have pursued a professional career,” she said modestly.

  “Are you sorry you didn’t?”

  “Goddamn right I am,” she said. “That man was a bastard. I’d pee on his grave if I wasn’t stuck in this fucking wheelchair.”

  Check please, I thought.

  The hostess was trolling for someone else to sing. I turned my attention to the peanut bowl so as not to get called on.

  At the table behind ours, a woman in a magnificent peach chiffon Dolce & Gabbana gown tapped Paul on the shoulder. “Captain, I was just wondering, does the help live on board the ship?”

  “Oh, no, madam,” he said. “Haven’t you seen the smaller boat that sails behind
the Tiffany Star? Those are staff quarters.”

  “Really?” she said.

  Captain laughed. “No…”

  I glanced over at Denis, who had set down his BlackBerry. His arm was around Sydney and he was whispering into her ear. She laughed and then buried her face in his throat. My cheeks went hot.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Holly. May I show you the bridge?” Captain said. “It’s very romantic.”

  “Sure, Paul,” I said. “I’d love to see it.”

  Isn’t It Romantic?

  FOR A GERMOPHOBE WHO couldn’t shake anyone’s hand, Paul didn’t hesitate to tickle my tonsils with his flickering tongue. I suppose, as the ship’s captain and number-one Romeo, that was part of the job. He took me to the bridge, which is like the cockpit of the ship. Three junior officers, engrossed in beeping radar monitors and online maps, sat behind a long console. There were jumbo-size windshield wipers on the front windows and an enormous mahogany steering wheel just for show.

  For privacy, we snuck out on Paul’s balcony. The salt-tinged air was quite chilly. He gave me his jacket and put his arm around my shoulder to keep me warm. The sky was sprinkled with stars. The ocean was as black as ink, with the silver reflection of the almost-full moon touching the ever-changing ripples of gentle waves. Every once in a while, we could see dolphins jumping out of the sea. I felt like we were in a movie.

  Paul handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed to a brightly lit cruise ship in the distance. Looking through the glasses, I saw the tiny heads of passengers bobbing along the deck. I remember reading once that more binoculars were sold in New York City than any other place in the world. With its tall buildings and windows in such close proximity, Manhattanites are natural snoops. We get our jollies peeping into other people’s apartments and seeing how beautiful they are, how well proportioned, and finely maintained (the apartments, not the people). Now, where was I? Ah, yes, sizing up the ship across the moonlit sea.