by Laura Levine
For those of you not fluent in Samoan (by now I was an expert), that meant:
Samoa accidentally spilled the litter box. Not to worry. All clean now.
I looked over at the litter box and groaned. Samoa had cleaned the litter box, all right. The darn fool had carted away all but about five grains of sand. Unless Prozac’s bladder had shrunk to the size of a thimble, it looked like I was going to have to raid the kiddie sandbox.
For a minute I considered waiting until after dinner, but I couldn’t risk it. There was no telling where Prozac might poop, and I was not about to add a “new carpeting” charge to my ever-growing bill.
So I threw on the clothes I’d just thrown off and headed out in search of the sandbox. I found it on the pool deck in the rear of the ship. By now it was almost six and I figured it would be deserted.
I figured wrong. There, plopped in the center of the sand, was a towheaded toddler, building what was either a castle or a giant boob.
Oh, for crying out loud. What was he doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t he be in bed? Or at least having his dinner?
A woman I assumed was his mother was stretched out on a nearby chaise, dozing. And thank heavens she was the only other adult around. I’d be able to sand-nap without any witnesses.
I approached the sandbox with a sappy smile on my face.
“Hello, little boy.”
Having no children of my own, I haven’t quite mastered the art of conversing with little ones.
“Kitty cat!” he gurgled in reply.
Omigosh. It was the same kid who’d spotted Prozac on line at the pier.
“Kitty cat!” he gurgled, louder this time, a big grin on his face, clearly thrilled to see me again.
The feeling, I regret to say, was not mutual.
“Keep it down, will ya?” I begged, shooting an anxious glance at his mother, who luckily had not woken up.
But the kid was on a roll. “Kitty cat,” he said again, his idea of sparkling repartee.
Somehow I had to shut him up.
“Here,” I said, handing him an oatmeal raisin cookie I just happened to find on the ledge of the sandbox. (Okay, so I didn’t just happen to find it. I picked it up at the buffet on my salmon run. Are you happy now?)
The kid grabbed it eagerly and began munching.
At last, blessed silence. I took out the Holiday Cruise Lines laundry bag I’d brought along for my heist and hurriedly began scooping sand into it.
All was going smoothly. The kid was munching. I was scooping. And soon Prozac would be pooping in fresh sand.
Then, just as I was scooping out my last fistful of sand, tragedy struck.
A San Andreas–type chasm suddenly appeared in the sand. I watched, transfixed, as it quickly snaked its way to the kid’s boob/castle.
Before I knew it, the boob/castle was crumbling apart. And the kid was bawling at the top of his lungs.
“Cassul bwoke! Cassul bwoke!”
So it was a castle and not a boob. At least one mystery on this ship was solved.
The next thing I knew the kid’s mom sprang awake and was racing over to the sandbox.
“What’s going on here?” she cried, scooping him up in her arms.
“Cassul bwoke,” he whimpered, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m so sorry. It was an accident,” I piped up. “I was just getting some sand, and out of nowhere the sand shifted and—”
“What on earth are you eating, Devon?”
Momentarily forgetting the castle fiasco, his mother turned her attention to the remains of a rather sandy oatmeal raisin cookie.
“I gave him a cookie.”
“You gave him a cookie?”
She glared at me as if I’d just fed him rat poison.
“Why on earth did you do that? Devon doesn’t eat refined sugar.”
Yeah, right. Eighteen years from now Devon will be sitting in a college dorm stuffing his face with Sara Lee.
“And besides, I just gave him some all-natural gum-free gummy bears a half hour ago.”
“Gee, I didn’t realize—”
“And what, may I ask, are you doing putting sand in a laundry bag?”
This last question did not come from Devon’s mom—but from Paige.
Yes, that’s right. Like an unwelcome ghost, my jolly social director had materialized out of nowhere, clipboard akimbo.
“Well?” she asked. “What are you doing with the sand?”
Oh, Lord. What was I going to tell her?
After a few agonized beats, I came up with an explanation. A rather clever one, if I do say so myself.
“I need it for my class.”
“Why in the world would you need sand for your class?”
“I’m going to have my students describe it. It’s a very popular writing exercise. They teach it at all the universities.”
Pretty good for a spur-of-the-moment whopper, huh?
Then, with all the dignity a woman with a laundry bag of sand can muster, I got up and stalked off.
Which would’ve been pretty darn dignified, too, if it hadn’t been for that all-natural gum-free gummy bear stuck to my fanny.
By now I was a walking zombie. You’d be, too, if you’d just spent a day breaking into cabins and getting trapped in a closet, listening to sexual antics that would make a porn star blush. Not to mention masterminding a daring sandbox kitty litter heist.
I trudged back to my cabin with my sack of sand, longing to hit the pillow, if only I had one. After tossing the sand in Prozac’s makeshift litter box, I collapsed onto my bed and set my alarm in time to get up for dinner.
I managed to grab a refreshing twelve minutes of sleep before it blared me awake.
Then I showered and dressed in record speed and dashed to the dining room, where I found Emily and Ms. Nesbitt back in their seats.
Emily greeted me with a faint smile, her face wan, her permed curls limp, all traces of her former ebullient self vanished.
Kyle was all over her, playing the part of the loving nephew, pretending to be concerned over “her loss.” As if he hadn’t practically broken out in a jig at the news of Graham’s death. What a slimebucket. He sat glued to her side, asking if she wanted more wine, more bread, more hollandaise for her broccoli. For a minute, I thought he was going to lean over and cut her meat for her.
Robbie, barely concealing his disgust, watched as Kyle slobbered over her.
I looked for traces of the torrid affair I’d witnessed that afternoon between Kyle and Ms. Nesbitt, but those two were cool customers. There were no covert glances, no veiled smiles, no indication whatsoever that just hours ago they’d been frolicking in the bedsheets. The only time they talked to each other was when Nesbitt asked Kyle to please pass the butter.
I, meanwhile, was digging into my pork chops Florentine with gusto. One works up quite an appetite safecracking and sand-heisting. I was just about to plunge into the second chop when the conversation took an alarming turn.
“The most upsetting thing happened just before dinner,” Nesbitt said. “When I went to my safe to get my pearls, it was open.”
My fork froze en route to my mouth.
“Ours, too!” Maggie cried. “But nothing was stolen, thank heavens.”
“I’m going to report it to the authorities,” Nesbitt said.
“Oh, no need for that!” I piped up. “It happened to me, too. And I already reported it. Apparently a lot of the safes have been malfunctioning. They promised the problem would be fixed by the time dinner is over.”
“That’s a relief,” Maggie sighed.
“Honestly!” Nesbitt sniffed. “For what they’re charging on this cruise there should be no malfunctions.”
“All’s well that ends well—that’s what I always say!” I chirped, determined to nip this let’s-report-it-to-the-authorities thing in the bud.
“Jaine’s right,” Emily said, one of the few times she’d opened her mouth all night. “No need to make a fuss, Leona.�
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Thank heavens, I thought, returning to my pork chops. Crisis averted.
This one, anyway. There were plenty more about to hit my fan. But let’s save those for another chapter, shall we?
Chapter 17
“Attention, muchachas and muchachos!” Paige’s voice came over the PA as we filed out of the dining room. “You are all cordially invited to a gala Fiesta Party on the pool deck in fifteen minutes. Be there, or be square, amigos!”
“A fiesta!” Maggie exclaimed. “That sounds like fun!”
Two days ago, Emily would’ve been the first to agree with her, but now she stifled a yawn and said, “I think I’ll be turning in.”
“So soon?” Kyle asked with oily solicitousness. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the party?”
“I’m sure, dear. I just want to go to bed.” Out of the flattering light of the dining room, her face was etched with wrinkles.
She bid everyone good night and walked away, clutching Leona’s arm for support, unsure of her footing. This from a woman who just two nights ago was spinning around the dance floor. No doubt about it. Graham’s death had aged her dramatically.
“Thank God,” Kyle said, the minute they were gone. “The last thing I want is to hang out with a bunch of lowlifes at the fiesta party.
“C’mon, Maggie,” he barked, back in drill sergeant mode. “We’re going to the casino.”
“Okay, honey.” A forced smile from Maggie. “That should be fun. I haven’t been gambling in ages.”
Oh, boy. It looked like somebody was keeping her gambling addiction a secret from her husband.
“I guess that leaves just the two of us,” Robbie said when they’d gone.
Which was fine with me. He looked awfully appealing in chinos and a baby blue oxford shirt.
“Do you feel like going to the fiesta party?” he asked.
I sensed a hesitancy in his voice.
“I’m up for it,” I said. “But I’m not so sure you are.”
“I’m just worried about Aunt Emily.”
“I know what you mean. She does seem pretty depressed.”
“The ship’s doctor had to prescribe sleeping pills for her. He’s even got Ms. Nesbitt spending the night on her sofa to keep an eye on her.
“But Kyle’s probably right,” he sighed. “Eventually she’s bound to get over it, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” I assured him with a lot more confidence than I felt.
“And maybe in the end it’s not such a bad thing,” he said. “Maybe she’ll look back and be grateful for those few extra days of happiness in her life.” He seemed to brighten at the thought. “Anyhow, I guess it’s a shame to let a good party go to waste. So what do you say? Are you ready to fiesta?”
“Sí, senor!”
Amazing, isn’t it? Before dinner all I wanted was to dive into bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. And now, after one smile from Robbie, I was ready to fiesta the night away.
It was a crazy scene on the pool deck. The lounge chairs had been cleared away to make room for dancing, and gray-haired AARPsters were shaking their booties to rock and roll music spun by a deejay in a spandex tank top and giant sombrero. A smattering of young couples and teenagers were out there, too, gyrating their hips with the kind of wild abandon that comes only with well-lubricated joints.
Paige’s social staff circled the crowd, handing out, of all things, Hawaiian leis. Don’t ask me why they were handing out leis at a Mexican fiesta. Write Holiday Cruise Lines; maybe they can explain.
“Let’s dance,” Robbie said, taking me by the hand.
Uh-oh. Up to now we’d danced to old-fashioned slow tunes. Fast dances were a whole other story. I wasn’t exactly up on the club scene (unless you count Sam’s Club), and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
But I looked around and figured, what the heck? Surely I couldn’t be worse than the woman I saw doing the twist to what was clearly a chacha.
So I got out there and joined in the bootie-shaking.
At first I was a tad self-conscious, wishing I’d worn some flab-control panty hose, but the music was infectious, and after a while I stopped worrying about flying flab and started having fun.
Like me, Robbie was no expert on the dance floor, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm.
We’d just finished gyrating to a particularly frantic tune when Paige came up to the mike in a grass skirt and halter top, a cardigan thrown over her shoulders. I blinked at the sight of a grass skirt at a Mexican fiesta. Had no one on the social staff ever studied geography?
“Buenos noches, everybody,” she called out in mangled Spanish. “Gather round, because it’s time to play a fabulous game called Musical Men!”
Musical Men turned out to be a variation of Musical Chairs. Only instead of chairs, a bunch of men were lined up in a row. With music playing in the background, women contestants circled around them. When the music stopped, each woman had to find a man to hug. Whoever wound up without a man in her arms was eliminated. After every round, one of the jolly social staff got rid of one of the men, and another round began.
“Want to play?” Robbie asked after the rules were explained.
“Sure,” I replied, eager to snatch a hug from him.
About ten men, most of them on the far side of Medicare, had volunteered to play the game and were now lined up like patients at a prostate testing center. A gaggle of women surrounded them.
We headed over to join them, and as we did I noticed Rita, my uber-irritating student and dedicated heckler. There she stood, next to her gal pals, her wiry hair glinting like Brillo.
We locked eyeballs, and I smiled a weak hello. But she did not return the smile. Instead, she turned to her buddies and began whispering what I was certain were unflattering comments about yours truly.
Oh, how I wanted to ace her out of this contest, I thought, as the music started up and the ladies began circling their prey.
I assessed my competition and figured it would be a piece of cake to latch on to a guy. After all, I was decades younger than most of these gals.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
When the music stopped for the first time, it was like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. The stampede to the men was deafening. Luckily I managed to grab hold of a sweaty bald guy with a mind-blowing case of garlic breath.
“Hi, doll,” he said, practically singeing my eyebrows.
Robbie stood just two men down from me, in the grip of a blue-haired senior. So close and yet so far.
The music started up again and once more lurched to a stop. And the stampede began. Most of these guys hadn’t seen this much action in decades. This time I latched on to an elegant silver-haired gent whose hands wandered dangerously close to my tush.
I groaned when I glanced down the line and saw Rita clutching Robbie in a death grip. She turned to me and smirked.
I vowed to take her down before the night was through.
Using all the skills I’d learned outrunning kamikaze shoppers at Macy’s 15-hour sale, I managed to stay in the game until there were just three women left: me, a disgustingly spry teenager, and—alas—Rita.
We were vying for the two remaining men: Robbie and the guy with the garlic breath.
The music started and we three gals began circling, eyeing each other warily. With only two guys left, surely I could make a run for Robbie. But when the music stopped, I was closest to Garlic Breath, so I hurled myself at him. Next to me, the teenager made a run for Robbie. She was just about to make contact when Rita burrowed in from the side and elbowed her out of the way in a move straight out of Friday Night Smackdown.
Rita clutched Robbie in victory as the teenager stalked off, muttering under her breath.
Now it was down to two men: Robbie and Garlic Breath.
The passengers voted on which of them was going to stay. Not surprisingly, Robbie won. Garlic Breath puffed off to the sidelines, leaving a miasma of halitosis in h
is wake.
Which left just me and Rita, fighting for Robbie.
The music began. I was determined to win. But how? Rita played dirty. I saw how she elbowed that poor teenager. If I wasn’t careful, I could lose a kidney.
She was glaring at me now, circling Robbie like a caged tiger, her squinty eyes shooting death rays, her elbows poised to attack.
And then I got a brilliant idea. A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.
Just as the music stopped, I pointed off to the side, shouting, “Look! It’s Mary Higgins Clark!”
And in the brief instant it took Rita to turn and look, I flung myself onto Robbie, throwing my arms around his neck.
Victory! I had defeated the Most Irritating Woman in the World!
My victory was short-lived, however. Because just then Paige stomped over in her grass skirt and cardigan, a frown marring her bland features.
“Ms. Austen,” she snapped, “contests are for paying passengers only.”
“Here you go,” she said to Rita, handing her first prize, a fifty-dollar gift certificate to one of the ship’s boutiques.
Rita just about broke the needle on the smirk-o-meter.
“Doesn’t Jaine get anything?” Robbie piped up. “After all, she really was the winner.”
Paige faked a smile for the paying customer. “Of course, sir.”
“Here you go, Jaine,” she said, handing me a cheesy ballpoint pen shaped like a maraca.
“Thanks,” I said, shoving it in my pocket. “I’ll treasure it forever.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” she said, failing to detect the irony in my voice.
Then she headed back to the mike to continue emceeing the festivities.
As she walked away, something about her cardigan caught my eye. It was a bright chartreuse. I felt certain I’d seen it somewhere before.
And then I remembered. The second night of the cruise, when I’d come back from my brownie run, I’d seen a blonde in a nightgown and that same chartreuse cardigan slipping into Graham’s cabin with a bottle of champagne. At the time I thought it was Cookie. But I was wrong. It was Paige.