Princess Charming

by Jane Heller

“What was this man wearing?” I asked.

  “A tuxedo,” Kingsley replied.

  “That narrows it down,” I said. Most of the men on the ship, Skip notwithstanding, would be wearing a tuxedo. If they didn’t own one, they could rent one in the men’s boutique, the Preening Prince.

  “I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” Kingsley confessed. “The gentleman asked me not to.”

  “Come on, Elaine,” said Pat, tugging on my arm. “Kingsley already told us that he can’t say any more. Let’s go to dinner, all right?”

  I shook off the suggestion, reached into my purse, pulled out a dollar, and handed it to Kingsley. “Now can you say any more?” I asked.

  He smiled. “No problem. The gentleman was asking specifically about Mrs. Gault. The one who’s sick.”

  “Henry Prichard,” Pat and I said in unison.

  “He didn’t give me his name,” Kingsley said.

  I nodded. “That’s okay, Kingsley. We know who it was.”

  And yet, why wouldn’t Henry want us to know he’d been asking about Jackie? I wondered. And why wouldn’t he just call her room and ask her directly how she was feeling? Come to think of it, how did he know she was sick in the first place? She hadn’t emerged from her stateroom all day.

  “Let’s go, Elaine,” said Pat, linking her arm through mine. “You know how Ismet likes us to be on time.”

  “You’re right,” I said, not wanting to miss a moment of Sam’s company.

  But Sam wasn’t there when we arrived at Table 186. I pretended not to notice and sat down next to Dorothy Thayer. Pat took the empty chair to my left.

  “Where’s your friend?” Dorothy asked me after everybody said hello to everybody.

  “He’s not really my friend,” I said. “I only met him last night at the table.”

  She smiled. “I meant your girlfriend. The one who owns the nursery.”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed that I was so taken with Sam that I had completely forgotten about poor, sick, electrolyte-depleted Jackie. “She’s a little under the weather. We think it may be a stomach virus.”

  “What did she say, Dorothy?” Lloyd asked.

  “She said her friend may have a stomach virus,” Dorothy told her husband, whose black-tuxedoed shoulders were covered with dandruff.

  “I wonder if it was something she ate at dinner last night,” said Gayle, recoiling from her roll and butter. She looked quite opulent in her kelly green silk dress that set off her lustrous red hair. In keeping with the color of the dress, she had forsaken the diamonds for emeralds. Her husband, Kenneth, wore an Armani tuxedo and had a large, fat cigar in his mouth. Unlit, of course. It was all the rage among newly rich and successful men to have the finest in Cuban cigars flown in from Saint Martin or Saint Bart’s or wherever contraband is flown in from, build a humidor in their basement (next to the wine cellar or exercise room or media center), and simply hold, chew, or suck on the cigar, the way men did in the fifties, only more so.

  “I don’t think so,” I said reassuringly. “She and I both had the veal. It’s probably a bug.”

  There followed a fairly lengthy discussion of the over-the-counter stomach medications currently on the market, including a debate over which was better at reducing acid buildup: Pepcid AC or Tagamet HB. And for some reason that led to a debate over whether one is to starve a fever or feed a cold. Even the newlyweds, Brianna and Rick, wrested their lips away from each other long enough to weigh in on the subject.

  “At the first sign of anything, I load up on Vitamin C,” Brianna shared.

  “Vitamins are bullshit,” Rick grunted. “You’re wasting your money, honey bunch.”

  “I am not, sweetheart,” said Brianna. “Vitamins really work. A lot of people take them.”

  “A lot of people think the government is their friend,” said Rick. “A lot of people should wake up and smell the corruption.” So I was right about Rick. It was entirely possible that he attended secret meetings dressed in combat fatigues.

  “I’ve been taking vitamins since eighth grade,” Brianna said. “And I’m going to keep right on taking them, snuggle bunny.”

  “What did you say?” Rick stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. I guessed that she had never asserted herself before, never stood up to him, never contradicted his notion of his own male superiority—at least not in public. I also guessed that the honeymoon was over and so were the terms of endearment.

  “Personally, whenever I feel a bug coming on, I run to the chiropractor,” Gayle said. “It’s astonishing how the manipulation of the vertebrae stimulates the immune system.”

  I looked at Kenneth, who was stimulating the cigar in his mouth, twisting it around, pulling it out, sticking it back in. I suspected that Kenneth didn’t consult a chiropractor when he was feeling poorly; he sought out women of the Heidi Fleiss variety.

  Lloyd was in the process of asking Dorothy what was being said when Sam finally showed up.

  “Sorry I’m late, everybody. Again.”

  He pulled out the chair next to Pat and sat down.

  He was a striking figure in his formal clothes—the tall, lean body, the dark, wavy, newly trimmed hair, the crisp white shirt against the lightly tanned complexion. He looked as wonderful in a tuxedo as he did in running shorts and swimming trunks, a man for all wardrobes. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  “You must like making grand entrances,” I said, leaning over Pat to talk to him.

  He shook his head. “I’m just one of those chronically late people,” he explained. “I’m never on time, no matter how hard I try.”

  I’d always detested chronically late people, but I quickly made an exception in Sam’s case.

  “So,” he said, glancing at the empty chair to his left. “Is Jackie up in her stateroom waiting for the CNN sports report to come on?” Apparently, they had discussed her passion for sports the night before, while I was discussing Smallbone kitchens with Gayle.

  “No, she’s nursing a virus,” said Pat. “She didn’t feel like coming down to dinner.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” said Sam. “Has she taken anything for it?”

  “We’ve already been through that, okay?” Rick snapped.

  Sam laughed. “Sure. Far be it from me to bore you all.”

  Mercifully, both Manfred and Ismet descended on our table at that very moment. Manfred took our wine orders. Ismet told us the specials; as this was Italian Night, he was pushing the osso bucco.

  “What the hell’s ass-o buck-o?” Rick asked his wife, in the same hostile manner in which he had asked about the coq au vin the previous evening.

  “You’re Italian. You figure it out,” Brianna said with a definite edge to her voice. Clearly, she had not gotten over their last little exchange.

  “I’m half-Italian,” said Rick. “On my father’s side. But it was my mother that did the cooking. Like women are supposed to do.”

  “Are you suggesting that I should spend our entire marriage in the kitchen?” Brianna challenged. “Just because that’s how your mother spent hers?”

  “You got a problem with the way my mother did things?” Rick demanded.

  Before Brianna could up the ante, Ismet queried the newlyweds about their dinner selections.

  “I’ll have the osso bucco,” said Brianna, glaring at her husband.

  “Just give me some spaghetti and meatballs, okay, Ishmael?” said Rick.

  Ismet bowed and hurried off to fetch our orders.

  Actually, the food was a lot better than it had been the night before, and I enjoyed every bite of my chicken alla romana. But mostly, I enjoyed talking to Sam—or rather, listening to him. After Pat told him all about her kids, he told us all about his brother’s kids—six-year-old twin girls who visited him often in Albany. He seemed very attached to the children, a real doting uncle, but was refreshingly open about how daunted he was by the idea of raising kids of his own.

  He’ll make a wonderful father someday,
I found myself thinking as he recounted his most recent Christmas with his little nieces. An honest, loving father. I knew full well that I was idealizing him; that, should he ever have kids, he could be as big a rat as my father was. But for the time being, I chose to buy the image of Sam as God, which is what happens when you’re in the throes of blinding passion.

  During dessert, while Pat was telling Sam about Bill and his work (there was talk of hiatal hernias and spastic colons and conditions that were not exactly appetite enhancers), Dorothy tapped me on the arm and asked if I’d ever been married.

  “Yes,” I said. “Briefly. I’m divorced.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Divorce is so common in our society today, and I just can’t understand it. Lloyd and I have managed to stay together for over sixty-five years—longer than our parents were alive.”

  “What’s your secret?” I asked. “There must be something you two have learned about long and happy marriages that the rest of us haven’t.”

  She smiled knowingly. “The secret to a long and happy marriage is sex, dear.”

  “Sex?” I said. I’d been expecting a sanctimonious little speech about trust and mutual respect and the need for partners to communicate with each other.

  “Yes, sex,” she insisted. “Lloyd and I still screw like bunnies.”

  I glanced over at Lloyd, who couldn’t even guide his forkful of cannoli into his mouth. Half of it landed on the jacket of his tuxedo.

  “He’s an incredible lover,” said Dorothy. Then she closed her eyes, either because she was getting in touch with some erotic memory or because it was past her bedtime. Her eyes remained closed for several seconds.

  “Dorothy?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Dorothy?” I said again, nudging her gently this time. The thought crossed my mind that she might be dead.

  “Yes?” she said finally, opening her eyes very slowly.

  “Everything all right?”

  She beamed. “Everything’s wonderful,” she said. “My husband and I are madly in love. Aren’t we, Lloyd?”

  “What did you say, Dorothy?” Lloyd shouted.

  “I said, aren’t we madly in love?” Dorothy repeated.

  Lloyd didn’t smile at his wife of sixty-five years, nor did he tell her he loved her. But in a gesture of unexpected tenderness for a man so crusty and cranky, he brought his hand up to her face and stroked her cheek.

  “I told you,” she giggled, winking at me.

  “Yes, you did,” I smiled, envying her.

  After dinner, Pat, Sam and I decided to pass on the Elvis Presley revue and opted for the casino. We each got a bucket of quarters, found three slot machines that looked interesting, and hunkered down. Sam played one called Jackpot Jungle, Pat tried her hand at the Double Diamond Deluxe, and I worked the one called Super Joker. I’d never been much of a gambler, given that I was the type of person who abhorred risks, and yet there was something oddly thrilling about inserting that quarter in the slot, pulling the lever, and waiting to see if all the little apples and oranges and strawberries lined up the way they were supposed to. It was especially thrilling to win—even a dollar or two. All the lights on the machine would start flashing and the bells and buzzers would go off and the coins would come pouring out into your waiting hands. Still, all thrills aside, I couldn’t imagine spending my days and nights at a slot machine and I wondered about those who did. As I surveyed the people in the casino that night, I noticed that many of them were women—women who sat, all alone, at a machine, cigarette in one hand, cocktail in the other, and played and lost and played and won and played and lost, and so on. Was this how they eased their loneliness, escaped a bad marriage, compensated for a humdrum life? Was gambling away a bucket or two of change a more socially acceptable type of rebellion than, say, running off to Mexico with a tall, dark stranger?

  Speaking of tall, dark strangers, Sam walked over to my machine, leaned over, and said, “A bucket of quarters for your thoughts, little lady?”

  I laughed. “My thoughts aren’t worth that much, believe me.”

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Sure. You?”

  He nodded. “Although I think I’ve had it with the casino. I’d rather take a walk on the Promenade Deck. Want to join me?”

  I checked my watch. It was eight forty-five. I had planned to go back to my cabin and call Harold. But the last time Sam had asked me to join him, for breakfast that morning, I’d said I had to call my office. I couldn’t very well refuse him a second time by telling him I had to call my boss. Harold would just have to wait.

  “I’d love to. Let’s find Pat,” I said, scanning the room for my friend. When I spotted her, she was still hovering over the Double Diamond Deluxe.

  “Making a killing?” I asked her as she played her last quarter and had nothing but an empty bucket to show for it.

  She shrugged with embarrassment. “I’m afraid I’m not very propitious at this,” she said.

  “Proficient, you mean?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Nobody is,” Sam said reassuringly. “That’s why they’ll all be back here tomorrow. To try again.”

  “I feel better then,” Pat sighed with relief.

  “Listen, how about taking a walk on the Promenade Deck?” I suggested to her. “We can all work off Italian Night.”

  She glanced at Sam, then back at me. I knew what she was thinking: that three was a crowd. I also knew that she was being asked to make a decision, and I knew how long that could take. I tried to hurry her along. “What do you say, Pat? Will you come?” Sure, I wanted to be alone with Sam. But I despise women who dump their female friends the minute a guy enters the picture.

  We waited as she deliberated. Sam was very patient. Finally, she said she wanted to go upstairs and check on Jackie.

  “Are you sure?” Sam asked. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  Pat smiled as she regarded me. This was a new situation for us, an entirely new situation. In the past, whenever the Three Blonde Mice took a vacation, it was usually Jackie who met men, not me. Never me. Suddenly, the balance of our friendship had shifted. Suddenly, I was the one in heat.

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  “Tell Jackie sweet dreams,” I said. Pat left Sam and me alone.

  “So? Ready for a walk?” he said.

  “Ready,” I said.

  He put his hand on the small of my back, against the zipper of my dress, as he guided me out of the casino. His touch felt so exquisite that I literally shivered. I hoped he didn’t notice how out of practice I was at being touched by a man.

  When we got outside, onto the Promenade Deck, the air was breezy and warm, like the night before, but not as clear. There were masses of clouds overhead, obscuring the moon and the stars. As a result, the atmosphere was moody, mysterious, dramatic.

  “Let’s walk over there,” Sam said, pointing toward the stern of the ship, where I had stood twenty-four hours earlier and watched the wake churning below.

  I agreed and we walked toward the rear of the Princess Charming. Sam chose a secluded, out-of-the-way spot by the railing, sort of an alcove where the hull of the ship met the open deck area. It was dark and narrow and a little scary there, and if I’d been by myself, I would have been looking over my shoulder. But I was not by myself. I was with a man I liked. What was there to worry about?

  “Cigarette?” Sam asked as the breeze blew a lock of his dark hair into his eyes. He combed it back in place with his long, tapered fingers.

  “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  “Then why did you ask me if I wanted a cigarette?”

  “I don’t know. I’m wearing a tuxedo and you’re wearing a fancy dress and we’re standing on the deck of a ship looking out to sea at night. It seemed like the kind of thing a really suave guy in this situation would say to a woman. That, or: ‘Happy, darling?’”

  I laughed. “You’ve seen too
many Bette Davis movies.”

  “Guilty. But there’s nothing like an old movie line when you don’t know how else to get a conversation going.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re at a loss for words.”

  “No. I’m at a loss for the right words. You don’t miss much, Slim. A guy’s got to be real careful what he says around you.” Slim. A nickname. No, it wasn’t “beauty” or “beloved” but it was a damn sight better than “snuggle bunny.” Actually, I rather liked it. I especially liked the way he said it. His tone was affectionate, playful, personal. “The truth is, I feel a certain pressure to keep up with you in the bon mot department,” he admitted.

  “Oh, God. Another man with a case of performance anxiety,” I groaned.

  He laughed. “Are you as hard on yourself as you are on others?”

  “You bet. Except when it comes to my ex-husband. I’m harder on him than I am on anyone else.”

  “Ah, yes. You mentioned that you dislike him intensely. Thanks to Leah, the one who worked at his funeral homes.”

  “That was Lola. Leah is my assistant at Pearson & Strulley. Or at least, she was.”

  “What happened?”

  “My boss promoted her today. Without bothering to tell me.”

  “You must be pretty pissed off.”

  I nodded. “But not as pissed off as I was about Lola. Eric used to say she was an artist when it came to dead bodies. It turned out she wasn’t bad with live ones either.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sam attempted to squelch a laugh.

  “I wasn’t being funny.”

  “But you are funny. The way you put things makes me smile. I can’t help it.”

  I brightened. I loved it when he smiled. When I caused him to smile.

  “Your friend Pat was telling me about her marriage at dinner tonight,” he said, “how her ex-husband’s medical career and her concentration on the children split them up. She still loves him, anyone can see that. And she’s crazy about her kids and her house and her life in the suburbs. She sounded pretty content, except for Bill’s not being around.”

  I was surprised that Sam would remember Bill’s name—who catches every detail of their dinner companion’s anecdotes?—and then I realized that Pat had probably invoked Bill’s name seventy-two times in the fifteen minutes they were talking.