by Holly Rayner
Then had come the comments about her lack of commitment, her inability to focus, her failures of strength, character, and academic interest, and Zelda had found herself becoming angrier and angrier. It had been the same litany she’d heard when she’d dropped out of UCF, and it hadn’t aged well in the months since her parents had last delivered it.
“We can’t keep funding you indefinitely, Zelda,” her mother had said, shaking her head.
“You’re the one who named me after a 1920s party girl,” Zelda had retorted. “What did you expect? That I’d grow up to become some stable, secure, wonderful contributing member of society?”
“We expected at least that you’d be smart enough to know when to keep at something long enough to accomplish at least one goal in it,” her father had said. “We expected that a young woman as bright and talented as you are could cobble together enough focus to do something with herself.”
“So after two tries—two measly tries—you’re cutting me off?” Zelda had been shaking with anger at that point, her voice cracking with it. While her parents weren’t exactly wealthy, they’d managed to get tenure, and had put away enough money over the years to manage a generous retirement fund, and speaking engagements and publishing contracts had given them wiggle room to fund her. The fact that they’d decided to cut her off, when Zelda knew as a certainty that there was still money in her college fund, enraged her.
“Two measly tries? Zelda, we’ve sunk thousands into your education, and you’re telling us after a few short weeks at culinary school that it’s not for you. It was supposed to be your practical goal, and something that you couldn’t possibly fail at,” her mother had told her.
“We’d almost be less upset if you’d genuinely failed, rather than giving up on it like you are now,” her father had added.
“Well I guess since I’m such a terrible disappointment to you both, I might as well just move out and try my luck being…I don’t know…an escort or something,” Zelda had told them. She’d gone into her room while her parents, too stunned to come up with something to say in response, had stared, and thus started the long walk that had brought her to the marina.
As Zelda looked around, she tried to think of a way to use her location to her advantage. She had no intention of becoming an escort; while she respected the women who could live that life, it wasn’t something that appealed to her. Maybe if I was a high-price escort, making five thousand dollars a week, they’d shut up about what a quitter I am, Zelda thought bitterly. Nope, not worth it. Find something else.
She could apply at one of the handful of restaurants on the marina; while she didn’t yet have her certification, she’d trained for eight weeks, and could easily use her skills as a sous chef at one of the smaller, less formal options. Or maybe I could get a retail job. Zelda frowned at the idea, dismissing it a moment later; even on Miami Beach, a retail position wouldn’t pay enough for her to afford rent right away.
Zelda paused as a couple of loaders crossed her path, headed for one of the larger yachts moored at the docks. She turned her head and took in the magnificent ship: it was the largest one in the marina, glittering in gleaming white, blue, and gray splendor. Probably some hedge fund manager, getting ready to take his trophy wife to Barbados or St. Lucia.
Zelda shook her head to herself, watching the workers loading more supplies onto the huge vessel. Other employees milled around, either far overhead on the boat itself, or around it on the docks, chattering away, obviously preparing to set sail. So many people were coming and going that Zelda wondered how it was possible for the people in charge to keep count.
That question set wheels into motion in her head. They probably aren’t keeping track at all, she thought, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying it as the elusive shape of a plan began to form in her mind. At least, they’re probably not paying so much attention to who comes and goes that they’d notice just one little stowaway.
A tingle of excitement worked its way through Zelda’s body. She looked around herself more carefully; the crew of the ship were so involved in preparing to leave that none of them had so much as looked in her direction since she’d come to a stop next to the vessel.
Zelda shifted her backpack on her shoulders, smoothed her hair, and looked down at her clothes. They were less than completely professional, but she looked at least as put-together as any of the other yacht staff she saw coming and going, moving around on the slip. If she played her cards right, she could—she hoped—make it onto the vessel, and into a discreet hiding spot, before anyone thought to take a head count.
She fell in behind two stewards, chatting busily about their last-minute assignments, about “impossible demands” and “miracle workers.” She kept a few paces behind them, not wanting to do anything to attract attention, and followed them up the gangplank at a steady pace, carefully schooling her features into a model of all that was busy and focused.
Once on board, Zelda immediately turned left, cutting away from the stewards, and ducked into a hallway without knowing where she was going, or even where she should go. In theory at least, she should be able to find somewhere to tuck herself away in the lower levels. She looked around for a map, an elevator, or stairs to take her further away from the potential of being caught by one of the crew members wandering around.
She found her way downstairs, trying to look like she knew where she was going. Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked around, moving briskly through the corridors. She thought that she was either brilliant or incredibly foolish, and that there was a very good possibility that she was both.
“You!”
Zelda spun on her heel as a big, slightly heavy-looking woman appeared on the corridor. She was wearing chef’s whites, her face flushed and her sandy-colored hair pulled back under a cap.
“You’re looking for the galley, right?”
Zelda smiled tightly. “Yeah, sorry, just kind of lost.”
The chef nodded shortly. “Someone should have led you down here. I’ll get someone to show you to your quarters as soon as you’re done.” She gestured for Zelda to follow her.
With no other option, Zelda followed the woman through the end of the corridor and then to a door, leading into the yacht’s galley. A few others were at work, preparing what looked to be a luxurious feast.
“You’re going to have a chance to show off your skills right away,” the chef said, gesturing around the kitchen. “His Majesty wants a banquet prepared and served shortly after we set sail. Supplies are still coming in, of course, but you know how it is—he says jump.”
Zelda nodded. “I get it,” she said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.
“I’ll put you on prep for now, and we can see where you go from there,” she said. “Name’s Babette; I’m the head chef here. You?”
“Zelda.”
“Throw your bag over there in the office, and talk to Petra here about what needs prepping. We’ll have more time to work out your spot on the line once we get through this crisis.” Babette turned away and faced the rest of the kitchen. “If you burn that rice again, Jeremy, so help me I will make white boy tagine out of you!”
The chef strode away and Zelda threw her bag into the office, walking towards the station that Babette had gestured to.
“You the newbie?” a shorter, rounder woman with dark hair asked.
Zelda nodded in answer Petra’s question.
“Thank God—we were starting to think you were going to no-show. All right, let’s show you which way is up.”
Zelda paid close attention as Petra pointed out all the different vegetables that needed prepping and ran through what she needed Zelda to do with each.
“Got all that?” she asked, and Zelda nodded. “All right, now once you get those done, let me know and we’ll move onto the next batch.”
“Can do,” Zelda said.
She grabbed one of the knives in the block and got to work. Thank God they thought I was some kitchen sta
ffer, Zelda thought. Whoever it was that really was supposed to be in her position would probably be kicking him or herself when they missed the boat—assuming they didn’t show up in the next few minutes.
Zelda kept her head down and chopped, diced, and sliced, listening to the chatter around her without contributing. The crew were discussing the supplies they’d gotten in so far, and what they were still waiting on.
“Two weeks at sea, how does he expect us to keep all this stuff fresh?”
Zelda looked up at that, startled.
“You knew it was going to be two weeks at sea when you signed up,” one of the other kitchen crew said, catching her expression. “Besides, he put in industrial freezers and fridges for this—we’ll run out before anything will go bad.”
“You’d think he’d want to take a jet to Murindhi,” someone pointed out. “He’s got that deal he’s working on; why take the slow route?”
“He does things on his own time—and so do we. He’s happy to take the two weeks to get there, and personally I’m happy to have two weeks of actual work.”
Zelda looked down at her cutting board again, her mind reeling. Two weeks?
Her heart beat faster in her chest; this was not at all what she’d had in mind. She’d thought that the yacht might be going to Jamaica, or maybe Mexico—not halfway across the world. She bit her bottom lip and mowed through garlic cloves with her knife, thanking the few weeks of culinary training that she’d received for helping her not to blow her cover.
I need to get off this ship before it leaves the marina, she thought, trying to figure out a way to get out of the galley without attracting attention. Maybe if she had a sudden bathroom emergency, she’d be able to get away; but that would only attract attention, and more than a little resentment from the rest of the kitchen crew who were already working as fast as they could manage.
She moved on to chopping zucchini, her mind working quickly. She could ‘accidentally’ cut herself, but Zelda knew well enough that all that would get her was a quick bandage, a latex food service glove, and an instruction to keep going.
Just when she thought she might be able to slip away, Zelda heard a loud, whistling wail from a few floors above. Her stomach sank to her knees.
“We are now underway,” someone—Zelda assumed the captain—announced over the PA. “Kitchen staff, dinner call is set for eight o’clock.”
Zelda swallowed against the tight, dry feeling in her throat, realizing that there was no way for her to get off the ship; even if she could manage to get out of the galley unnoticed, she had nowhere to go. She was stuck on board for the next two weeks.
Well, she reasoned, calling Petra over to get her approval on the prep work she’d done, I can just disappear once we get to Murindhi. Wherever that is. She had managed to sneak onto the yacht; she would just have to employ the same tactics when sneaking off. The fact that she had no business being on the ship was a major issue, but Zelda told herself that she would find a way around it once they got there.
“Okay,” Petra said, nodding at the prepped ingredients. “We’re finally catching up to the timeline we’ve been given, so let me get you over on the salad station.”
Zelda smiled, following the sous chef, trying not to let anyone see how thoroughly anxious she felt at the fact that she was in well over her head. You can get through this. You have enough kitchen skill to cover yourself—it’s not like they expect you to be some kind of Michelin-starred chef.
She went to work on her next task, focusing on staying as calm as possible. She would figure it out. As more conversation and banter flowed and ebbed around her, she attempted to relax, to get into the groove just as she had in classes; but still her mind turned over and over.
“New girl! Zelda! Get over here on the grill,” Babette called out, and Zelda nearly dropped her knife. She put it down carefully and darted to the other station, forcing her worries about her long-term future out of her mind in favor of the short-term crisis.
TWO
Zelda sat back on the lounge chair she had taken, pulling her hat down over her eyes. The yacht had been at sea for almost two weeks, and would very soon be pulling into port at Murindhi. For the moment, Zelda forced herself not to think too much about what she would do when that moment arrived; her feet ached from working in the galley, and the cocktail she’d gotten from the bartender out on deck tasted too good to ruin it with worry.
She took a deep breath and reached out for the piña colada on the table next to her chair. She brought it up to her face as she looked around, taking in the different people scattered around the deck, in the pool, talking to each other. Some were crew, and some were guests of the owner, judging by their expensive clothes, their well-groomed hair, and the gleam of gold and platinum jewelry—nothing too gaudy, but worth more than Zelda would have made in a year had she gone ahead with her plan to become a caterer.
Zelda thought once again that it was a good thing she’d gotten those few weeks of training at Le Cordon Bleu. It was even luckier that she had run into Babette, and that the person whose job she’d taken on hadn’t shown up. She had impressed the kitchen staff early on, which had helped keep them from asking too many questions about what had brought her to the yacht. One part knife skills, one part introduction to stocks, one part personal experience.
Zelda sipped her cocktail and smiled to herself. She had left culinary school in no small part because she had found the drills stultifyingly boring, but she had picked up a few tricks of the trade in the few weeks before she’d given up; enough to be able to bluff her way through the kitchen tasks that had been assigned to her.
“His Highness”, as the kitchen crew called the man who owned the ship, liked to have food out for himself and his guests at nearly all times of the day and night, which explained why there was about double the number of crew to what would normally be on a ship with fewer than fifty guests on board.
In her near-fortnight on board the yacht, Zelda had worked no fewer than eight hours per day, and usually closer to ten: prepping fruits and vegetables, working the grill, sweating over the stoves. She knew she’d impressed the other members of the kitchen crew—including Babette—not just with her knife skills, speed and accuracy in following directions, but also in her instinct for cooking. Zelda’s inspiration for going into culinary school had come from comments her friends had made about the food she’d thrown together living in dorms, creating extravagant meals with no better equipment than an electric kettle, a toaster oven, a microwave, and a mini fridge.
One or two of Zelda’s personal creations had gone out of the kitchen; her “Three Cs” soup with carrot, caraway and cumin had gone over particularly well, as had her strawberry-basil granita. Nothing had been sent back so far, and Zelda had overheard one or two of the guests commenting favorably on dishes she had made. That, to her, was high praise indeed: comments made to her face could be disingenuous, but anonymous praise, between people who had no idea she could hear them, was more likely to be genuine.
“Attention all guests and crew,” a voice said over the ship’s intercom. “We will be docking in Murindhi in four hours’ time. Please remember to check your quarters and make sure that your documentation is in order.”
Zelda felt a flutter in her chest at the mention of documentation; she had her passport in her wallet, so that much at least would not be at issue—but she had no idea what visa requirements Murindhi had. Until two weeks ago you’d never even heard of Murindhi, she reminded herself.
She took a deep breath and finished off her cocktail, pushing the flurry of panic aside. Whatever happened would happen, she told herself. There was no sense in giving herself away before the end of her unexpected trip.
The cadre of guests around the top deck pool chattered amongst themselves, and Zelda watched them, fascinated as always. Of course, it’s easy for people who have money to look good, she thought, taking in the details.
Most of the men looked as if they had dedicated personal trai
ners, and probably dietitians as well; they were muscular and lean but not so built that they could be mistaken for athletes. There were a few women in the group, but to Zelda’s eye they all seemed attached to particular men; the women were almost impossibly beautiful, with makeup that didn’t budge in the water, elegant hats to shade their faces, and bathing suits that Zelda was certain cost more than her putative paycheck for the voyage.
As she watched, Zelda’s gaze paused on one of the guests: a tall, lean man, with dark hair and brilliant hazel eyes. She’d spotted him several times since they’d left Miami, and every time he had somehow managed to surprise her.
Living in Florida, Zelda was accustomed to male beauty, but the stranger in question seemed to become more good-looking every time she saw him. His olive-toned, deep bronze skin, hairless chest, and long legs caught her off-guard as much as his thick, groomed eyebrows, and surprisingly beautiful smile. So far out of your league it isn’t even funny, Zelda told herself, sitting up and retrieving her cocktail glass to get a refill.