A Rather Curious Engagement

by C. A. Belmond

  And the press, whilst snapping away, aren’t the least bit shy about sidling on board for a free drink and snack. Actually we had quite a few uninvited guests that night, but Jeremy and I were initially too preoccupied to notice.

  When we first came aboard, Claude and the crew, looking sharp in their new uniforms, had lined up to formally welcome “the new owners.” Jeremy looked ever so nice in light-colored trousers and dark jacket; and I wore a navy chiffon dress with white piping and white sash, white ballet flats and a white scarf on my hair.

  My parents were in Europe now and they turned up spiffily dressed, with Mom in a pale pink linen pantsuit and Dad in light grey pants, a white shirt and navy cashmere sweater. Dad is one of those Frenchmen who looks fit and trim no matter how much butter he eats. I inherited my brown eyes and delicate pale skin from him. Mom has copper-colored hair like mine, but she’s adorably petite, and her face has that wry, watchful look that intelligent English women have. They were as eager to see us again as they were to view the yacht, and they listened, wide-eyed, when I regaled them with the story of the auction. Jeremy and I took them on a tour; my father was fascinated by the kitchen stove, and would have liked nothing better than to test it out, right then and there, but he behaved himself by going back up on deck to mingle with the other guests.

  When we returned, Aunt Sheila, Jeremy’s mum, had arrived. She was positively stunning in a violet-grey dress, seeming perfectly at home at a yacht party, youthful as ever, with blonde straight bangs across her forehead and a cool Britannia attitude. She and my parents settled in together on the teak steamer chairs on the aft deck, and François brought them champagne.

  Jeremy had not invited office friends from London, but one of our guests was a young French lawyer from the Parisian branch of his firm, who’d originally helped us with the settling of Great-Aunt Penelope’s will, and was now handling the legal transaction of the boat. This was Louis, an impeccable fellow with curly dark hair. He told me that the vivacious—and slightly rapacious—Severine, the inheritance lawyer who’d once been after Jeremy, was not only married now but was expecting her first child.

  “I’ll bet she still looks great,” I said in a low voice. Louis smiled.

  “But you look radiant,” Louis said diplomatically. “It’s nice to be happy, yes?”

  “Penny Nichols!” cried Erik as he came aboard. My former boss, a terrific set designer, still looked like a big Irish wolfhound even though he’d cut his wild white hair shorter now. Right next to him was his partner, the wiry, dark-haired Tim. They were already in town to pick up a TV award for one of their movie sets.

  “Darling, you look positively chic,” Erik said approvingly. “Let’s sit down this week and have a real chat. Bring Jeremy. Lunch, day after tomorrow?” And he gave me the name of a place where he’d be meeting all day with movie and TV people.

  “Need someone to spin records for you tonight on that marvellous Victrola?” Tim offered, as we moved into the main salon. I wasn’t sure if Jeremy would let anybody handle that particular toy, but Jeremy said magnanimously, “Sure, that would be great.”

  Lest you think we were the only ones playing music and making noise and being snapped by photographers, let me tell you, there were plenty of other parties in the harbor that night. In fact, some revellers were making a night of hopping from one boat to another because they’d lined up four boats in a row for their big bash. It was a little raucous at first, like a posher version of, well, tailgating at a football game. But it was fun to watch so many people having a good time, as if the whole jaunty yachting culture was at play, with boats coming and going, and big ships dropping anchor farther out to sea, sending their guests zooming into shore on zippy little “launches” so that they could dine at restaurants on land.

  All in all, we had a good crowd of about twenty-five people . . . not counting the press and a few other strangers. Our guests were milling around the boat, some congregating on the deck, others hanging out in the main salon. As Brice and François moved about carrying drinks and canapés on silver trays, I noticed, over by the cocktail bar, a rather sad-looking, handsome man who stood alone, gazing at the crowd, and speaking with a German accent when he accepted a glass of champagne. He was in his mid-to-late thirties, with wavy yellow-blond hair, and greenish-blue eyes that glanced around the room as if taking in every detail. He wore a suit of fine linen woven in various shades of green and blue and brown, with a soft beige linen shirt.

  At that particular moment Claude and Jeremy summoned me to christen the boat. As I walked toward them, the sad-looking German saw me glance at him and he nodded, bowed slightly and said, “The very best of luck to you.”

  I nodded uncertainly, then reached Jeremy and the captain, who handed me a bottle of champagne.

  “Oh, God,” I said, stricken, thinking of everything that could possibly go wrong and somehow be a bad omen. What if the bottle wouldn’t break? Or, suppose it shattered in a million pieces and sent shards flying everywhere to cut up the guests?

  “Don’t be shy,” Jeremy encouraged. “Go for it.”

  So I marched right up, leaned over, squinted in determination, wound up like a baseball batter, and said boldly, “I christen thee Penelope’s Dream!”

  And . . . Thwack! It was kinda tricky, but I managed to crack that bottle on the first whack without slicing myself to ribbons or making any horrible dents in the boat. Everyone broke into applause, and the press even took pictures. So then I felt like Queen Elizabeth. Nothing to it.

  “Whew!” I said under my breath. “Glad that’s sorted.” I beamed back at the smiling crowd, and noticed that the sad-looking German had vanished.

  Then I spotted a familiar but uninvited face in the crowd—a man coming purposefully toward me with a broad grin. “Holy smokes, Jeremy, look who’s here,” I said under my breath.

  Jeremy looked up sharply as good old cousin Rollo loped toward us, reaching out to shake Jeremy’s hand; and he gave me a wet kiss on the cheek, acting like a long-lost friend instead of the relative who’d tried to swindle our inheritance right out from under our feet.

  “Congratulations!” he exclaimed, then roared with laughter at the expression on our faces. He hadn’t changed a bit. Wealthy as he is, his suits always look as if he slept in them on a park bench. His pouchy face still had the look of a burnt-out con man, and when he leaned near me I caught that whiff of stale tobacco, spilt whisky, and late nights in seedy bars with dubious women. Rollo is actually my mom’s cousin. He is what you might call a man of leisure. This leaves him lots of free time to collect various antiques and artifacts which have more than once been of dubious origin. It crossed my mind that Rollo was just the sort of fellow who’d read up on the latest yachting and auction news.

  “I was over at Monte,” he said easily, “and heard all about it. What fun, eh?” he added genially as he snatched a drink from the steward’s tray. He was already holding a small plate piled high with assorted canapés from the sideboard in the salon. There wasn’t a single bit of food he’d missed.

  “Monte, eh?” Jeremy said, and I knew that we were both picturing Rollo at the roulette table in Monte Carlo, already gambling away his portion of the inheritance. And when he ran out of dosh, well, guess who he’d come to for more?

  Yet, there is something oddly vulnerable about him, despite his weaseliness, which makes all of us feel that when he stumbles too hard, he’ll need the family to protect him. And, I have to admit, there wasn’t a trace of rancor or ill-will in his face, voice or gestures. He seemed genuinely pleased . . . at least, to have relatives that he considered well-heeled and able to offer him even more of the finer things in life. It was as if we had suddenly become people worth knowing.

  “Penny, my dear, I hope you have many pleasant voyages aboard this vessel,” Rollo said enthusiastically.

  “Sir?” Claude said to Jeremy. “We are ready to embark on our trial run.”

  Rollo respectfully backed away, but I kept an eye on him
and noticed him studying all the little trinkets and fancy items aboard. I even saw him pick up the little antique hourglass and study it, and I half-expected him to slip it into his pocket, but he put it back, very reverently, exactly where it belonged.

  Jeremy, seeing that I was eyeing Rollo, whispered to me, “Don’t worry. I told Brice to keep an eye on Old Sticky Fingers.”

  And suddenly the crew was rapidly hauling up the funny balloon-like bumpers that keep your boat from knocking into other boats or scraping against the dock, and the deck hands were tossing up the ropes that tethered us. The ship’s bell clanged and the engine cleared its throat and everybody clapped for it, and the whole boat rumbled a bit.

  “All ahead!” cried the captain. Jeremy led me to the front deck, which faced out of the harbor, because it was berthed with its back-end at the dock. Our guests all congregated on the decks, clinging to the rails expectantly, and, in a moment of unparalleled magic, Penelope’s Dream went chugging out toward the sea.

  Other boats parked beside us seemed to float into retreat, in that funny way where at first you’re not sure who’s moving, you or them. Then you realize it’s you who are going forward, not they who are going backward. A few curious ducks paddled alongside us but soon gave up the chase. At first, we moved slowly, until we were clear of the harbor. Then, we picked up speed. Now the whole coastline began to rapidly recede as we pulled out into the wider sea. The beautiful Mediterranean opened her great blue arms in welcome.

  Jeremy squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. Still standing on the fore deck at the railing, I could feel the salty spray rising up in a joyous mist as we sliced through it. Within minutes, it seemed, the harbor had completely retreated into the backdrop, and as the boat turned slightly to the right, I saw that everything on the coast’s rising cliffs looked doll-like in miniature. The pocket of sea that surrounded us seemed to expand and grow wider, and wider still, until we had the delicious, heady experience of being released from the land, set free upon the open sea and open sky with nothing to hem us in, tie us down or hold us back. It was almost like taking off in a balloon, with the wind pushing us along in a great big pouff of good luck.

  Other boats passed us and honked their horns, and their passengers waved. We saw the slow, purposeful ferry that goes out to the island of Corsica, painted a gay yellow. As we sped along, we passed a monstrous megayacht followed by a fleet of its accompanying little adjunct boats, which trailed after it like ducklings following a mama duck. Claude, our captain, seemed to know about every yacht in the bay. He told us that the whole entourage belonged to an oil baron, and actually had a helipad and small chopper on board.

  Jeremy and I walked back along the side galley to the aft deck, where most of our guests were relaxing. I found my parents still tucked up happily in the steamer chairs, chatting with Aunt Sheila. Jeremy went to get their drinks refreshed. My father rose, stretched his legs and came up to stand beside me at the railing.

  “Well, little Penn-ee, how does it feel to have your very own boat?” he asked teasingly.

  “A bit scary, but wonderful,” I admitted cheerfully. “No matter how comfy a yacht is, the sea is always bigger.” I had suddenly realized that my compact little personal universe was just bobbing along on the surface of a globe that itself is whirling around in the vastness of time and space.

  “In life, it is good to take chances on a dream,” Dad chuckled. My father had spent his youth in France taking care of his mother until she died, but he’d managed to get his university degree while working as a chef; and he’d pursued his dream by coming to the States, where he met Mom, who had also made a break with England to seek her future abroad. When they told stories of their courtship days, it was almost like listening to a bedtime story that grows sweetly familiar as you hear it repeated. I’d felt protected by their cozy stories; but I wondered if I’d ever have stories of my own to tell. Now, as an adult, it was fun to offer my father a chance to relax, lean his elbows on the railing and tilt his head up to the sun. The nice thing about chasing a dream is that you get to share it with people you love.

  As the wind rippled around us, Dad told me that he and my mother would be visiting friends in France, then they’d head back to London before flying home to the States. We both glanced at my mother, just as Rollo came over to talk to her. Mom smiled politely, but I could tell that she was rather alarmed at the sight of him.

  “Rollo invited himself,” I told Dad.

  “Ah. Then I had better go rescue your mother,” my father drawled. I moved along the decks, stopping to make sure that I’d spent some time with each guest. Jeremy was doing the same, and now and again we’d look up at each other and smile.

  Since this little maiden voyage was a trial run to see what things worked properly and what needed tinkering, we trailed along only about as far as Antibes, then turned to head back. On the way, majestic sailboats appeared suddenly from around the bend, their sails flapping like proud swans. By now our guests had gathered together on the aft deck, and people began singing, in harmony and counterpoint, applauding anyone whose voice was especially entertaining. Sometimes I’d see a member of the crew, stopping to assess if things were going all right, and then he’d smile in amusement at the guests’ evident pleasure.

  Finally, the now-familiar harbor at Nice came rising up into view, and Penelope’s Dream slowed her speed. Soon we were gliding past the boats that were too big to park at the dock. As we passed an enormous anchored yacht, I heard a strangely familiar sound which at first I could not identify because it seemed so out of place.

  Ka-thunka thunka. Ka-thunka thunka. I peered at the boat.

  “Is that a basketball court on the aft deck?” I asked in utter disbelief.

  Ka-thunka thunk. “Yep,” Jeremy said, shaking his head. He thinks Americans will put a basketball net on anything, everywhere they go. (Maybe he’s right.)

  Then Penelope’s Dream backed right into her snug berth. Lots of other people on the quay stopped by to admire her, too, and to wish us well. The sun, which made the sea sparkle like a movie star’s sequined blue gown, had become a flaming red-gold ball, that made the wood and brass fixtures on the boat just glow with polished glory; and, while the sky was still blue, the moon shot up out of the sea as if it had been fired from a cannon, rising high against the velvet backdrop of the sky, and hanging there like a great big pearl.

  Our guests began to drift away, calling out their fond goodbyes, until it was just Jeremy and me (and the crew). Slowly, the stars came out, one by one at first, and then more, as if a magician had taken a magic wand and was lighting lamps for those at sea. The old-fashioned music playing from our Victrola echoed along the harbor like ghostly voices from the past.

  Standing at the fore deck, I heard recordings of lilting singers from long ago, like Caruso and Chaliapin, floating toward me from the gramophone. Soon Jeremy came and stood by my side.

  “We got an amazing collection of old classical records with that Victrola,” he enthused. “Claude says the owner used to just sit on the boat in the harbor, smoke his pipe and listen to Beethoven. People could hear the symphonies wafting out across the water at night.” He breathed deeply. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Just sit on deck and listen to the Victrola and chill out.” It was the first time I’d seen him look really happy at the prospect of kicking back and taking time off.

  We stood there, side by side, a bit longer, watching as the stars intensified. The captain wished us good-night as we finally left the boat and climbed into Jeremy’s car. Claude had told us that the trial run was very successful. Once the final tweaks and upgrading were done, we would lay in food, water, and supplies. The boat would be refueled. And then, as Jeremy said, Penelope’s Dream would be on her way. And we would embark on our very special summer.

  Part Four

  Chapter Twelve

  At five-thirty the next morning in the villa, we were awakened unceremoniously by a loud, startling Oooo-ooo-wooo-WHOOSH! sound that
rattled the entire house, and even caused the chirping birds to shut up and listen in dread. It had begun as a low rumble, which crested in a loud boom, as if someone had beat a gong . . . in the basement.

  Jeremy was already out the bedroom door before I could exclaim, “Oh my God, what was that?” We tore downstairs.

  “It came from the cellar,” I said unnecessarily. He picked up a flashlight and shone it ahead of us, down the basement stairwell.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said wearily. I peered around him.

  Ahoy, mate. The entire basement was flooded, and anything that wasn’t nailed down was floating merrily by. Empty cans and bottles (Great-Aunt Penelope had been a saver of “useful” things) and ancient packets of garden seeds and even a punctured bicycle tire.

  Jeremy, a man of few words (particularly when he hasn’t even had his morning coffee) was already on the telephone with Denby, who, in addition to fixing up my auto, now turned out to be a useful resource for getting workmen to show up in a hurry. He suggested a plumber and said, “Mention my name, I fixed his Ferrari.”

  As Jeremy dialed the plumber’s number he muttered, “A plumber with a Ferrari. That will surely bankrupt us.”

  The plumber was actually a very cheerful fellow named Jean-Paul. He arrived in thigh-high boots, a pair of overalls that were stained with grime and that orange stuff that collects in pipes, and he had a toolkit in hand. He sloshed around downstairs while I made coffee with hot milk in big cereal-bowl sized cups which the French use for their morning café au lait. I offered Jean-Paul a cup, which he accepted, as he explained that something had plugged up a pipe and caused it to burst. It could be anything, including a snake or animal that had nested, having assumed, since nobody was occupying the house, that we wouldn’t be needing our pipes.