Astonished, annoyed and angry, Loretta stared at Mike as the elevator doors shut behind her, I’d guess to the substantial relief of the guests already on board. To say that Loretta was unhappy to see Mike again was an understatement. Whatever had happened between the two, it’d been ugly. Yes, if looks could kill, Mike would’ve left this earth that very moment.
Mike, however, appeared thrilled beyond belief. She’d found her carry-on. What bizarre good fortune. A one-in-a-million happenstance. Serendipity. Obvious, however, that poor Loretta hadn’t yet realized she had Mike’s bag and Mike had hers with the flashy “L” emblazoned on the side.
Loretta stormed toward the next elevator, the doors of which were yawning wide as Mike approached. From the look on her face, Loretta had only one goal: to elude her tormentor. Mike, on the other hand, was just as determined to swap bags and regain her life.
The elevator doors began to close, only to bounce open again and again as Loretta struggled to back into the elevator. The startled looks on the elevator riders were both comical and quizzical as Mike tried to grab her bag from Loretta’s arm, and fling Loretta’s at her at the same time. The brassy music, noise from the lobby, and police sirens screaming by just outside the door swallowed Mike’s verbal defense.
Enraged, Loretta struggled to hold onto the wrong bag and refused to accept her own. The tug-of–war endured while the elevator doors continued to bounce against Loretta’s generous derriere. The elevator-warning signal began beeping. Wouldn’t you know? Trouble in paradise.
Transfixed by the slapstick vaudeville number being performed by the elevators, a small, curly-headed cherub clinging to his mother’s hand shouted, “Look, Mommy. That big lady is trying to fit in the elevator and her back-up beeper is going off just like Daddy’s double axle.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Even Mike turned to stone. At that precise moment, Loretta registered the large initial on the bag in Mike’s hands. She let out a shrill squeal, let go the bag she had, while Mike, mobile once again, tossed Loretta’s own bag into the elevator. Unaware of the entertaining scene she’d just provided for the crowd of curious bystanders, Mike pressed her own bag to her chest, smiled triumphantly, and cantered back to me.
For one of a very few instances in my life, I was speechless. Mike never, ever ceased to amaze me. I stood at the front desk like an idiot as Mike breezed over, straightened up as tall as her five foot three frame would allow, and grinned. She reminded me of a kindergartner who’d just succeeded in printing his name for the first time.
With Mike, emotions run pretty close to the surface. She’s sincere yet conniving, simple yet complex, brazen yet shy—all at the same time, in the same compact body. Only one thing about Mike never changes. When she smiles, and her eyes twinkle and her eyebrows twitch gleefully, absolutely nobody in the world can resist smiling back.
“It’s a sign,” Mike announced, bouncing on her toes. “An omen and a premonition and a prophecy.” Her brown eyes danced.
“What are you rambling about? I’m delighted you found your bag. Well, found may be too subtle a term for what just happened. You recovered it, retrieved it, no, make that stole it back, and put on a spectacular show, reminiscent of the Marx Brothers.”
Ignoring the jibe, Mike continued, “The important thing is I’ve got my bag.” Unzipping one of the seventeen zippered pouches that covered all sides of the carry-on, Mike dug her hand into a tight little pocket and produced her precious, albeit prodigal, wallet. Waving said wallet over her tousled head, she realized people were staring and dropped her arm. Regaining her composure, she opened the wallet, retrieved the room reservations receipt and a credit card, and sauntered up to the desk to complete the check-in process at the Flamingo Hotel. Me? I was exhausted.
After receiving our keys, we gathered bags, purses and carry-on luggage, and headed for the now-quiet elevator. A keyed-up Mike made one more reference to lovely Loretta, vowing never, ever to cross that woman’s path again, but acknowledging the fortuitousness of having done so at such an auspicious time. “I call that a remarkable coincidence. Don’t you, Bern?”
“I suppose so,” I mused. “Funny thing about coincidences. Some folks believe everything that happens to us in a lifetime is a coincidence—from the people we marry to the place we live, to the jobs we have.” I paused long enough to enter the elevator. “Then, there are those who maintain that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and that every event and person and place in our world is carefully planned and orchestrated. I’m not sure which theory is right.”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Maybe miracle would be a better word. Plain miraculous that I got my bag back, not to mention, my wallet. What would I have told Joe? Jeez. Gives me the willies just imagining his reaction.”
I chuckled. A happy twist of fate had brought us together at that tiny country school in rural Missouri many years ago. Incredible, since she’d been born and raised in the great Northwest, thousands of miles from my native Midwest state. What was the chance of that happening? But it did. A fluke, an accident, or just plain luck? I guess you could say it was all of those, rolled up into one. So, I suppose I could or should accept Mike’s “amazing and coincidental” meeting with Loretta at face value. Still, when coincidences pile up, they cease to be coincidental, and begin to take on the subtle markings of a plan.
Deciding this long day was overdue for closure, Mike and I agreed to meet in half an hour to talk about the cruise tomorrow. In the meantime, I needed to phone Jack to see how badly he already missed me, desperately hoping he even realized I was gone.
SIX
Almost forty minutes had passed since Mike and I slipped into our respective hotel rooms and discovered that the Flamingo Hotel had long ago seen better days. The rooms were gaudily furnished in traditional Florida radiant paints: colors that never really occurred anywhere in nature, yet festooned the walls of every hotel, restaurant and lounge in that sultry state. Bed spreads and curtains and carpets were all a curious turquoise color, with framed portraits of elegant seashells neatly dotting the compact walls.
The obligatory flamingo painting glowed from the stucco wall above the bed, and the coral-colored towels, though clean, were stiff as a board. Yes, Mike had done us proud in the allocation of this tropical treasure of a hotel, and I couldn’t wait to compliment her on her good taste. Yet, it seemed too easy. I mean, poor thing. She’d already suffered enough for one day. I decided to just make the best of it, grab Mike for a quick bite to eat, and then go over our last-minute list of to-do’s and never-evers.
Before I’d a chance to grab my pocketbook, Mike tapped on my door. “Bernie. Yoo hoo. Are you ready?”
I hurried to open the door before the entire hotel complained about the disruptive noise coming from the second floor. As I pushed my door open, several other doors popped open. Just as quickly, they all slammed shut, with the exception of the one next to Mike’s. That door remained open just a teensy crack, revealing a darkened room, and giving me the creepy feeling we were being watched.
Mike tugged at the annoying bra straps that continued to plague her, mumbling something about freeing “the girls” and “taking a vacation from demon underwear” then made a face. “I’m ready,” she gasped.
We checked our room doors one, two, three times to make sure they closed and locked. Both of us tended to be a bit obsessive compulsive on occasion, but something about the Flamingo urged us to be just a little extra careful. And, please. Exhaustion does a number on gals our age. A quick bite to eat was just what we needed. Actually, a quick bite to eat was always what we needed, on every occasion, under every circumstance, at every opportunity.
Hiking up our fashionable capris, smoothing down wrinkled tops, and patting at our disheveled hairdos, we checked ourselves out in the hallway mirror as we awaited the elevator—both a bit startled at the images reflected. Two frazzled, gray-haired ladies, one tall, one short, smiled back at us. Could it be that your soul really is mirrored in your face? If that�
��s true, then two happy friends brimmed over with a sense of anticipation and a smidgen of trepidation.
Here we were, the night before our cruise into mystery and sunshine, fruity drinks with umbrellas, and we just couldn’t get enough of the excitement and joy of spending some precious time together. All the mishaps of the day melted away, destined to be recollected and reminisced at some future point—with laughter, of course. Our memories would soften with time, and we wouldn’t remember being quite so rattled or confused or annoyed or tortured. No, we’d remember the success, the exhilaration, and the clever ways we handled our misfortunes, forgetting—or blocking out—all the rest. First and foremost, we’d be grateful for another chapter in the continuing saga called our friendship, embracing the reality that the more we changed, the more we stayed the same.
As we entered the elevator, preparatory to making the descent to the lobby, Mike’s cell phone warbled. I laughed at the ring tone she’d selected, since “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was hardly the melody I’d have thought she’d select. Mike gave me an apologetic glance and flipped open her phone.
“Hello?” she shouted, forever under the assumption that you needed to speak up when using a cell phone. “Joe? Oh, hi.” She smiled into the phone, nodding at me with her classic now what? grin. Then her face clouded. “You what? Tell me again—what happened?” She listened, buttoning her eyes and wrinkling her nose. “No…no honey. You know rice expands as it cooks. My gosh, Joe, you’ve cooked rice a hundred times. Using your new steamer thingy isn’t any different. If you need a cup of cooked rice, you don’t put an entire cup of dry rice into the rice cooker… Yes…yes. Honey, of course that’s why the rice is all over the kitchen counter and on the floor. Uh-huh, uh-huh… Well, Joe, it does warn you about that on the package… The box, Joe…on the back of the box. Did you read the directions?”
Mike was losing a little patience with Joe, who seemed to be implying that she hurry home and help him deal with the mess. We’d reached the lobby and stepped off the elevator. I sat down on the nearest bench, while Mike continued her conversation with the irrepressible Joe.
“Well, what are you cooking, anyway?” Mike’s inquiry was a tad fearful. “What? I thought, maybe, you’d want to just get take-out for a few days. You know, your beloved Arby’s?”
Mike listened to his response, a frown puckering her forehead as she tuned in to my growing enjoyment Joe’s newest escapade around the house.
“Well, yes, stuffed peppers do sound good. Don’t forget to brown the meat first and, Joe…Joe?” Mike repeated, sensing that somehow or other she’d lost his attention. In the background of her conversation, the blare of a smoke detector erupted, obviously coming from Mike’s kitchen. The connection was lost, and the look on Mike’s face was priceless as she shook her head in bewilderment at the abrupt end to her phone call. “Oh, good Lord,” Mike muttered. “I’ve only been gone a few hours, and he is already calling 9-1-1 with a kitchen disaster.”
One look and we burst into laughter, knowing Joe would somehow persevere. He always did. What was the saying? “God protects fools and drunks”? With a final chuckle, I rose to my aching feet. I’d taken only a few steps when my cell phone shrilled for attention. Glancing at the name on the phone, I saw that Jack, too, was checking in. I put a finger up and Mike crossed her arms to wait.
“Hi, Honey,” I chirped. “How are you doing?” I paused and listened as he told me how he’d already vacuumed the house, finished the laundry and fixed himself a great dinner—complete with fresh salad with homemade croutons—and was now relaxing in front of the TV watching Fox News.
“That’s wonderful,” I hoped I sounded convincing. “We’re just fine. Ready to eat something so we can get to bed at a decent hour to be ready to leave early. Shuttle arrives at 8:00 a.m.” I listened with infinite patience while Jack eulogized the finer points of the cruise. “Yes, it’s sure to be great. I miss you. Gotta go now, hon. Mike’s waiting. I’ll call you before we sail,” I clucked. “Love you.” I snapped my phone shut and forced a gamin grin at Mike, who read me like a book.
“Is Jack struggling, too?” Mike asked with a tinge of skepticism.
“Nooo. He does just great alone. Very self-reliant and good at just about everything. Life’s routine doesn’t miss a beat when I’m away,” I added, hoping I didn’t sound too pathetic.
“Oh, pooh. That’s just an act and you know it. He misses you. At least he’s not helpless like somebody I know. I mean, when was the last time something exploded in your bathroom? I won’t even tell you that story…too much ammunition.”
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text message from Jack. “Love you.” That made all the difference in the world to me. I clutched my phone to my heart for a brief second, then shoved it back in my purse. Time to get some food, then a little sleep, then off to who-knew-where, or how, or why. Adventure beckoned. “C’mon, Sweetie, let’s eat. I’m bushed.”
Mike grinned, nodded, then hesitated and lightly touched her nose in several places. Smothering a snort and knowing exactly why she did such a bizarre thing, I gave her a gentle push. She looked up at me, eyebrows in a knot. “Is my nose shiny?”
A snort escaped. “No. Your nose is just fine.”
SEVEN
At dawn’s early light, we were already lugging our motley assortment of gear toward the lobby of the Flamingo Hotel, from which our shuttle bus would take us to the pier. The Caribbean Mermaid boasted luxurious accommodations for over 1500 passengers, not to mention almost 1,000 employees, crew, and entertainers. The floating city was scheduled to shove off promptly at eleven, so an 8:00 a.m. departure for the twenty-minute commute to the docks seemed more than reasonable. After all, there’d be a few special arrangements we’d need to make at check-in.
According to the glitzy and flamboyant itinerary put out by the cruise line acknowledging our reservations, the “Mystery Cruise” was booked solid. For a limited group of passengers, fifty or so, the cruise would be reminiscent of a reality television show, in which a loosely concocted theme, or “crime” allowed the characters—A.K.A., passengers—to provide the dialogue, with numerous twists, turns and questions along the way. The Mystery Cruise Director, however, was responsible for keeping everyone guessing as long as possible. Which meant, of course, that he would need to be quick on his feet and pretty sharp to stay ahead of the amateur sleuths who’d signed-on—especially if said sleuths were even close to being as clever and resourceful as Mike and I.
Concurrently, hundreds of other passengers would be sailing for pleasure and recreation, so an additional challenge would be those who were not participants in the mystery, but who might, in some way, factor into the solving of said mystery. The whole impossible premise delighted us, since we felt we had a real knack for reading people, interpreting clues, deciphering encrypted messages, and weeding out truth from falsehood. After all, we’d both been junior high teachers with, between us, over sixty years of experience. I’d like to see someone top that.
All things considered, we probably had an unfair advantage over the others, unless they were real-life detectives or private investigators or, God forbid, nuns. Nuns have an uncanny knack for eliciting the truth from just about any level criminal, regardless of how hardened or street-wise the perpetrator might be. Mike and I believed that kind of mind-numbing ability was a prerequisite for even contemplating joining their ranks. Something to strive for.
The shuttle rolled up to the front door on time. Surveying the crowded lobby, we decided that several of these Flamingo survivors would be joining us on our luxury ship, and we’d better get a move on in order to claim good seats. Mike stood on tiptoes and scanned the lobby for a familiar face—her nemesis, the infamous Loretta. Grateful and more than relieved that her newfound friend was not among the passengers destined for the Caribbean Mermaid, she released a lungful of air and grinned at me.
Loretta would’ve been instantly recognizable, even sporting dark sunglasses and a tropical print caftan, s
o Mike was safe. And to be frank, I shared her loathing of the obnoxious woman and felt inclined to mimic her sigh of relief. Time for fun.
As the loading process began, the good-natured tourists jostled and elbowed for position, muttering the necessary “excuse me’s” and “beg pardons” as they rolled cases across toes and stepped in front of anyone who hesitated for more than a second or two. Yes, boarding the van was a cutthroat undertaking, since it was obvious we’d not all fit and the shuttle would be required to make a second trip. Determined not to be among the latter, especially since we were all ready to go and needed to arrive extra early—being novices at this—we executed our share of pushing and shoving until we staked territory on hard plastic seats facing each other in the trolley-like shuttle.
Mike’s left eye twitched in anticipation of the excitement awaiting us at the Miami pier. She hunched her shoulders and craned her neck, unaware that I knew she dueled with the demon bra straps she despised so heartily. Clueless, she grinned across the narrow aisle and winked her good right eye. The display of sheer joy that shone from her face—not to mention her shiny nose—brought a smile to my lips, too. What in the world had possessed us to consider such an adventure? A moment of temporary insanity must have ruled. Still, packed in like sardines, we had to laugh at the ludicrous situation. Since Mike has a story for every occasion and loathed long periods of silence, this was no exception.
“Bernie. Do you remember our field trip to the gas station when we had sixth and seventh graders?” Mike fairly shouted above the rumble of the jam-packed shuttle bus. “I sure remember every detail, especially the part about being smooshed into those awful bus seats because only one bus arrived for the trip instead of two. And remember,” Mike continued with hardly a breath, “how we pushed three or four kids into each seat, and none of them had any seat belts since they weren’t required in those days, and it was a steamy hot day, and the smell reminded you of a barnyard and a gym?”
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