by Beth Ciotta
I scrambled for the life jacket which was…there! Suspended on a hook in the closet. Got it. Where was Arch? I inspected the bulky, freakishly orange jacket, thinking it looked somewhat like a toilet seat with a box attached. Did the fat black straps latch around your shoulders or waist? I’d drown before figuring out how this thing worked. I’d ask Arch to help me except he wasn’t here! Meanwhile, his life jacket hung in the closet. I grabbed it, too. Maybe I’d run into him in the hall.
I buckled on my stilettos, seeing as I had no other available shoes, and rushed across the room—ouch, ouch—to read the sign on the back of the door. At least the toxic Fandangos hadn’t obliterated my memory. “Look for the location of your muster station on the back of your door,” the steward had said. Squinting at the fine print, I located my assigned meeting place and, with a life jacket looped over each arm, dashed out into the hall.
The door slammed behind me. Celine crooned in my ear…“My heart will go on and on…” What a pain—my stilettos, not Celine.
I hobbled to the elevator, punched the button and waited, obsessing on the boat going down and my parents breaking up. Several other passengers streamed past me and into a stairwell.
“Not supposed to use the elevator, miss,” one kindly old man reminded me as he pulled a toilet seat flotation device over his graying head.
Right. I limped after the gang then remembered I’d left my purse in the room. What if someone stole it? Not that I suspected anyone on the housekeeping staff would stoop so low, but I’ve seen those scenarios in movies. All of the passengers would be at a mandatory lifeboat drill. A crafty, dishonest person could easily scarf up a few valuable items.
My ID was in the purse. My real ID. What if my forgetfulness somehow compromised Arch’s…well, whatever it was he was doing for the greater good? I hurried back to my cabin only to realize I’d left something else inside.
The key. The Fiesta Card. The thing I was supposed to have with me at all times!
Screw it. Fear of not knowing what to do in case of an emergency overrode fear of exposing Arch and propelled me toward the stairwell. The Fandangos and stilettos compromised my judgment and speed. Jayne’s and Mom’s messages buzzed in my ears, heightening my anxiety as I navigated the stairs, two unwieldy life preservers slung over my arms.
I could feel my jaw tightening, and as I breached the last step and burst through a door, my heel caught on something. I opened my mouth to scream, “Watch out!” but my jaw locked.
“Wah ow!” was all I managed as I sailed forward and tackled Tex Aloha.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’M USED TO MAKING A spectacle of myself. Believe you me, I have a colorful history. Like the time I showed up in a stretch limo as Officer Buzzby the Safety Bee at a government function on the Boardwalk. I raised eyebrows and doubts about my sanity when I emerged from the limo in a furry bumblebee fat suit complete with bopping head antennae and state trooper sunglasses. The casino I worked for at the time donated the limo and my services. The character and costume were mine. The absurdity of it all lasted an hour tops.
Sugar’s latest antic promised to haunt me for life.
I’m guessing about three hundred passengers plus assorted crew witnessed me plowing into Tex Aloha—him landing face-first on deck, me landing face-first on Tex. No doubt the shocked onlookers got a peek at my lace panties. Could have been worse, I told myself. I could’ve been wearing a thong. Tex suffered the greatest injury, a nasty gash on his forehead. Since he cushioned my fall, all I really suffered was embarrassment. Okay, huge embarrassment.
I couldn’t close my mouth. Locked wide open, I couldn’t even voice a proper apology. Thinking I’d hurt myself in the fall, a crewman escorted both Tex and me to the ship’s medical center. The nurse ushered us in and we sat on opposing beds. After I scribbled TMJ on a notepad, the doctor advised the nurse and turned his attention to Tex.
All I needed was anti-inflammatory medication and an ice-pack. Oh, and to relax.
Tex needed stitches. The handkerchief he’d pressed to his forehead was soaked red. Blood streamed down his face, dripping on his tropical shirt.
“Hell’s Bells. It’s a friggin’ scratch, Doc.” He glanced at me then the nurse. “Pardon my French.”
The doctor shook his head. “That cut is more than a quarter inch deep. If you want it to heal properly—”
“Then get on with it, goddammit. There’s a pitcher of beer waitin’ with my name on it.”
He didn’t sound angry, just loud and abrasive. Definitely Texan. His gaze fastened on my breasts—typical man—before settling on my face. My cheeks flooded with heat. Yes, I know, I mentally screamed, I look like a wide-mouth bass! Did he have to deepen my mortification by staring? For the umpteenth time I tried to close my mouth. The inability to do so flooded me with irrational panic. What if my jaw stuck open like this forever?
Annoyance flashed in Tex’s ochre-brown eyes. He hadn’t blasted me yet for knocking him over and busting up his head and cigar. I sort of wished he’d let it out and get it over with.
He swiped off his Stetson and clamped his teeth around the shredded stogie. His salt-and-pepper hair and the crinkles framing his eyes hinted he was closing in on fifty. His facial features were too angular for my taste. His hair was cropped close, military style. The muscles in his arms and legs well-defined. I glanced down at his combat boots. My imagination zoomed. Had I injured a vet? A soldier on leave?
Specialty performer attacks war hero! News at eleven.
Doctor Drake rolled over a tray of shiny instruments. He stood between us, so it’s not like I could really see him going to work on Tex’s gash, but still. Feeling woozy, I turned my face away, focused on the door. I pressed the ice pack against my jaw, thumbed my ring.
“Don’t worry, Twinkie. Head wounds bleed like a mother. Ain’t nothin’ but a scratch.”
I assume he was talking to me, not Doctor Drake. The pastry reference irritated me, but I guess Sugar did look like a cream puff. Instinct told me this guy was a womanizer. Sure, Arch probably was, too, but at least Arch was charming. Tex was obnoxious.
A heartbeat later, the charming womanizer limped in à la Charles, looking sick with worry. In character even in crisis. Impressive.
“Sugar, love, they told me…” He glanced at Tex. “Bloody hell.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
“She’s fine,” the nurse assured him. “Her TMJ flared up, causing her jaw to lock. As you know, these episodes are often brought on by extreme stress. I understand that she was upset when she fell into the muster station. Perhaps you can help to calm her, Mr. Dupont.”
To his credit, he didn’t betray, in words or expression, that he was in fact unaware that I had TMJ. I wondered if he even knew what TMJ was. He thanked the nurse and gestured to a partition. “I say, would you mind pulling that drape?”
She complied, and thankfully, mercifully, now there was no chance whatsoever that I’d see the doctor stitching up Tex. My shoulders sagged with relief. I blushed head to toe when Arch smoothed back my hair and studied my face. Jaw locked, mouth wide open, I had to look as stupid as I felt.
He took the ice pack from my hand, set it on the bed. Then he pressed his fingertips to each side of my jaw and gently massaged. “I say, I’ve been racking my brain, love, and for the life of me can’t recall Joe and Jerry’s feminine names.”
It took me a second to realize that he was talking about Curtis and Lemmon in Some Like It Hot. I couldn’t say their drag names, so I wrote them. Josephine and Daphne. Jeesh. How could he forget? And why was that important now?
He glanced at the notepad. “Ah, yes.” He smiled and continued to massage my jaw. His touch was gentle and warm, just like his gaze. He glanced down at my stilettos. “I was thinking about the part in the movie where Joe and Jerry are hurrying toward the train in drag.”
Wigs, tight skirts, nylons and high heels. I smiled, nodded. It was one of several hilarious scenes.
Quoting f
rom the movie, he affected Daphne’s high-pitched, feminine voice, “How do they walk in these things, huh? How do they keep their balance?” Then in Josephine’s voice, “It must be the way the weight is distributed.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Sure, the lines were funny, but it was Arch’s expression and his girlie delivery that tickled my funny bone and unlocked my jaw. My palms flew to my cheeks Home Alone style. “Oh, my, God. Thank you!” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged tight. He’d distracted me completely, putting me at ease by talking about something I loved—movies. “You’re a genius.”
I heard a grunt from the other side of the curtain. I imagined the doctor puncturing Tex’s skin with a needle and grimaced. “That poor man.”
“He’ll live.” Arch maneuvered me off the bed and out of the medical station. “Let’s get you back to the cabin and into flat shoes, yeah?”
“Wait, I need…I want to say…” I thought about the blood, the stitches. “Would you go back, tell him I’m sorry? Please?”
Arch pushed his Panama hat to the back of his head, dragged a hand over his silver whiskers. “Right then. Stay here.”
He was back a minute later, ushering me toward an elevator.
“Is he angry?” I asked.
“No.”
“Is he suing?” Sweat beaded on my forehead thinking about all the people who sued casinos because of one or another mishap. Considering my pathetic bank account, if he sued, I was sunk. Don’t think the word sunk. You can’t sink. You missed the drill.
“He’s not suing.”
A relief, but I’d still apologize later in person. “Did you get his name?”
“Vic Parker.”
I DIDN’T SEE VIC PARKER for the rest of the day. Nor did I reconnect with Jayne or my mom. My cell phone was useless out at sea and a call from our cabin’s phone would cost a small fortune. I did manage to steal away to the Internet Lounge to zip off a couple of e-mails.
Hey, Jayne,
Sorry for the scare. I’m on board. All’s well. Re: Britney. Figures. Re: The singing telegram. I’d rather flip burgers.
Will e-mail again tomorrow. Kiss Nic for me. Miss you much!
Love, Evie
Then I typed a quick note to my brother.
Christopher,
Mom called. Said Daddy split. Should I be worried? Best to Sandy and the kids.
Love, Evie
Even though Christopher and I weren’t close, surely he wouldn’t leave me hanging—unlike Mom. Until then, I chose not to think about the possibility that my parents had separated.
There were a lot of things that I chose not to think about just now. The last thing I needed or wanted was another lockjaw episode. I can only liken the feeling to being trapped in a coffin. The frustration. The panic. The fear of never unlocking the hinges.
If I hadn’t been distracted by Tex’s bloody injury, I probably would’ve hyperventilated. It’s happened before. Tonight, no matter what, I’d wear that blasted splint.
I kept waiting for Arch to grill me about TMJ. He had to wonder what set it off and if it would happen again. It had to bug him. It didn’t fit Sugar’s profile. But he didn’t bring it up. Instead, he lavished attention on me, treating me to a spa visit. A full-body massage by a highly skilled masseuse. Yeah, boy, talk about relaxed.
I returned to our cabin to find Big Red waiting for me. Hallelujah, something was going right with this day. After a quick shower, I changed into bright red capris, a red-and-white-flowered halter top and white tennis shoes. Sugar accessories included huge silver hoop earrings, Cajun Crimson lipstick and two perky ponytails. When I came out of the bathroom, Arch was hanging up the phone. “Dinner reservations,” he explained.
Not that I’d asked. I was too busy staring. He’d stripped off his jacket, his oxford shirt and that fake padded belly. The man was naked from the waist up. I devoured his buff torso and that Celtic armband tattoo in a ravenous starefest. The hair and face belonged to Charles, but the body was all Arch.
Then he said, “Sexy,” and I realized the staring was mutual.
My cheeks heated. “Even with the sneakers?”
“Especially with the sneakers.”
Oh, man.
He strapped on the gut, pulled on a clean undershirt and slipped back into his oxford. “Are you up for a stroll? Fresh air might help, yeah?”
If we didn’t leave this cabin, I’d faint from a toxic dose of raw lust. Sure, he had a great body, but it was his thoughtfulness that seduced me. The memory burned bright of how he’d eased my misery in the medical station, how he’d gifted me with an expensive massage. “Sure.”
The moment we exited the cabin we were on. The world is our stage and all that. Again, I was impressed with his acting skills, and hoped the feeling was mutual. We strolled Deck Ten arm in arm. I encountered a few curious glances, but I was pretty sure that was because of tackling Tex, not snuggling with my older husband.
On a whim, I swung around, wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth. His thumbs brushed beneath my breasts. Now that was a new twist. I shivered with orgasmic delight, easing back before I got carried away.
He studied me through his sepia-tinted, Truman Capote glasses. “What was that for?”
“For being you.”
“You dinnae know me.”
“I know enough.” Well, not really. But I knew he was innately kind, and for now, that was enough. Energized, I bounded out of his arms and looked out over the railing. Fort Lauderdale was a shrinking spec on the horizon. The farther we drifted from land, away from my unstable life, the lighter my heart felt. I gazed up at the cloudless sky and thanked my lucky stars for this opportunity and for the fact that I wasn’t seasick.
I’d heard that, because of a cruise ship’s immense size, one barely senses any movement except in extreme rough seas. The water glittered before me like a vast, magical pond. No waves. No rocking. Things were looking up.
I breathed in the salt air, and with it, the scent of Old Spice. I knew it came from Arch, but it made me think of my dad. Distraction was vital. “I need a drink.”
“I know just the place.”
ARCH AND I ENDED UP on Deck Nine, the poolside bar. This time instead of calypso, a sequined duo cranked out seventies hits. The keyboard player belted “Staying Alive” in his falsetto. The female singer harmonized along with recorded vocal tracks. If I closed my eyes, I’d think I was listening to the Bee Gees. They were that good, and the audience visibly enjoyed their efforts.
Although it was a party atmosphere, many passengers reclined in lounge chairs, sipping beverages and chatting with loved ones or friends. A few brave souls had joined a dance instructor to learn the line dance from Saturday Night Fever. I knew that dance. I wondered if I should jump in—at least I was wearing comfortable shoes—but Arch ushered me onto a stool at the bar.
I felt as if I’d been given a reprieve from being the life of the party. Did he worry he’d worked me too hard this morning? Did he think I was stressed out because of the job, hence my bout with TMJ? Well, darn. That was my fault. I’d planted the seed in his head with my big mouth. Michael doesn’t think I’m up for this.
I wanted to set him straight, but I couldn’t. Not here. Not in public.
The bartender came over, the same guy we’d had earlier today—Beau, his name tag read. “Scotch, Mr. Dupont?”
“Good of you to remember, old boy.”
Except Beau wasn’t really old. He was middle-aged. Average height. Average build. Not handsome, not ugly. Average. He smiled at me. “Fiesta Fandango for the lady?”
“Virgin piña colada, please.” Between the Motrin I’d taken earlier and the pills the nurse had given me, it didn’t seem wise to mix medication and alcohol. I’d done that yesterday. Oh, and earlier today. Jeesh. For someone who didn’t want to be the stereotypical artist numbing her emotions with drugs or booze, I was doing a pretty good job of it.
I’d barely taken two si
ps of the frozen concoction when Martha-of-the-two-left-feet appeared. She pushed her cat-eye glasses up her nose, squinted at me and smiled. “It is you. We were taking bets.”
For a moment my insides chilled like my drink. What did she mean by that? I glanced over at a group of huddled seniors. They stood near an outdoor shuffleboard court, cues in hand. Four of them. Two men, two women. When they saw me looking, they waved. Forcing a smile, I waved back. Had one of them taken a bus trip to Atlantic City? Had someone recognized me from one of the casinos?
I turned back to Martha. Five foot, maybe, with yellow—yes, yellow—tightly permed hair. The corners of her black cat-eye glasses sparked with rhinestones. She wore purple Bermuda shorts, black-and-white basketball sneakers and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She looked like one of my zany characters. The thought occurred: This is me in thirty years. I cleared my throat, locked in the Brooklyn accent. “Um, where did we meet exactly?”
“Don’t you remember? The mambo contest. I didn’t recognize you with your pigtails and Keds. You look like a little girl.” Her gray gaze fell to my chest. My cups still runneth over thanks to the extreme cleavage bra. “Well, from a distance, anyway.”
I was relieved that my cover hadn’t been blown, ecstatic that she’d thought me so young. Although I guess even forty-one was young in the opinion of a seventy-two-year-old. “You remember my husband, Charlie.”
“Certainly, dear.” She squinted at him through her sparkly bifocals.
For a moment I thought that she was going to be the first person to comment on our age difference, but then Charles kissed her age-spotted hand and said, “Pleasure to see you again, madam.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Martha murmured, transfixed.
Seems I’m not the only one affected by Arch’s crooked grin. Yeah, boy, he knew what he was doing.