Princess Charming Read online

  “She wants Bill back, plain and simple,” I said. “She thinks if they get back together it’ll be different this time; that they’re older and wiser now.”

  “What do you think? Is she kidding herself?”

  I shrugged. “They’re older, we all are. But who knows about the wiser? Wisdom is sort of in the eye of the beholder, you know? If Bill comes back to her, Pat will think he’s wiser. If she evolves into the kind of woman he wants to come back to, he’ll think she’s wiser.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Zimmerman.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What about all the money he’s been paying her in alimony and child support? His resentment over that will be hard to overcome.”

  “How would you know about his resentment?”

  “Pat mentioned it.”

  “Oh. Well, he may resent the money he’s been shelling out, but he’s never missed a payment. He’s been pretty good to those kids, from a financial standpoint.”

  “How about from an emotional standpoint? Is he there for them, other than taking care of them while Pat’s on vacation?”

  I shrugged. “He’s a man.”

  Sam laughed. “Was that an answer of some sort?”

  I laughed too. “Sorry. I had a father who wasn’t there. Emotionally or otherwise, so I’m not exactly objective on the subject of men and fatherhood.” I gave Sam the gory details.

  “How about your mother? What role did she play in your father’s unhappiness?”

  “His unhappiness? Is that what you call his philandering?”

  “Well, he obviously wasn’t happy with your mother. Why else would he seek out other women?”

  “Because…” I stopped. “How the hell do I know why men do what they do?”

  “Easy does it, Slim. I was only suggesting that sometimes it takes two to break up a marriage; that maybe your mother wasn’t Mother Teresa.”

  “No, she was better dressed.”

  He smiled. “Would you rather talk about something else?”

  I nodded.

  “What about Jackie?” he asked. “What went wrong in her marriage?”

  “Peter found someone he wanted to be married to more than he wanted to be married to Jackie. Someone with money. Someone who puts sachets in her dresser drawers.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Sorry. Let me back up a little. Jackie and Peter met in college,” I explained. “They were hippies. They lived off the land.”

  “And then Peter decided he wanted a woman who lived off a trust fund and put sachets in her dresser drawers?”

  “Exactly. Peter’s taste changed. In the old days, he was perfectly happy with a woman who wore overalls. He and Jackie got married, started J&P Nursery, and made a success of the place. Then he decided he would be happier if the woman he was married to wore pearls.”

  “But they still work together?”

  “Yup. Professionally, they’re a good partnership. Were a good partnership. Now Peter wants to make a veritable empire out of J&P Nursery and Jackie doesn’t want to expand or be bought out of the business. Things are extremely tense between them at the moment. Which only goes to show that men are fickle creatures. You never know what they’re going to do.”

  “No, Slim. You never do.”

  To prove his point, Sam did the most unexpected thing: he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek!

  I was so startled, I could only stand there and stare at him, saying absolutely nothing. His lips were so gentle and soft and the gesture so sweet and unthreatening that, when he pulled back, I actually placed my hand on my face, on the very spot where his mouth had been, just to feel the warmth there. I was reminded of Lloyd Thayer; of the way he had stroked Dorothy’s cheek and how the tenderness of the act had surprised me; of the fact that Lloyd and Dorothy had been married for sixty-five years.

  “I guess I found a way to render you speechless,” Sam laughed. “I killed you with kindness.”

  “You’re full of surprises,” I said, trying to recover. The last man who had kissed me on the cheek was Harold, my boss, the day he told me I was one of the most valuable members of his team. Of course, now I couldn’t get him to return my calls. “Why did you do that?” I asked Sam, truly wanting to know.

  He shrugged. “It was a reflex, an impulse. Don’t you ever do things that are completely spontaneous?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Well, I do. Besides, I didn’t have to stoop that low to kiss you.”

  “Stoop that low to—”

  “That didn’t come out right. I meant, I didn’t have to contort like a pretzel to kiss you, given that we’re not that far apart in height.”

  “I see.” For once, my tallness was coming in handy.

  I was still absorbing what had happened when Captain Solberg’s voice intoned over the PA system for his nine o’clock report.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Dis is your captain speaking.”

  Sam checked his watch and nodded. “He’s right on time. Second night in a row.”

  “Ve are continuing our southeasterly track,” Captain Solberg informed us, “past Cuba and den on to our first port of call, Isle de Svan. Ve vill be arriving tomorrow morning at seven-thirty and anticipate a beautiful day on da island. The temperature currently is seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit and da skies are partly cloudy. Ve vish you a pleasant evening from da Bridge Deck of da Princess Charming.”

  “I’m looking forward to this Isle de Swan,” I said after Captain Solberg had signed off. “But how are they going to get all twenty-five hundred of us off the ship and onto the tiny island? There can’t be a pier like there was in Miami.”

  “No, there isn’t. They’ve got these tenders—they’re like small barges that seat about a hundred people—and they shuttle you between the ship and the island. It can take hours to get everybody over and back. Since the ship only stays in port until four o’clock, I suggest you get in line early for the tenders if you want to spend more than ten minutes on the island.”

  “I thought you said this was your first cruise? You seem to know more than my travel agent.”

  “I bought a couple of those guide books that tell you about each ship. They rate the food, the rooms, the entertainment, all of it. The only thing they leave out is the company. They can’t predict what your fellow passengers will be like.”

  “All right then. How would you rate the passengers on this ship?”

  “Fishing, are we?” he smiled wryly.

  “Of course I’m not.” Of course I was.

  “Okay. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d rate the passengers on the Princess Charming well above average. Very interesting.”

  “Oh, please. The people on this ship are about as interesting as a perfume seminar.”

  “I’m talking about you, Slim.”

  “Me?” He inched closer to me again. I involuntarily backed up. I was practically hanging over the railing.

  “Yes, you,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Come on. You don’t even know me.” My voice was high, squeaky, slightly hysterical. This was all so surprising. Wished for, yes. Fantasized about, certainly. But even my most vivid fantasies hadn’t pictured things moving so fast.

  “No,” Sam acknowledged. “I don’t know you. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Here comes the bullshit, I thought as Sam drew even closer. This guy probably shovels this line at women left and right. And after that nonsense about being at a loss for words. He could be a gigolo, for all I knew. One of those men who works cruise ships, trolling for single, unattached, wealthy women. Middle-aged women.

  “I’m not sure why I can’t stop thinking about you,” Sam went on. “Frankly, you’re as infuriating as you are funny. We’ve only spent a little time together, but each time we are together, I can’t decide if you’re a pain in the ass or the ‘find’ of the century.”

  “Well, why don’t I just go back to my cabin and await your decisio
n?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. All I’m saying is that I didn’t expect to enjoy this cruise, and now I am enjoying it. Very much. That was a compliment, Elaine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You see, I wasn’t in a vacation mood when I left Albany. I’ve been considering a career change and it’s been weighing heavily on me.”

  “A career change? You mean, because of all the traveling you have to do?”

  “Yes. That’s a big part of it.”

  “But you said you enjoyed the insurance business; that it was in your genes.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I.”

  I nodded. We were still standing very close together. We were standing so close together that, when I nodded, the tip of my nose brushed against his Adam’s apple.

  “Look, I don’t want to bore you with my business problems,” he said, pulling back suddenly. “I think this week’s going to be a lot of fun. I’ll worry about what happens after the trip after the trip.”

  Not me. I was calling Harold the minute I got back to my cabin.

  “Now,” Sam said, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. “What do you say we lighten things up and head downstairs to the disco?”

  “The disco? Why would we want to go there?”

  “So we can dance, obviously.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer. I’ve been told that I lead.”

  “Nobody leads when you go disco dancing. You just step onto the dance floor and relax.”

  “I don’t know how to relax.”

  “Sure you do.” Sam took hold of my hand. It was the third time our skin had made contact. I was keeping track.

  “I’m warning you,” I said as he led me away. “Dancing isn’t my thing.”

  “You’ll have the time of your life,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “I never trust people who say: ‘Trust me.’”

  “‘Never’ is a long time, Slim.”

  8

  The Princess Charming’s disco, like its restaurants and boutiques, was well meaning but tacky, with walls the color of Pepto-Bismol and black Naugahyde sofas. When Sam and I walked in, everybody was dancing to that overplayed song of several years ago, “Feelin’ Hot! Hot! Hot!,” which wasn’t a disco song at all. It had a Latin beat and was better suited to Pat’s Merengue class. Presently, it was the basis for a Toyota commercial—reason enough not to want to dance to it, I thought.

  Nevertheless, Sam dragged me out onto the dance floor, where I remained through a half-dozen numbers. At first, I felt terribly self-conscious. It helped somewhat that Sam was taller than I was; that I wasn’t the one towering over everybody like the Fifty-Foot Woman. But I had no sense of rhythm, no connection to my own body, no patience for songs that lasted an eternity and consisted of lyrics like “Boogie oogie oogie.”

  “Relax,” Sam urged. “Try.”

  “I am.” I did. For me. I wiggled ever so slightly to the music, occasionally snapping my fingers and bouncing my head up and down for extra effect, and in spite of my initial resistance, I began to have fun.

  Sam, it turned out, was a pretty good dancer for a white male. He was loose and graceful, especially given his height, and so very dashing in his black tuxedo. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, either; several women were staring at him with their tongues hanging out.

  Sorry, he’s with me, I smiled smugly. The question was, why was he with me? In spite of his remark about not being able to stop thinking about me, about how he’d never met anyone like me, I couldn’t help wondering what a catch like Sam Peck was doing with an uptight, bony ass like me. Were we headed for a romance, he and I? Impossible, I thought. Romances were a fiction, a plot device in books and movies. But then how to explain the fact that I was drawn to Sam in a way I’d never before been drawn to a man? That Sam seemed interested in me too? That even though I hadn’t wanted to take a sea cruise, I was having the time of my life?

  We danced until nine forty-five or until my hair frizzed, whichever came first. At some point, the deejay announced that it was “Karaoke Time!” The crowd applauded enthusiastically. I turned to Sam and said, “What does ‘karaoke’ mean, anyway? It sounds like some terribly contagious Asian disease.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” he said.

  “And what’s so wonderful about it? If people want to sing along with famous songs, let them do it in their car.”

  “I guess that means you won’t be taking the microphone tonight,” Sam smiled.

  I shook my head.

  Just then, the music started and people were lining up to take their turn at the microphone. The first tune was “Made in the U.S.A.” and the first person to sing it was Lenny Lubin. Picture Jackie Mason doing Bruce Springsteen and you’ll have a sense of what we had to endure. When Lenny was finished, the crowd cheered—because he was stepping down from the microphone, not because he was any good—and he came straight over to where Sam and I were sitting.

  “Hey, am I a star or what?” he said, patting his orange hair to make sure it was still in place after all his gyrations.

  “You were great, Lenny. Just great,” I said.

  “Thanks. Who’s this?” he asked, nodding at Sam.

  “Sam Peck,” Sam volunteered. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Lenny Lubin. Lubin’s Lube Jobs. If you’re ever in Massapequa and need an oil change, stop in,” said Lenny.

  “Massapequa is in Long Island,” I whispered to Sam. “Not too far from Manhattan.”

  “Thanks for helping this poor, lost, small-town boy through the highways and byways of life,” Sam whispered back.

  “What business are you in?” Lenny asked him.

  “Insurance,” Sam replied.

  “Which outfit?”

  “Dickerson Life.”

  “Dickerson? Never heard of ’em.”

  “Our headquarters are in Albany. I’ve been with them for ten years.”

  I looked at Sam. “You told me you’ve been with them for fifteen years.”

  “No, Elaine. I couldn’t have said that. You must have me mixed up with Kenneth, at our table. He said he’s been in the brokerage business for fifteen years.”

  I shrugged. I suppose I could have been wrong. But I wasn’t usually, when it came to things people told me about themselves. I always listened intently when they volunteered the little details of their lives, because knowledge was power. The more you knew about people, the better you could protect yourself against them, should they turn out to be liars and cheats.

  “Does this Dickerson write automobile policies? Homeowner? Flood? What?” Lenny asked Sam.

  “All of the above,” he said. “Our motto is: When you go with Dickerson, insurance means assurance.”

  “Very catchy,” I said.

  Lenny hung around for a few more minutes, asking me where the other two “lovelies” were. I told him. Eventually, he said he was going back to his cabin. He said he wanted to change out of his tuxedo into something more comfortable, so he could come back for some serious dancing.

  “Want to stay? Go?” said Sam after we were free of Lenny.

  “Go, I guess,” I said. “I think I’m discoed out.”

  Sam helped me up. We were walking out of the disco when we ran into Henry Prichard, who was escorting a blond woman in a pale pink strapless dress. At first, he acted as if he’d never met me, even though we’d been introduced only the day before. And then, when I said hello and reminded him that I was Jackie Gault’s friend, he actually said, “Jackie who?”

  “Gault,” I said. “You had an after-dinner drink with her last night.”

  “Oh, Jackie,” he said, nodding vigorously. He was still wearing the Pirates baseball cap. With his tuxedo. I suspected that his brief amnesia had more to do with staying in the good graces of the blonde in the pink strapless than it did with forgetting Jackie. After all, hadn’t Henry come up to Deck 8, just before dinner, specifically asking about her? Isn’t that what Kingsley had said? Or had Pat and
I just assumed—

  “I’m Sam Peck,” said Sam, shaking hands with both Henry and his date, whose name turned out to be Ingrid. She was Swedish.

  “Henry Prichard. Good to see ya.”

  Henry didn’t even ask how Jackie was feeling, I noticed with disappointment. Or even say something innocuous like: “Give her my best regards.”

  “Enjoying the cruise?” I asked him and Ingrid.

  “It’s sensational!” Henry enthused. “Best thing I ever did. I swear to God, when I get back to Altoona, I’m gonna sell so many cars they’re gonna have to let me win this cruise again!”

  “How about you, Ingrid? Are you having fun?” I asked.

  “Thank you. How are you?” she smiled.

  Ingrid didn’t speak much English but she was very pretty. I guessed that Henry wouldn’t be talking baseball with her.

  “How’s the sinus infection?” I asked Henry, just to be polite. I remembered that he had told Jackie, the night before, that he’d come back to his cabin to take his antibiotics.

  He looked at me blankly for a second or two. Then said, “Oh, that.” He pressed his fingers on his cheekbones, underneath his eyes, and shook his head. “I’m better but I’m not home free. Still got that blocked head.”

  That’s because you’re a blockhead, I thought. I mean, this guy didn’t seem to remember anything.

  Eventually, I let Henry go on with his evening, vowing not to tell Jackie I’d even bumped into him.

  “Aren’t you the social butterfly,” Sam said as we made our way out of the disco and walked toward the elevator.

  “Me?”

  “First, there was Skip. Then, there was Lenny. Now, there’s Henry. Have you met all the single men on this ship in only two days?”

  “All but two or three,” I joked, hoping the question was evidence that Sam was jealous.

  We strolled along the hall, a safe distance from one another, and stopped when we got to the elevator. Once there, we stood in silence for a couple of minutes, just the two of us, each waiting for the other to press the up button, knowing that, once we got inside the elevator, we would have to determine which of our floors we would be going to and what we would do when we got there. We were living that excruciatingly uncomfortable moment when you’re out with a man you’ve met on vacation and things are winding down and neither of you is sure how to end the evening or even if you should end the evening. Do you go to his room? Does he go to yours? Or do you each repair to your own room, leaving the other person wanting more? And if you do decide to call it a night right there at that elevator, how do you call it a night? Do you kiss? Shake hands? Flash the “Peace” sign? Do you stand there, the demure little woman, hoping the guy will direct the action? Or do you take control, knowing that whatever you do, you’ll spend half the night second-guessing yourself?