smile. “I’m Anton Devereux, Professional Ice Sculptor.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, wondering if the stud hurt when he blew his nose.
“Of course, ice isn’t the only medium where I ply my artistry.”
Ply his artistry? It looked like somebody was a bit full of himself.
“I do it all—clay, granite, sand, and sometimes when finances are tight, chopped liver at bar mitzvahs.”
“How interesting,” I lied.
“You must come to one of my poolside demonstrations. In fact, perhaps you’d care to take a stroll on deck right now. I can tell you about the time I carved Venus de Milo out of tuna salad.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ve really got to go back to my cabin to finish unpacking.”
And before he could say another word about his tuna fish Venus, I was out of there.
Needless to say, I’d lied to Mr. Ponytail. I did not go back to my cabin. Instead, I made my initial pilgrimage to the holy grail of cruising, the twenty-four-hour buffet. What with climbing all those stairs, I was feeling a bit peckish.
I already knew what deck the buffet was on. It was one of the first things I memorized when I got my cruise information packet in the mail. I was trotting down the hallway, wondering if they had hot fudge sundaes on tap, when I heard someone call my name.
I turned to see Paige McAllister, the ship’s social director, heading in my direction.
I’d met Paige when I first came to the Holiday offices for my interview. A preppy blonde with shoulder-length hair swept back in a headband, she hadn’t seemed all that impressed with my resume.
“You write toilet bowl ads for a living?” she’d asked, her perfectly plucked brows arched in disbelief.
“Toiletmasters happens to be one of the leading suppliers of plumbing fixtures in the greater Los Angeles area,” I’d replied with as much dignity as I could muster.
“Is that so?” she’d said, with a dubious smile.
Frankly I’d been surprised when she’d called to offer me the gig.
She advanced on me now, clutching a clipboard.
“Welcome aboard, Jaine!” she chirped. “So glad you could join us. Just wanted to let you know you’ll be meeting with your class in the Galley Grill Restaurant.”
“We meet in a restaurant?”
“Yes, we often use our restaurants as lecture halls in the day to accommodate the crowds. Now remember. Our passengers are looking to be entertained. So keep it lively. Up and bubbly, that’s our motto!”
“You bet!” I said, trying to put some bubble in my voice.
“And one more thing. I’ve got your dinner seating assignment.”
“But I didn’t request assigned seating.”
“It’s part of the job, Jaine. Many of our passengers like to be seated with the ship’s celebrities. I’ve put you with the Pritchard party in the Continental Dining Room. The maitre d’ will know where to seat you.”
As flattered as I was to be thought of as a “celebrity,” this whole dinner thing was a bit of a curveball. I hadn’t expected to be eating with other people watching me. I guess that meant no doubles on desserts.
“And don’t forget,” Paige was saying, “tomorrow night is Formal Night. You do have something appropriate to wear, don’t you?”
Not unless she considered elastic-waist jeans and a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt appropriate.
“Not exactly,” I murmured, sans bubble.
True, I’d packed a pair of slacks and a few blouses for my classes, but I had nothing remotely formal. At the time I figured I’d be eating most of my meals at the casual buffet.
“No problem,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “You can rent an outfit in the ship’s rental shop. It shouldn’t run you more than a hundred dollars or so.”
A hundred bucks? It looked like the cruise wasn’t going to be free after all. Oh, well. It was a small price to pay for seven heavenly days at sea.
After I assured Paige that I’d show up on Formal Night dressed to the nines, she told me with an insincere smile how marvy it was to have me on the Holiday team and then trotted off, clipboard akimbo.
Free at last, I took the elevator to the Baja Deck, home of the twenty-four-hour buffet. The room itself looked like an upscale cafeteria, with the buffet in the center, and tables on both sides looking out picture windows onto the open seas.
I gawked, openmouthed, at the vast cornucopia of chow on display: fresh-from-the-oven rolls, panini sandwiches grilled to perfection, rosy shrimp nestling in a bed of ice, barbequed chickens, honey-glazed ham, roast beef, and broiled salmon. Not to mention a mammoth salad bar and an overflowing fresh fruit basket.
And there—in the dessert section next to the apple pie, cherry cobbler, and chocolate éclairs—there in all their glory were fresh-from-the-oven brownies.
No doubt about it. I’d died and gone to calorie heaven.
I grabbed some shrimp for Prozac’s dinner, and then, in a moment of restraint that was sure to go down in the next Guinness World Records, I took only one brownie for myself. This cruise was clearly going to be a floating snackfest of Olympic proportions, and I’d have to pace myself if I wanted to survive without busting my buttons.
Back in the cabin, Prozac and I scarfed down our chow eagerly. (I am happy to report my brownie was divine: moist and chocolatey, studded with nuts, and covered with a thick layer of frosting.)
When Prozac had finished inhaling her shrimp, she curled up on the fought-after pillow.
Wake me when it’s time for the midnight buffet.
I rinsed out the bowl her shrimp had been in and filled it with water.
“Here’s some water, Pro.”
She eyed it balefully.
What? No champagne?
“It’ll be in the bathroom, your majesty.”
Leaving her purring like a buzz saw, I headed up to the pool deck, where, according to my copy of the ship’s newsletter, Holiday Happenings, the Set Sail Party was scheduled to take place.
It was already in progress when I showed up, a gala affair, complete with free leis and strolling mariachis.
As if on the Holiday payroll, the sun was in the midst of a spectacular sunset, sinking into the horizon in a blaze of glory.
I gazed out at the mass of gray heads surrounding me. True, there were a few honeymooners and couples with kids, but as Lance predicted, most of my fellow passengers were dedicated AARPsters.
But what did it matter if I was the only single woman on board with functioning ovaries? Not for me the shallow pursuit of romance. No, sir. I had my priorities straight.
I was content watching the sunset, smelling the sea, and eating my brownie.
(Okay, so I stopped off for another one.)
Chapter 3
Somehow I managed to cobble together a decent outfit for dinner that night: black slacks and a buttercream silk blouse I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom, topped off with a pair of simple pearls. I was going for an air of chic sophistication befitting my “celebrity” status.
“How do I look, Pro?” I asked, pirouetting in the few feet of space between our twin cots.
She peered up at me from where she was still encamped on the cabin’s only pillow. I’d long since given up hope of ever resting