LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

pillow in the cabin—and Prozac was sprawled on it.

      “Upsy daisy,” I said, lifting her up. “Mommy needs to rest.”

      She shot me a laser look.

      You’re not my mommy and I want my pillow back.

      I had no sooner rested my head on the pillow when I felt her land with a thud in the general vicinity of my left ear. The next thing I knew, her tail was in my mouth. I gave her a gentle push, and she gave me a not-so-gentle scratch. One thing led to another and we were in the middle of a most undignified scuffle when I heard a knock on the door.

      “Who is it?” I called out.

      A soft unintelligible reply came from out in the corridor.

      I quickly stashed Prozac in the glorified wash-basin posing as my bathroom and poked my head out the door.

      A skinny guy of indeterminate nationality, dressed in what looked like a bellhop’s uniform, stood in the corridor.

      “I’m Samoa,” he said. “Your steward.”

      At least I think his name was Samoa. His accent was so thick I couldn’t be sure.

      “Samoa show you around your cabin.”

      Not much of a trip there. Besides, I doubted there’d be room for both of us.

      “No need,” I said. “I’m fine.”

      “You sure?”

      His big brown eyes peered over my shoulder into the cabin. In the background I thought I heard Prozac meowing, but thankfully, Samoa didn’t seem to notice.

      “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Just wonderful.”

      “You need anything, just call Samoa.”

      What I needed was another pillow, but I couldn’t risk having him come back to the cabin.

      “Right. Great. Thanks so much,” I said, shutting the door on his smiling face.

      I clamped my ear to the door until I heard his footsteps fading down the hallway. Then I let Prozac out of the bathroom and sank down into the cabin’s one and only chair. Obviously I was going to have to keep my DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door the entire trip.

      “Thanks to you, Pro, I’ll be making my own bed for the next seven days.”

      I’d have to call housekeeping and cancel steward service. Maybe I’d tell them that I was allergic to cleaning products, and that I couldn’t have anyone in my room who’d even touched a can of cleanser or I’d break out in hives. That might work.

      I was just about to reach for the phone when I heard another knock on the door.

      Drat. Not again.

      “Who is it?”

      “It’s me. Cookie.”

      I opened the door and found her standing there holding a large plastic bin filled with sand.

      “A present for Prozac,” she grinned. “A litter box.”

      A litter box! I’d forgotten all about that.

      “C’mon in,” I said, ushering her inside. Cookie was clearly shaping up to be my shipboard guardian angel. “Where on earth did you get it?”

      “I filched the tray from the busboys’ station at the buffet and the sand from the kiddie sandbox.”

      “What do you think, Pro?” I said, putting the makeshift litter box down in the bathroom.

      She walked over and sniffed at it, clearly unimpressed.

      What? No Mountain-Fresh Pine scent?

      “I’m afraid she doesn’t like it,” Cookie sighed.

      “She’ll learn to like it,” I said, glaring at Prozac. “Meanwhile, how can I ever thank you? You’ve been such an angel.”

      Just as she was assuring me that no thanks were necessary, the captain’s voice came over the public-address system announcing the ship’s safety drill.

      “C’mon,” Cookie said, grabbing two life vests from my closet. “We’ll go together.”

      Leaving Prozac lolling on the fought-after pillow, I headed out for my first official event of the cruise.

      “First we have to pick up Graham,” Cookie said when we were out in the corridor.

      “Graham?”

      “Graham Palmer III.” Her eyes lit up. “He’s my boyfriend. Wait’ll you meet him. He’s a real dreamboat.

      “Graham, sweetie,” she called out, knocking on one of the cabin doors. “It’s me.”

      Cookie did not lie. Graham Palmer III was a dreamboat of the highest order. He came to the door in white slacks and blue blazer—tall, tan, and graying at the temples. In a former life, he may well have been Cary Grant.

      “Hello, darling,” he said, in a British accent that reeked of high tea in the Cotswolds.

      “And who might this be?” he asked, flashing me a dazzling smile.

      “This is Jaine,” Cookie announced. “She’s a writer. And one of the ship’s lecturers.”

      “Welcome to paradise, Jaine.”

      Another dazzling smile, this one accompanied by a wink. The guy was a charmer, all right.

      “Graham’s one of the ship’s Gentlemen Escorts. You know, the men they hire to dance with the single ladies.”

      “But my heart belongs to Cookie,” Graham said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

      “It’s true,” Cookie beamed. “Graham’s heart really does belong to me. See for yourself.”

      She lifted a pendant from her generous cleavage and held it out for me to inspect.

      It was a gold half-a-heart, engraved with her initials, with a jagged line where the heart had been divided in two.

      “Graham’s got the other half. Go on, Gray. Show it to her.”

      He pulled out a matching half-a-heart from under his blue-and-white-striped sport shirt. Like Cookie’s, his pendant had been personalized with his initials, engraved in a fussy curlicued script.

      “See? They fit,” Cookie said, putting them together. “It’s a symbol of our commitment to each other. Isn’t that sweet?”

      “Very.” Any sweeter, I’d need a diabetes shot.

      “C’mon, darling,” Graham said. “We’d better get a move on.”

      Because elevator use was forbidden in the safety drill, we had to clomp up about a zillion stairs to where our passenger group was meeting in the Tiki Lounge. If this was what I’d have to endure in an emergency, I’d opt for going down with the ship.

      The Tiki Lounge was done up in an ersatz Hawaiian motif—complete with fake palm trees, tiki masks on the walls, and a thatched canopy over the massive bar.

      We put on our unflattering life vests and listened as one of the ship’s officers, standing under a stuffed marlin, lectured us about emergency evacuation procedures. Thank heavens they let us sit in the lounge’s booths while the officer droned on. I was sitting there watching Cookie and Graham play kneesies under the table when I became aware of a strange-looking guy at the next booth giving me the eye.

      You should know that about me. Somehow I always seem to attract life’s weirdos. This one had a long, greasy ponytail and an unbelievably bad Sunkist Orange bottled tan.

      Quickly averting my gaze, I went back to watching the kneesies action.

      At last the lecture was over, and we started to go. I hadn’t taken three steps when I was cornered by Mr. Ponytail.

Скачать книгу