LITMIR.BIZ

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in my outfit, I gave myself a final spritz of perfume and set out for the Continental Dining Room, eagerly awaiting my first free meal on board ship.

      When I checked the menu posted outside the restaurant, my eyes zeroed in on one entrée: the “succulent filet mignon grilled to perfection, served with buttery mashed potatoes and creamed spinach.”

      No doubt about it. That was the dish for me.

      Inside the restaurant, I was greeted by an unctuous maitre d’ in a shiny white dinner jacket straight from the wardrobe department of Casablanca.

      “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he crooned, in a thick French accent.

      The oily smile that had been plastered on his face disappeared, however, when he checked my name on his seating chart.

      “Austen, huh?” he said, his accent suddenly gone bye-bye. “You’re being comped, right?”

      “Yes, you see I’m giving a series of lectures on—”

      “Whatever. Just don’t order the filet mignon.”

      “Was he kidding? My salivary glands went into shock.

      “We save the steaks for paying passengers.”

      Accent on “paying.”

      Grabbing a menu, he led me into a cavernous banquet hall of a room echoing with the excited buzz of people who hadn’t yet been disappointed by their vacations.

      As I weaved my way among the tables, I caught a glimpse of a happy passenger digging into his steak. Damn, it looked good. Charred on the outside, pink on the inside. Just the way I liked it. I felt like swooping down and snatching the fork out of his hand, but I figured that wouldn’t exactly fit the image of a “celebrity” guest.

      The maitre d’ deposited me at a round window table where the Pritchard party, my assigned dinner companions, were already seated. One of them, I was surprised to see, was a tan, lanky guy in my age bracket.

      “Mademoiselle Austen,” the phony Frenchman announced with a flourish, his accent back in action.

      Sad to say, I didn’t get the celebrity greeting I’d been hoping for.

      A sour dame with thin, grim lips and horn-rimmed glasses frowned at the sight of me.

      “You’re not Professor Gustav Heinmann, the Arctic explorer.”

      “No, I’m Jaine Austen, the writer.”

      “You can’t be Jane Austen,” she huffed. “She’s been dead for centuries.”

      “That’s Jaine with an i,” I explained. “J-a-i-n-e.”

      “I don’t care how it’s spelled. I specifically requested to have Professor Heinmann at our table.”

      At which point, a sweet-looking old gal sitting next to her piped up.

      “Now, Leona,” she said. “I’m sure we’re all thrilled to have a real writer at our table. Come, Ms. Austen, won’t you have a seat?”

      She patted the empty chair next to her, and I sat down, relieved I wasn’t stuck next to the horn-rimmed gargoyle.

      “I’m Emily Pritchard,” she smiled. With her Wedgwood blue eyes and headful of soft gray curls, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

      “Let me introduce you to everyone. First, my nephew Kyle.”

      A slick fortysomething guy in designer togs nodded curtly.

      “And this,” Emily said, pointing to a faded blonde at Mr. Slick’s side, “is Kyle’s darling wife, Maggie.” The blonde—who, like me, was packing a few extra pounds under her pantyhose—shot me a shy smile.

      “And this is my other nephew, my adorable Robbie.” Emily nodded at the lanky guy with the tan.

      He was adorable, all right, with startling green eyes and a most appealing lopsided grin. I felt myself blush as he waved hello.

      “And finally,” Emily said, gesturing to Miss Congeniality in the horn-rimmed glasses, “my companion, Leona Nesbitt.”

      The sour dame barely managed a grunt.

      “Every year I take my little family on a cruise,” Emily gushed. “I adore cruising, always have ever since Daddy took me on my first voyage when I was eighteen years old.”

      “And we all appreciate your generosity, Aunt Emily.” Kyle smiled, exposing small, sharklike teeth.

      “But enough about us, Ms. Austen,” Emily said. “Now you must tell us all about yourself and the wonderful books you’ve written.”

      Before I had a chance to tell her that the only book I’d ever written was You and Your Garbage Disposal for Toiletmasters Plumbers, the waiter came to take our order.

      “And what will madame have?” he asked, starting with Emily.

      “I’ll have the steak. It looks simply divine.”

      Did it ever, I thought, still drooling over the hunk of red meat I’d seen on my way in.

      “Do you think that’s wise, dear?” Ms. Nesbitt piped up. “You know how steak disagrees with you. Let’s get the chicken, shall we?”

      She shot the old lady a steely smile, and I could tell it wasn’t so much a suggestion as a command.

      “But surely, just this once…” Emily entreated.

      “I don’t think so, dear,” her companion said firmly.

      “I suppose you’re right.” Emily sighed in resignation. “I’ll have the chicken.”

      Under no restrictions from the eagle-eyed Ms. Nesbitt, Kyle and Robbie both ordered the steak.

      “Rare but not too rare,” Kyle instructed the waiter, “or I’ll send it back.”

      “Certainly, sir.” The waiter nodded.

      Ten to one, he’d be spitting in Kyle’s food before the cruise was over.

      “Oh, dear,” Maggie said when it was her turn. “I can’t seem to decide. The steak looks wonderful, but then, so does the halibut. And yet, you can never go wrong with chicken.”

      “Oh, for crying out loud, Maggie,” Kyle snapped at his wife. “Make up your mind. You’re keeping everyone waiting.”

      Maggie blushed and ordered the steak.

      “And you, miss?” the waiter asked, turning to me.

      I looked down at the menu, my eyes lingering on the filet mignon. Never had I wanted a steak so badly. Aw, what the heck? I’d order it. There was no way the maitre d’ could find out. Not with this huge dining room full of passengers.

      “I’ll have the filet mignon,” I said in a burst of defiance.

      “Are you certain, madame?” The waiter shot me a warning look.

      Oh, phooey. Clearly he’d been clued in on my second-class citizenship. If I ordered the steak, he was sure to rat on me to the maitre d’.

      “On second thought,” I sighed, “I’ll have the chicken.”

      “Now Ms. Austen,” Emily said, as our waiter trotted off with our orders, “you really must tell us all about your exciting life as a writer.”

      What on earth was I going to talk about? My ad campaign for Big John, the extra-large commode for extra-large people? Or my award-losing slogan for Ackerman’s Awnings (Just a Shade Better)?

      “I’m afraid it’s not all that exciting.”

      “I’m sure it must be!” Emily beamed me an encouraging smile. “We want to hear all about your books.”

      “I haven’t exactly written

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