Marcia Talley - Dark Passage

I followed, figuring the exercise would do me good.

The entrance to the Trident Lounge was through the piano bar where a pianist with the improbable name of John Darling was sitting at a white Steinway grand, tinkling the ivories. As we waited to go through the receiving line, he finished ‘My Way’ and segued neatly into ‘The Candy Man,’ then ‘That’s Amore,’ crooning his way through songs that had been popularized by the Rat Pack in the sixties.

‘Did you bring the invitation?’ Ruth whispered as we got close to the head of the line.

I patted my evening bag. ‘Right here, but I doubt they’ll ask for it.’

And they didn’t. We were glad-handed through a series of ship’s officers, arranged in ascending order by rank and number of stripes on their sleeves. We shook the hand of the head chef – wearing his double-breasted jacket and traditional toque – the entertainment director, the head of security, the hotel director, the deputy captain, and finally, the captain, each resplendent in crisp white gold-buttoned uniforms, loaded with braid. As the captain released my hand and allowed me into the lounge, I said to Ruth – who had preceded me, ‘I feel thoroughly welcomed aboard by now, don’t you?’

Inside the lounge, a vocalist accompanied by a piano and bass combo sang, ‘Besa Me Mucho’ in a throaty alto. Servers worked the room carrying silver trays of canapés; others weaved through the guests carrying champagne aloft. As one passed, I snagged a glass of wine and took a sip. I recognized it by now: Ode Panos. The house wine.

‘C’mon, Hannah, let’s find a seat. The room is filling up fast.’

Based on what Liz and Cliff had told me, they’d ply us with food and drink, then welcome us to the Neptune Club, the frequent cruiser club, with discounts and other incentives. I hoped they wouldn’t drone on too long, as dinner was just an hour away and I was already signed up. It didn’t cost anything, as Liz had said, and a penny saved is a penny… well, you know.

Just thinking about Liz, I spotted her, sitting with Cliff at a table for six near a bank of windows that looked out over the stern. Even from where I stood, I could see the water foaming in the ship’s wake, leaving a white trail to mark our passage across the sea. I thought about poor Charlotte pitching overboard, and if she survived the fall, floundering helplessly in that wake, calling out as the ship pulled away, growing smaller and smaller in her view until it was merely a dot on the horizon and she was totally alone. I shivered and grabbed Ruth’s arm, ‘There’s Liz. Let’s see if we can sit with them.’

I waved at Liz, who caught my eye, smiled and waved back, indicating we should join them, and we did.

I was just getting settled in my chair when Liz said, ‘Golly, there’s David Warren. I’m going to ask him over, too.’

Cliff rolled his eyeballs back until only the whites were showing, stuck out his tongue and mimed hanging himself with a rope.

Liz punched him in the arm. ‘Behave yourself, Cliff. I feel sorry for the guy.’

Cliff straightened up. ‘Well, if you must .’ He grinned at me. ‘Liz is always doing charity work. David must be her next project.’

David had turned away from us by then, so Liz got up and chased after him. She returned a few minutes later with David in tow, saying, ‘David, I’d like you to meet Hannah Ives and her sister, Ruth… sorry, I don’t know your last name.’

Ruth extended her hand and David shook it. ‘It’s Hutchinson.’

I’d learned so much about David from Liz and from Pia that I’d almost forgotten we’d never been introduced. The ‘nice to see you again’ on the tip of my tongue was quickly replaced with, ‘so pleased to meet you,’ as David joined our group, taking the chair next to me. He’d spent the afternoon on deck ten, he informed us, walking laps around the jogging track, working off the pounds he’d put on in the late-night buffet the evening before.

To his credit, Cliff tried to draw the man out by asking about the real-estate market in Minnesota. Homes moved quickly there, it seemed, and the Minneapolis suburbs were ranked among the top twenty-five places in the country to live by Money magazine. As David droned on about ‘median sale price’ and ‘average days on the market,’ I zoned out, preferring to sip my wine, pop the occasional cashew into my mouth, chew thoughtfully and study the room.

Who were the ‘usual suspects’ among this group? I wondered. All the passengers had been on former Phoenix cruises, I knew, or they wouldn’t be at this party, but how about the crew? The captain? Nuh-uh. I’d read in the program that Nicholas Halikias had been in charge of the Islander for more than three years. One of the others, then?

The receiving line had broken up and the officers were mingling. In their white uniforms they were ridiculously easy to spot. I kept one eye on David, hoping he’d shoot daggers at someone in particular, pull out his notebook and make a note, but if his notebook was with him it wasn’t making an appearance.

After about fifteen minutes of serious schmoozing, Captain Halikias stepped onto the stage, accepted the microphone from the chanteuse, and welcomed us aboard. Again. Halikias passed the mike to the Cruise Director, Bradford Gould, who had been hovering by the captain’s left elbow. Gould also welcomed us aboard with the practiced, oily charm of a lounge singer.

‘I’ve never felt so welcomed in all my life,’ I whispered to David.

‘Of course,’ he snorted. ‘They want you to re-up.’

A flurry of activity to the left of the stage caught my eye. Led by a sequinned-bedecked woman enthroned in a motorized chair, folks were being gently, but firmly herded into a line that meandered lazily around the bar. In short order, we learned that Emily Rothenberg – the woman in the chair – would be receiving a Trident platinum medal. ‘Seventy-five cruises with Phoenix Cruise Lines, ladies and gentleman! Think about it! We love you, sweetheart!’

We watched as Gould bent at the waist, straining his starched white pants, and hung the medal, attached to a blue and white-striped ribbon, around Rothenberg’s neck. She kissed it, held it up for the audience’s inspection, and grinned as the audience erupted in wild applause. You’d think she’d just medaled for Greece in the Olympic Games.

‘How many cruises have you been on, David?’ I asked as the applause for Emily Rothenberg died away.

‘Compared to Ms Rothenberg over there, I’m small potatoes. Only four.’

‘You have me beat,’ I said. ‘This is only my third. What kind of medal do you get for three? Paper? Cotton?’ I turned to Cliff and Liz to ask, ‘Why aren’t you standing up in that line?’

Liz patted her husband’s hand. ‘Next year, if all goes well, we’ll make the Silver Trident category. We were awarded the Crystal back in 2010.’

Next up were two aging jocks, diamond-award winners at sixty cruises apiece, who apparently knew one another because they were high-fiving all the way from the stage back to their seats.

As a group of Gold Trident awardees neared the stage, I poked Ruth and said, ‘Do you recognize that guy? The tall one?’

‘Help me out, Hannah. Which tall one?’

‘Waiting in line. Blond hair, kinda thin on top.’

‘Well, that certainly narrows it down. Most of the guys around here are follically challenged.’ She flushed. ‘Present company excepted, gentlemen.’

‘Wearing the tuxedo,’ I amended, ‘next to the bottle blonde in the electric-blue dress.’

‘Ah, I see who you mean now,’ Ruth said. ‘He’s the guy we saw in the solarium who didn’t like the way his wife fixed his hot dog.’