Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Before dinner, Charlotte Bellfort had made sure Diane met everyone on board the yacht. She was impressed that BRI even had a staff veterinarian; David Crowley was his name. He was handsome in a rawboned kind of way. However, his amusing Southern adages (spoken with a Texas drawl that conveyed an easy-goin’ sense of meetin’ ‘round the cracker barrel) clashed with his tailored tux, taut jaw and watchful eyes. She saw him as a target of opportunity and hoped to chat with him again after dinner. But he seemed to have jumped ship when the boat docked in Galveston.

Charlotte had also introduced Diane to Maxine Boudreaux, the BRI business manager. Maxine was a thick-bodied, slender limbed young woman who was oddly attractive. Her hearty welcome and patent assuredness had strongly indicated she was in charge, despite Charlotte Bellfort’s bluster.

Charlotte had even swept Diane through the restaurantsized galley when Andor, the Hungarian chef, and his assistants were putting finishing touches on the lobster thermador. Andor was a comical figure whose half-moon eyebrows seemed to be raised in a perpetual question. In response to his introduction to Diane, Andor had thrust a teaspoon of sauce in her direction and commanded: “Taste for salt.”

Diane followed his order, then moaned with pleasure as flavors of butter, cream, sherry and exotic mushrooms erupted on her tongue. “Perfect,” she told him.

“Goot,” he replied, then shooed them out of his galley.

At the clang of the dinner bell, Charlotte had turned Diane over to Raymond Bellfort who had morphed from the distracted bulldog she’d met at lunch in Pittsburgh to a waggish Saint Bernard who drooled with geniality as he led her through the buffet line.

Diane found the Bellforts’ double-teamed hospitality exhausting—the real reason she had stayed behind when the group went off to see the Elissa.

She reached for a cognac from a nearby tray. It was time to discard her Mata Hari ways, rejoin the fun. After all, what’s not to enjoy? The ambience was dazzling; the food and music, wonderful; the people, gracious to exuberant.

Now, the girl who played the keyboard came in from the deck and sat two seats away from Diane at the bar.

“You play beautifully,” Diane said to her. “I’ve thought about getting an electronic piano. It must be wonderful having an orchestra at your fingertips.”

The girl beamed, and self-consciously adjusted her bowtie, worn as a choker over her off-the-shoulder sweater.

“I’m Diane Rose.” Diane extended her hand.

“Murphy O’Shea,” the girl said, reaching to shake Diane’s hand.

“For your age, you have an amazing repertoire of old standards.”

“That always throws people,” Murphy said. “Ling, the violinist, and I are students at Rice University’s Shepherd School of Music. We found out we couldn’t get many gigs by playing Bach and Mozart. So-oo-o we learned some Big Band stuff and old standards… and here we are. You said you play the piano?”

“Not as well as you.”

“Do you want to sit in on the next set? I can change the settings while you play and give you a feel for what the instrument can do. You’ll love it.”

Murphy’s enthusiasm eventually overcame Diane’s fear of stage fright. She agreed to sit in.

“Do you know Funny Valentine ?” Diane asked.

“Yes, I love it.”

Listening to her grandparents’ vintage record collection during her teens, Diane had developed an affinity for popular music from the forties and fifties. And early in their courtship, Vincent had also developed a love for those songs—particularly Funny Valentine . They both enjoyed its romantic melody but found some of the words to be amusingly rude and often parodied them. Vincent would recite the lyrics and accompany Diane on guitar while she played piano and sang. But when she pleaded with him to sing along, he always begged off saying his voice had the resonance of a moose in rut.

Now, Diane sat down at the piano. Aware of the returning guests, she played haltingly at first. But eventually the music filled her, eliminating any self-conscious thoughts. Murphy O’Shea stood behind the keyboard, pressing buttons and throwing switches. Suddenly, Diane was accompanied by vibes, George Shearing-style. Then, magically, she was playing an organ, then the harpsichord. She laughed with delight.

From the dock, he watched her.

Vincent returned from his harbor tour in time to hear the applause. He approached his wife as she stood up from the piano bench. “I’m sorry I missed it. Judging by the response it must have been a virtuoso performance.” He put his arm around her shoulders.

Diane made light of her husband’s comment: “You’ve heard me play it hundreds of times.”

“And I hope thousands more.”

Diane turned back toward Murphy and Ling. “Thank you, guys. I really enjoyed it,” she said warmly.

Murphy began playing a haunting version of Funny Valentine and Vincent pulled Diane toward the dance floor.

Ling picked up a microphone and sang in a hushed voice.

Vincent led Diane slowly around the dance floor. “When you think about it,” he said pensively, “that song has played a part in every major event in our lives—including our wedding. Makes you wonder about its significance here tonight.”

Diane leaned back and looked into her husband’s eyes. “You sure are mellow. Have you been into the cognac?”

Vincent pulled her close and nuzzled her hair. “Must be the salt air.”

By 10:30 p.m. Raymond Bellfort, Vincent and Colton Fey were again ensconced in the pilothouse. This time they were accompanied by Gabriel Carrera who reluctantly piloted the boat out of its temporary Galveston berth. Raymond had cajoled Gabriel into taking the helm. In Vincent’s silent opinion, he handled the boat well, but did not quite have Raymond’s finesse at the wheel.

It turned out that Gabriel Carrera and his father Carlos had originally taught Raymond the art of large boat handling on their family yacht at Carrera Island near Aruba in the Caribbean. Raymond had been a quick study, and they had come to trust him at the helm as much as they did their own captain.

Now Raymond seemed to get great pleasure from badgering his cousin. He issued a steady stream of commands and observations as the big boat moved out. “More throttle. Running lights on? Buoy to port….”

Vincent watched the amusing interplay between the two cousins. He had been steeped in this world of luxury for just four or so hours, and already he felt he must be the only man in the universe without a mega yacht.

Once underway, Gabriel Carrera turned the wheel over to Vincent. He winked and said, “When we bring our boat to Texas for its annual maintenance, you will get to see what a real ship looks like.” He gave Raymond a playful sidelong glance, and went below.

Raymond excused himself, stating he had to go and play Santa Claus. Colton stayed in the pilothouse to serve as backup to Vincent, who assured him he was quite content to remain at the helm.

In the main salon, Murphy and Ling played another old standard, Charmaine . Someone dimmed the ceiling lights allowing the gaslights to enkindle the ambience. Charlotte Bellfort urged Carlos Carrera out onto the dance floor. Other couples followed.

Diane stood alone by a starboard window watching the water below. A north wind had cleared the fog, and seas had begun to build. Waves swelled like eerie green specters in the glow of the starboard running light. Diane felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She turned.

Gabriel bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance, Madam?”

Wordlessly, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

To Diane’s mind, Gabriel Carrera had an imperial quality. She could picture him wearing a white uniform with gold-fringed epaulets, waltzing at a palace ball. She didn’t know why she accepted his invitation to dance. She usually reserved the slow dances for her husband. Maybe curiosity prompted her to take the hand Gabriel so elegantly proffered.