Alice on Board Read online

  “Mrs. Collier wanted Dianne to search my stuff, but Dianne said no. I’m sure that’s not the last of it, though. It’s my word against hers,” I added. “I’ll probably get fired.”

  “On what grounds?” Gwen asked.

  But we knew the answer to that, and Gwen realized it too. The application form we’d signed said that we understood we were being hired “at will” for no definite period and that our employment could be terminated with or without cause at the option of the company.

  “How can I go for nine more weeks knowing that Dianne will always wonder about me?” I said. “And if any of the other passengers misplace anything at all, I’ll be the first suspect. You should have seen the look on Mrs. Collier’s face when I left her room, Gwen. It was as though she were saying, ‘You know and I know you’re a thief and a liar.’”

  Scritch, scratch, scratch came from the bottom dresser drawer.

  “Well, if Dianne does search the room, she’ll find that,” Gwen said, and grabbed my arm. “Come on. Let’s finish up our rooms and go see the Robert Morris Inn everyone’s talking about. If you sit down here and worry, you’ll fry your brain.”

  We finished our rooms, then showered and changed, but when we started up the stairs to the main deck, we met Dianne coming down.

  “Alice, I saw Mrs. Collier in the library, and that little problem is resolved,” she said. “Her husband had the watch in his pocket. I was just coming to tell you.”

  I came to a dead stop. I wasn’t sure which I felt more: relief or anger. “Why didn’t she tell me that?”

  “She knew I’d let you know. Evidently, her husband left the breakfast table early for a walk but stopped in their stateroom first and saw the watch on the nightstand. Said he put it in his pocket for safekeeping, then forgot about it till his wife told him it was missing. So that’s the end of it.”

  Not quite, I thought.

  “Isn’t she going to apologize?” I asked.

  “I’m sure she feels embarrassed by the whole thing,” Dianne said, and there was a hint of discomfort in her voice. “You girls have a good time in Oxford now. It’s a very picturesque town.” She turned and went back up the stairs. Gwen and I looked at each other.

  “Wait here,” I said, and went up to the library on the lounge deck.

  Mrs. Collier was sitting at a little table checking things off on a brochure and drinking a Bloody Mary. A diamond watch on a black band glistened on her left wrist. I walked over.

  “Hello, Mrs. Collier. Oh, you found your watch!” I said cheerfully. “What good news!”

  She looked up and gave a little laugh. “Yes, my husband had it in his pocket, exactly where he should have put it. He took a walk right after breakfast, but I didn’t know he’d stopped by our room first.”

  “Yes, I heard,” I said. “I’m so relieved. As you can imagine, I was pretty upset with the accusation, so I thought you’d want the pleasure of telling me the good news yourself.”

  I was asking for trouble, I knew, but I had to get it out. And I was so sickeningly cheerful and smiley that I couldn’t quite see her complaining to Quinton about it. “Well … of course,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply that anyone here was dishonest, but … I was just … naturally … very worried.”

  “I accept your apology,” I said. “Have a nice afternoon in Oxford.”

  “Oh, yes, I will, I will,” Mrs. Collier said, and lifted her drink again.

  I went triumphantly back down to the main deck where Gwen was waiting, through the gangway, and we set off to see the town.

  5

  A FORGETTABLE FRIDAY

  We all wanted shore leave at St. Michaels. I woke Friday morning determined to clean my staterooms faster than ever before. Quinton had told us of a bed-and-breakfast that rented bikes, and I decided that’s how I wanted to spend my afternoon, especially when I got up on deck and discovered a beautiful day. The temperature had gone from the low nineties to the mid-eighties, the humidity had dropped, and the passengers in my cabins were all going ashore.

  I was ready by 1:30—showered and changed—and left the ship with Lauren, Pamela, and Shannon. Natalie, however, had finished even before us and was walking swiftly toward a grassy area, her large canvas bag slung over one shoulder, and we all knew what was in it. She’d been devoting all her break time for the last two days to that terrapin, her only goal being to keep it alive and kicking till Sunday.

  “So what if I miss doing something now? I’ll do it later,” she’d said, and that became the mantra for all of us: We’d have nine more chances to do everything.

  “Do you think things will grow old by the time the ten weeks are over?” Yolanda had asked yesterday.

  “I’ll grow old,” Pamela said. “I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”

  “It’s the hours,” Emily told her. “It’s the fact that we have so little time to ourselves. You’ll toughen up. That’s a promise.”

  Mitch and Barry were already at the bike place when we got there, and they waited till we’d rented ours. Then we all set out together. It wasn’t long before Josh caught up with us, riding the last bike they had left—it didn’t even have gears. But he didn’t need them. The roads were flat, the scenery fantastic.

  “Wow! This is the life, huh?” I said as we rode in and out of shade. “We’re actually getting paid for this?”

  “We’re actually not,” said Barry. “We’re so low on the pay scale, we’re practically paying them room and board.”

  We’d left in such a hurry that I’d brought only a comb, lip gloss, and money, so my hands were completely free. How long had it been since I’d ridden a bike?

  Off to our right we could see the Seascape’s tour group entering the gate of the Maritime Museum—eighteen acres with exhibits, a working boatyard, and a lighthouse. Stephanie was following along behind the group, looking svelte in black pants and a black halter top. I saw Josh and Barry exchange knowing grins.

  “Yeah?” I said, questioning.

  “There goes trouble,” Josh said.

  “Who? Stephanie?” Pamela asked, following their gaze.

  Lauren overheard and let her bike coast till we caught up with her. “Oh, c’mon, Josh. It takes two. He was as much at fault as she was.”

  “Hey, he was a passenger. You’re not supposed to hit on passengers,” said Josh.

  “Give her a break. She lost a job over it, and she’s probably sorry it happened.”

  Barry chuckled. “She look sorry to you? Looks like bait to me, not that I’m complaining.”

  “And they think girls are catty!” said Pamela. “Hey, careful, Barry. You almost ran into me.”

  I looked around to see if Mitch was still with us and saw him riding along with his arms folded over his chest. His bike began to wobble slightly when he saw me watching.

  “Wow!” I said. “We’ve got a stuntman here.”

  He laughed.

  “I can do that!” said Josh, folding his arms across his chest, and immediately his bike lurched and he almost went over. We hooted at him.

  Josh made up for it by being our unofficial guide. Nice to have someone along who had been on a Chesapeake Bay tour with another line.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you are now touring the historic town that fooled the British. In the dark morning hours of August something or other …”

  “Uh-oh. A dark-and-stormy-night story,” said Barry.

  “No, no, this is true. Some British barges planned to attack St. Michaels, and the people found out about it. They hoisted lanterns to the tops of trees, and when the British fired, they overshot.”

  “Cle-ver!” said Pamela.

  “And,” Josh continued, “if you now look to your left, you’ll see the Cannonball House.”

  It really did begin to feel like we were back in colonial days. Even the names on mailboxes—like Haddaway and Hambleton—sounded historical. When did I ever meet anybody named Haddaway?

  The trees opened up once to
a particularly beautiful stretch—just water and boats, branches framing the picture. The way the sun glinted on the edge of each ripple, the deep blue of the sky—I couldn’t help smiling. Mitch noticed and smiled back, and we didn’t have to say anything, just knew we were enjoying the day, the moment, the crew.

  We had about an hour and a half left before we had to be back on board, so we returned the bikes and went to the Maritime Museum. Lauren and Pamela and I headed for the lighthouse, but Shannon didn’t want to come. When we looked down, we saw her over by the gate, smoking.

  “Don’t,” she said, when we caught up with her later.

  “Didn’t say a word,” I told her.

  “You were going to, and I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

  Lauren shrugged but asked anyway. “This your first since the cruise started?”

  “No, and it won’t be my last. I’ve decided I’m a smoker and that’s that. I like myself better when I’m not so grumpy and nervous.”

  We couldn’t argue much with that.

  The boatyard sounded like you’d expect it to—the rasp of a saw, the thud of a padded hammer, the clinks and clunks—all laced with the scent of sawdust, glue, and varnish. We found the guys watching a white-haired man carving a wood canoe. His glasses rested on the end of his nose, and he reminded me of Geppetto, working in his shop in Pinocchio.

  Leaving the museum, we ran into Gwen and Flavian and two of the deckhands. They were sitting at a table outside a small seafood place, so we grabbed another table, pulled some chairs over, and ordered po’boy sandwiches with fried oysters.

  What interested me far more than the oysters, however, was the fact that Flavian, I noticed, was sitting with one arm over the back of Gwen’s chair. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt and an intricate long necklace, each loop carved of wood. Flavian was examining the necklace.

  “Plastic,” he said.

  Gwen elbowed him and laughed. “It is not! It’s wood. My aunt bought it in Jamaica.”

  Flavian pretended to read some fine print on the back of one loop. “Made … in … China,” he said.

  Gwen smacked his hand, but he fed her the last remaining oyster from his paper plate, and she snapped at his fingers as though she might bite them. And laughed. And then they kissed.

  She was out-and-out, full-speed-ahead making out with this gorgeous, olive-skinned, lightly stubbled guy she’d known for only a week. I guess Austin really was history. She and Flavian were looking into each other’s eyes and smiling.

  As we all headed back to the ship, Shannon lagged behind, smoking one cigarette after another, like she was making up for all the cigarettes she’d missed this week and all the ones she couldn’t have till she was off the ship again.

  Mitch noticed too.

  “She’s been trying to quit,” I told him.

  “Well, the stuff’s addictive,” he said as some of the smoke drifted our way. “I know, ’cause I was hooked for a while.”

  “Yeah?”

  We were trailing the others, and as a group of passengers merged onto the sidewalk ahead of us, separating us even more from the crew, we were in no hurry to leave St. Michaels.

  “Dip,” Mitch said. When I looked puzzled, he added, “Dipping tobacco. You know, pinch.” He motioned to a spot behind his lower lip.

  “Oh. Like baseball players.”

  “Yeah. One little pleasure while you slog through the marsh in the winter.”

  I realized I knew not one thing about muskrat trapping. “Do you do this slogging on foot?”

  “Yeah, once we get to the marsh by motorboat, usually solo. The dip keeps us company.”

  I couldn’t be sure if Mitch was enjoying telling me about trapping or if he was doing it out of politeness. I’d asked out of politeness, but now I was curious. He was a lot taller than I am—taller than Patrick, even, a lot more solid. Wearing a faded gray T-shirt with a SMITHWICK’S ALE label on it. I was also curious about him.

  I tried to picture what he was telling me. “How do you know where the muskrats are if you’re in water?”

  He walked on, hands in his pockets. “The marsh is a maze of muskrat tunnels, see, and you have to know where they run. You climb out of the boat in your hip boots, sack over your shoulder, and step from one clump of grass to another, checking the spring traps between.”

  I didn’t look at him when I asked the next question: “How did your uncle die, Mitch?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and I started to worry that I’d gotten too personal.

  “We don’t know for sure,” he said. “You can be knee-deep in mud before you know it. Maybe he went under and couldn’t right himself. Maybe he was so far in that he couldn’t get out. He was sixty-eight. Or maybe he froze to death. Hard to think about, but it happens.”

  We walked on a little farther without speaking. Finally I said, “So trapping’s in your family, huh?”

  “My dad, my uncles, my grandfather … We do a little bit of everything, I guess, but all of it’s in the water.”

  “And now you’re on the water.”

  Mitch smiled this time. “Yeah. Imagine that. Nice for a change. Don’t know I’d want to do it full-time, though.”

  Up ahead, we saw some more of the Seascape’s tour group coming along the path from the museum and merging with the line of people heading for the dock. Stephanie was walking with one of the male passengers and laughing at something he’d said. He was looking at her appreciatively.

  “Careful, buddy,” Mitch joked.

  It was getting close to five by then, and … And suddenly I thought my heart was in seizure. Patrick! I glanced down at my watch and automatically reached for my bag before I realized I hadn’t brought it. It was Friday afternoon. Late afternoon. Patrick’s plane was leaving at … ? Was it five or six?

  Think! Think! I told myself, fumbling for the cell phone that wasn’t there. Wake up! Wake up! This can’t be happening. It felt as though my whole head was heating up, hot pain behind my eyes, my forehead. I’d wanted to tell him good-bye! He may have been trying to call me!

  I guess I’d stopped there on the sidewalk, saliva collecting in my mouth because I couldn’t swallow. Mitch was looking at me strangely.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Oh my God!” I gasped. “I’ve got to make a phone call! I’ll see you,” I said, and began to run.

  I was only fifty yards from the ship, but the tour group was already there, ambling one at a time up the gangplank. Dianne was checking off names on her clipboard as they passed, and women were chatting with her and with each other while my head was screaming, Let me by! Let me by!

  I felt physically ill. How could I have forgotten? How? I’d thought about it several times yesterday, about calling Patrick before he left, thinking about the best time to do it. I hadn’t wanted to interrupt him while he was packing; didn’t want to bother him when he was trying to get a cab. What time was his flight? I couldn’t remember his departure time! How could I not remember?

  There was a break in the line. A man had gone up the gangplank, and the woman behind him had turned to talk to the person behind her. I edged around her saying, “Oh, sorry! Late for work. Excuse me.”

  Dianne frowned, but I zipped on ahead and bounded through the gangway, then clattered down the stairs to crew quarters. Grabbing my cell phone from my bag, I checked for messages, but there weren’t any. I ran back up to the main deck. Mitch was standing in line on the dock and looked up at me quizzically, but I didn’t stop. On up to the lounge deck, then the Chesapeake deck, to the observation deck at the top.

  A small group of passengers was standing at the stern, drinks in hand, another in the shade area. I turned toward the shady side of the ship’s funnel and punched in Patrick’s number, my chest aching. It was 4:57, by my watch, 3:57, central time. I still had time, didn’t I? Or were they an hour ahead? Think!

  Answer, Patrick! Oh, please, please, answer! Eight rings. Nine. And then the voice message: “The party yo
u are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message …”

  I pressed END, my mouth dry. If I left a message, I would sound breathless, hurried, anxious, hysterical, even. Did I want Patrick to remember me that way?

  Okay, I told myself. You have time to think. You can leave a message anytime. It doesn’t have to be right this minute. He could be in a taxi on his way to the airport. He could be going through security. Slow down and breathe normally.

  I let out my breath and took several steps one way, then another, keeping in the shade of the huge exhaust funnel that rose like a giant shark’s fin at the top of the ship. Think! I ordered myself. Why couldn’t I remember his departure time?

  Five o’clock kept coming to mind. No … six something or other. But I wouldn’t have gone off without my cell phone if I thought I’d miss him, would I? Six o’clock Chicago time was seven o’clock here, so maybe he hadn’t left yet. Or was I supposed to have remembered five o’clock central time? All I knew for sure was his flight number, 6739, so I needed to call the airline and find out when that flight was scheduled to leave. I began to feel better.

  I dragged one of the deck chairs over and sat down. The plastic was warm beneath my bare thighs. I didn’t know the airline’s number, so I had to ask for the directory. When I got the number and was connected, I had to listen to the menu.

  “Welcome!” said a friendly voice. “This is Susan. I’m an automated clerk, and I can help you. Tell me what you want to do. If you want to make a reservation, press or say, ‘one.’ If you want to check arrival or departure times, press or say, ‘two.’ …”

  “Two,” I said loudly.

  “Great! You may speak to me in a normal voice. If you want to hear an arrival time, press or say, ‘one.’ If you want a departure time, press or say, ‘two.’ …”

  “Two, damn it!” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” said the voice. “I believe you said, ‘two.’ Is this correct?”

  “Yes!” I said pleadingly.

  “Great!” the voice said again. “Do you have the flight number?”

  “Yes!”

  “Please tell me the flight number. Say each number distinctly. For example, one … two … three … four …”