Terns of Endearment Read online

  And to my relief, all thirty-two items of luggage fit—just barely—on the porter’s cart. I was free to board.

  And about time. Caroline and Grandfather had already boarded while Gianpiero was loading the luggage. The Pastime employee at the foot of the gangplank had begun glancing at her watch and then frowning at me. The ship wouldn’t sail for several hours, but I knew from reading the pre-boarding instructions that they wanted all the passengers aboard as soon as possible so they could get the mandatory safety drill over with, to avoid delaying our sailing time.

  I paused on my way to the gangplank and looked up at what would be our floating home for the next week. The Pastime Wanderer was a graceful, gleaming white ship, several hundred feet in length with half a dozen decks. Tiny compared with some of the enormous cruise ships I could see farther down the waterfront, where Carnival, Royal Caribbean, and the other better-known lines were docked. But those enormous ships carried enormous crowds—three or four thousand passengers for the bigger ones. The Wanderer, thank goodness, only had room for about two hundred.

  And nearly all of them were already on board. I tore my eyes away from the ship and stepped forward to present my ticket and passport to the young woman in the white-and-gold uniform who was standing by a lecturn at the foot of the gangplank.

  Finally!

  Chapter 2

  “I hope I’m not the very last one,” I said as the young woman inspected my documents.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “Someone has to be.”

  Oops. But her smile was genuine, though it probably revealed more relief that all her charges were present and accounted for than pleasure in seeing me in particular. Still, I felt bad.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was waiting for the porter. Call me a worrywart, but I wanted to see the family’s luggage go on board with my own eyes.”

  “I’d call it smart,” she said. And then, as if realizing she’d committed the cardinal sin of saying something negative about the company, she hastened to add, “Not that you’d have to worry about your luggage getting left behind on a Pastime Cruise, of course! But not everything in life’s that reliable, is it?”

  “Exactly.” Nice save, I added silently. Maybe I should have said it aloud. Or something more encouraging. After all, she was a welcome change from the porter.

  “Do you need anything else?” she asked. I shook my head, and she gave me a quick smile before hurrying back into the Cruise Maryland Terminal building. She probably had a lot to do before we set sail.

  I stopped at the foot of the gangplank and studied the ship—after all, it was my last chance to get an outside view of it for at least a couple of days. A few people were standing on the upper two decks. A few more on the individual balconies that graced nearly every cabin. It all looked very peaceful and elegant—let the relaxation begin!

  At the top of the gangplank I found myself in the boarding lobby, a brightly decorated area that ran the width of the ship. Pastime’s decorators had gone in for bright tropical colors here—turquoise, lemon yellow, and salmon pink, with painted murals of exotic fish and shells. On the far wall, a sign with a large arrow pointing to the right announced the passageway that led to the main dining room. Along the right wall was a large alcove that held an upward-bound stairway and an elevator. Along the left wall, an open door with a STAFF ONLY sign beside it revealed a rather narrow corridor.

  Odd and rather annoying that there was no one inside to greet me and give me a hint about what I was supposed to do next. Maybe it was because I was the last to board—although that was the porter’s fault, not mine. I heard a door open somewhere to my left, but when I turned to look—nothing.

  “So sorry,” came a voice from behind me. “May I help you?”

  I turned to find a shortish man whose gleaming white uniform was festooned with enough gold-colored braid and buttons to decorate a small Christmas tree. He was smiling, but it didn’t really seem like a joyful smile—more the smile of someone having a rather trying day but determined not to show it.

  “I’m First Officer Martin.” He extended his hand.

  “Meg Langslow.”

  “Dr. Blake’s granddaughter,” he said. “Delighted to have you aboard.”

  He actually looked as if he meant that. I was relieved. I knew some of Pastime’s management weren’t entirely thrilled at having so many of our family on board. But it was their own fault—they’d offered Grandfather a substantial discount for any friends or family who wanted to accompany him. If it was going to be a problem for a dozen or so of us to take advantage of it, they should have made it clear how many discounts they really wanted to offer.

  Clearly Martin knew nothing about those rather testy discussions. Or perhaps didn’t care. He glanced around with a faint frown, then looked back at me and smiled—but a little uncertainly, as if greeting arriving passengers wasn’t part of his job these days and he was trying to remember what it involved.

  “Just wondering where to go next,” I said. “Our cabins are on deck four, but I gather we’re not supposed to go there immediately.” I suspected they wanted us out from underfoot, so the feckless Gianpiero would have plenty of time to misdeliver all of our luggage.

  “Oh, right.” He glanced at his watch. “You should be okay to go to your cabin by now. Although you might enjoy using the time to explore the ship.”

  “What I really want to do is walk all the way around the ship on the outside decks,” I said. “The way people always seemed to be doing in movies set on cruise ships, like Shall We Dance, An Affair to Remember, or even the Marx Brothers’ Monkey Business. But I gather these days it’s all private balconies.”

  “Actually, you’ll find a few areas of open deck,” he said. “Including very nice sun decks in the stern of decks four and five. And if you ask me, the best place to watch the scenery when we set sail is deck six—it’s all deck, no cabins, so you get a great three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view.”

  I thanked him and pushed the up button on the elevator. He strode off as if he had several hundred things to do. Yes, sailing days were clearly stressful for the crew.

  I took the elevator up to deck four and stepped out into the middle of a corridor that ran the length of the ship. I saw a sign that said SUN DECK with an arrow pointing left, so I headed that way. On both left and right, outside most of the doors, were small clusters of suitcases—though not outside either 420 or 422, the two staterooms Michael and I would be sharing with the boys. Well, Trevor and Gianpiero did have twenty-eight other suitcases to deliver. I’d hold off on worrying yet.

  Just beyond our cabin was the doorway to the deck. I pushed it open and stepped out into sunshine so bright it momentarily blinded me.

  “Meg, dear. Over here!”

  I shaded my eyes and spotted Mother and Aunt Penelope. They were both waving at me, so I waved back and headed toward them, picking my way through rather a lot of white and cobalt-blue deck chairs and recliners.

  Aunt Penelope was not as adept as Mother at the Royal Wave, a slight, graceful, minimalist motion of the wrist that most people associated with Queen Elizabeth II—a gesture designed to keep the waver from tiring, no matter how long she had to perform it to acknowledge her adoring minions. Then again, Mother had probably practiced it more, since she had a great many more adoring minions than Aunt Penelope, or for that matter, most people outside the British royal family.

  They were both wearing elegant pastel dresses and wide-brimmed, flower-trimmed hats, and leaning against the rail at the very back of the ship. I stopped to take a picture of them with my phone.

  “You look very nice,” I said when I came close to where they were standing—or was it posing? “Trying on your outfits for some future tea at Buckingham Palace?”

  “We’re about to have afternoon tea in the main dining room,” Mother said. “If you hurry, you can change in time to join us.”

  “There should be cucumber sandwiches.” Aunt Penelope made this sound like a good thing. Pe
rhaps to her it was.

  “Thanks, but I’m feeling too grungy for anything as elegant as tea, and I don’t think I can relax and enjoy myself until I make sure everyone in our party is safely aboard. With all their stuff.” At least with their proper portion of the thirty-two suitcases. I reminded myself that it really wasn’t my job to worry about the stuff people wanted to bring that was against the ship’s rules. Last night I’d confiscated aromatherapy candles from my cousin Rose Noire, a portable travel iron from Mother, and fireworks from my brother, Rob. Pastime’s packing guidelines prohibited just about anything that could accidentally set the ship on fire, which seemed quite sensible to me, but apparently the many recreational pyromaniacs in my family found it hard to grasp. I’d also vetoed the selection of dried or taxidermied specimens that Grandfather had been planning to use to illustrate his lectures, and wondered if he or one of his scientific colleagues had inspired Pastime’s curiously specific prohibition on packing dead animals. On their heads be it if they had put any of the contraband back in their luggage. I’d done what I could. And surely it wouldn’t be Gianpiero’s job to search for contraband.

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you.” Aunt Penelope beamed approval at me.

  “Tomorrow, then, dear?” Mother asked. “They have tea every day. Isn’t that civilized?”

  “Very.” Probably not the moment to explain that I was looking forward to getting away from civilization for a while. “Have fun.”

  I watched as they strolled down the deck and breathed a sigh of relief when they eventually disappeared into the doorway that led inside. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a document I expected to wear out in the next few days—a brochure containing a deck-by-deck map of the ship. I unfolded the brochure and glanced about to get my bearings.

  I was leaning on the railing, looking down at the dock on the left side of the ship, which I should probably learn to call the port side for the duration. We were in the back of the ship—aft, or the stern. According to the deck plans, the main dining room was also aft, but on deck one, the level where I’d boarded—yes, I’d seen the sign. I recalled that there was at least one other less formal place to eat aboard ship—the Starlight Lounge, at the other end of deck four, offering a bar and casual dining. It was in the front of the ship. Forward, or possibly the bow. Just thinking the words made me feel deliciously nautical. I could go forward to the Starlight Lounge and have a cold drink.

  But first I pulled out my cell phone and called Michael.

  “How are you and the boys settling in?” I asked.

  “Settling in? Not at all. I don’t think we’ve spent more than fifteen minutes on the same deck since we got on board. The boys are still convinced there must be a pool hidden somewhere on the ship.”

  “Alas, they are doomed to disappointment.”

  “I think they’ll live. I have reminded them that very soon they will be snorkeling in the crystal clear waters of Bermuda. Meanwhile they’ve discovered that there’s at least one free snack area on every deck. And that they can summon a variety of frozen beverages by merely waving their Pastime cards at the bartender. Virgin frozen daiquiris, virgin frozen margaritas, virgin frozen mojitos. Right now we’re at the miniature golf course on deck five.”

  “Deck five is big enough for a miniature golf course?”

  “Only three holes,” he said. “And they kind of overlap. Really more like a combination putting green and obstacle course. But the boys seem to be enjoying it.”

  “You need me to spell you?”

  “No, I’m good. I know we all ran you ragged last night and this morning, and I don’t just mean me and the boys. Go put your feet up, have a cool drink, and relax. We’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget what they told us,” he said. “Pretty soon after we sail we’ll be out of cell phone range—so get your phone connected to the ship’s Wi-Fi now, or all of a sudden we won’t be able to call or text each other, and we’ll have to run around the ship looking for each other. Password’s on your boarding pass.”

  “Roger.” I dug out my boarding pass and made the Wi-Fi connection. Then I tucked my phone and the ship’s map in my pocket and went back indoors. To my great relief, there were now suitcases outside our cabin doors—and the right suitcases. I pulled out my Pastime card and put it to use—it would serve as a combination room key, credit card, and ID badge for the duration of the voyage.

  The cabin was brightly decorated in what I’d begun to recognize as Pastime’s signature colors—turquoise and white, with pastel accents. It was small, but not as cramped and claustrophobic as I’d expected. According to the brochure, it was three hundred square feet. Since measurements were not my strong point, I’d had no preconceived notion about whether that was large or small, although I’d assumed it must be a decent size as cruise staterooms went or they wouldn’t be bragging. And the sliding glass doors that led out onto our private balcony brought in so much light and air that it didn’t feel claustrophobic at all.

  Of course, if we ran into rough weather and I had to watch waves crashing against those broad expanses of glass, maybe I’d rethink my approval. But for now, I was pleased. I’d stayed in smaller hotel rooms on land. Only in big, expensive cities like San Francisco or New York, but still—not so bad. In fact, to my astonishment, the room looked exactly as it had in the pictures I’d studied in the brochure and on Pastime’s website.

  The room Michael and I would occupy had two twin beds shoved together to form an ersatz king bed flanked by tiny bedside tables. Through the connecting door, I could see that the boys’ room had the same two beds, but with the bedside tables placed between them. All the rest was exactly what you’d see in any hotel room—a small but efficient bathroom, a desk, a wall-mounted TV, a compact reading chair. The suitcases rather cluttered it up, but it would be fine once we unpacked—especially since only four of the suitcases contained our stuff. Three of the others belonged to Grandfather, who’d filled them with his scientific gear, and the fourth to Mother, who needed more than a measly two suitcases for her cruise wardrobe.

  And why not get the unpacking over with now, so we’d be totally settled by the time the ship sailed? I put away our things, stored our four suitcases under the beds, and shoved the other four into a corner where they’d be as much out the way as possible until we could deliver them to their real owners.

  I’d done all I could. So, still patting myself on the back for my own efficiency, I locked up and followed yet another arrow sign that pointed toward the Starlight Lounge, in the bow.

  At the far end of the corridor I spotted a set of double doors painted midnight blue and spangled with silver stars. Silver glitter stars, I realized as I drew closer and saw the faint sparkling. Presumably the Starlight Lounge.

  I paused in the doorway to look around. It was smaller than I’d expected. Of course, the brochure had described it as “cozy,” or was it “snug”? Still, the windows running all around three sides of the room kept it from feeling claustrophobic. A uniformed crew member was standing behind the bar running a pair of blenders, one filled with a bright pink concoction and the other with something bright green.

  And the lounge was rather crowded. Not a single empty table. I studied the occupants of the dozen or so tables, hoping to see someone I recognized. Surely one of my friends or family members would have ended up here. My cousin Rose Noire might have joined the tea party—requesting green tea and interrogating the waitstaff about whether the cucumber sandwiches were organic—but Dad would almost certainly find some way of weaseling out. My cousin Horace would certainly have volunteered to swab the decks if it would get him out of eating cucumber sandwiches. Grandfather was probably driving Trevor and Caroline crazy as he prepared for this evening’s inaugural lecture, but his two-person film and recording crew should be here. And neither of them struck me as Earl Grey swillers.

  Wait—was that them over in the corner? The occup
ants of a table were waving wildly at me.

  No—I didn’t know any of the three thirty-something men who were trying to get my attention. And after a quick glance, I decided I didn’t much want to. Even from across the bar I could tell they were already well on their way to falling-down drunk, and their over-friendly smiles verged on leers.

  Just then a small, birdlike fiftyish woman appeared at my elbow. “We’re right over there in the corner,” she said loudly. She went on in an undertone, “In case you’re looking for a place to sit where you don’t have to fend off the Three Stooges.”

  Relieved, I followed her to a table where three other women raised their drinks and welcomed me as if I were a long-lost cousin.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I said. “If I’m intruding, just say so, and in a minute or two I’ll pretend to remember something I need to rush off and do.”

  “No need,” my rescuer said. “After all, isn’t that one of the reasons to come on a cruise? To meet new people?”

  “Just not those new people.” An angular gray-haired woman nodded her head slightly in the direction of the three men.

  “Nice new people,” my rescuer said. “Sober new people.”

  “Speak for yourself.” The third woman lifted up her martini glass. “I intend to consume quite a few of these over the course of the next week.”

  “And what’s that going to do to your word count?” the first one asked.

  “I’m not worrying about word count right now,” the martini-drinking woman said. “I’m working on my synopsis.”

  “I could totally see killing one of those three off.” The fourth woman, who hadn’t yet spoken, was staring over her old-fashioned glass, studying the three men with narrowed eyes. “I need a new victim.”

  “Angie means killing one of them off in a book,” my birdlike rescuer said. “She’s a writer. We’re all writers. But Angie’s the only mystery writer, which means she’s the only one who goes around looking for people to knock off.”

  “Only on paper,” Angie said. “I’m very mild-mannered in real life.”