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“Anyone can be gay,” she advised as she turned a row. “It’s called retconning.”
I smiled and slipped into the pool. It was heated salt water and felt like heaven as I plowed through it, lazily racking up laps until my fingers pruned and Mary Alice beckoned me out.
“Food’s here,” she called. She gestured to the low table in front of the sofa spread with baskets of miniature pastries, bowls of Greek yogurt, tiny pots of honey and jam, and plates of intricately carved fruits. Pitchers of mimosas and Bloody Marys stood at either end and I motioned for her to pour.
Nat and Helen joined us just then and we toasted the morning, helping ourselves to the food. Helen waited to eat, reaching instead for an osteoporosis pill that she choked down with orange juice and a grimace. Nat’s favorite porter, Hector, acted as waiter, bringing out heaping plates of poached eggs with a spicy relish on top of corn cakes.
He winked at Nat as he set them down and she peered over her sunglasses, watching his ass as he walked away.
“What do you think my chances are there?” she asked.
“Maybe he has a geriatric kink,” I said, shaking out my napkin. “Dab a little Metamucil behind each ear and go get him, cougar.”
“No, no,” Mary Alice corrected. “She’s too old to be a cougar. She’s a saber-tooth tiger.”
Natalie flipped Mary Alice off while I started on the fruit salad. We worked our way through breakfast at a leisurely pace. I took three bites of the spicy eggs and sat back, cursing.
“Hot flash,” I muttered.
“Get back in the water,” Mary Alice advised.
“It’s heated,” I told her, picking up my napkin to fan myself.
“There’s a walk-in fridge behind the bar on each deck for drinks and snacks. You should go stand in it. That’ll cool you down,” Nat suggested.
“I’m sure that would be forty different health code violations,” Mary Alice told her as she peered over her half-glasses.
Nat shrugged. “We’re in international waters. They might not even have a health code here.”
“Everyone has health codes,” Mary Alice retorted.
The hot flash had started mild, a warmth that spread like a good hit of whiskey will do. Usually they hit that point and then crested before ebbing out. But this one hung around, building until the blood pounded in my ears and I wanted to peel my own skin off. Sunshine, alcohol, and spicy food were a recipe for misery, and I was just desperate enough to take Nat’s advice.
She had a gift for always knowing her way around. Within minutes of walking into a place, she could tell you the nearest exit, where the bathrooms were, and the best spot to find a drink.
Natalie gestured with her mimosa glass. “That way. Straightbehind the bar and turn left. First door. Hector won’t mind. If anyone else catches you, tell them you got lost. You’re old, they’ll believe it,” she finished with a laugh.
I headed off, passing the bar where Hector stood polishing glasses and staring out to sea. I would have waved, but he didn’t even notice me. That’s the thing about being a sixty-year-old woman—no one notices you unless you want them to. That fact doesn’t do your ego any favors, but in cases like this, it was damned handy.
Just left of the bar was a door markedserviceand I pushed it open to find a massive espresso maker and a sandwich press as big as my first car. Past that was a thick zinc door, and I hauled it open. Out gushed air—cold, luscious air—heavy with the metallic tang of refrigerant. I stood inside, pulling the door almost closed behind me. A light had flickered on as soon as I opened the door, and I spent the next few minutes looking around as my hot flash cooled. It was fitted out with shelves stacked carefully with trays of glasses for white wine and smoothies. Catering tubs of cut fruits stood on one set of shelves while another held crates of fresh produce. One shelf held assorted cheeses and the one below it had vast containers of dips—guacamole, hummus, baba ghanoush. I could smell the garlic from the doorway. I stepped further in, lured by the tray of chocolate-dipped fruit. Instead of the usual strawberries, someone had painstakingly stuck raspberries onto tiny crystal skewers like miniature kebabs and then played Jackson Pollock, spattering them with white and dark chocolate.
It was all too fussy for me, and as the hot flash eased, I wanted nothing more than a whole piece of fruit, nothingcarved or glacéed or enrobed. I spied a few citrus boxes tucked under the last shelf and I reached down to tug one free. It was heaped with fresh mandarins, each with a tiny stem and leaves attached. I grabbed two and shoved the box back into place.
I had just shut the cooler door when I heard someone coming down the corridor. Shit. The cruise was inclusive. The food had been paid for and we could eat as much as we wanted. I hadn’t taken anything that any crew member wouldn’t have happily given me, I reasoned. But I didn’t particularly want to get caught like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. I was too old to get lectured by somebody barely old enough to buy liquor.
I stepped behind the espresso machine, peeling open one of the mandarins while I waited. I popped a segment into my mouth and it was like eating sunshine, sharp and juicy and sweeter than a first kiss. The outer door opened and I stooped, peering around the edge of the machine. I caught sight of a young male form dressed in the liner’s uniform of white cargo shorts—tighter than you’d expect—and snug white polo, spotless and crisp. He looked tidy, but a little thicker through the shoulders than most of the crew we’d met.
That heavy ass wasn’t built from hauling around crates of tangerines, either, I realized. He bulged in places I didn’t like. Forty years ago, men in my line of work were meant to blend in, the muscles slim and practical, fit for shimmying into an upstairs window or slipping out of tight spaces. The new recruits were freighted with gym muscles that did nothing but slow them down in a chase. They relied on guns and grenades,preferring to blow things up and make a mess instead of handling their business with a little finesse. I knew exactly what I was looking at, and when he turned and I saw his profile, I had a name to put with the ass.
Brad Fogerty, a junior field operative from the Museum. I opened my mouth to say hey, but before I could ease myself out of my hiding place, I froze. Brad was here undercover, masquerading as a member of the crew. That meant he was working. And if he was working, he knew we were on board—knew it and hadn’t made contact. There were a hundred reasons another field agent might not make contact with us and none of them were good.
He passed close by me, close enough that I could read the name tag clipped to his polo.kevin c.
I held my breath until he went inside the cooler. I darted out and made my way straight back to the pool. Mary Alice was eating a croissant, large flakes scattered across her shirt like buttery confetti. Helen was nibbling at an English muffin.
Natalie had taken off her shirt and was staring down in dismay at her drooping bikini top. “I’m telling you, my tits are like two scoops of ice cream somebody has left out in the sun, just melted halfway down my chest with the cherries pointing south.” She cupped her hand under one, giving it an experimental lift. She dropped her hand and it fell back into place.
Mary Alice noticed me then and looked up. “Natalie was explaining to us the state of her tits,” she said helpfully. “How are yours, dear?”
