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“Hello, my name is Eduardo Montoya! Welcome to my cruise, prepare to dance!” Each time, he makes a little fencing “on-guard” gesture. Without fail, people break into laughter at his cornyPrincess Bridejoke. My spirits lift a little. It stinks that I have to do one final P.I. case like this in order to secure my future, but I can’t complain about an all-expenses-paid adventure.
The last time I walked up a gangplank to board a cruise ship, I was fifteen, following Gran and Gramp up to a hulking Royal Caribbean ship out of Tampa. Ahead of me, those two loonies sang theLove Boattheme song at top volume, while behind me Gramp’s four sisters and their husbands joined in for every chorus.
Those distant memories still warm my chest. On that trip, the lot of us entered (and won) a family game-show night, earning tickets for a group excursion to swim with dolphins in Nassau. Gran and Gramp tried Mescal of Mexico, and thought they were being so cultured, even if Gramp’s sisters had a good laugh, since my grandparents could get Mescal back in California any time. I even had my first kiss on board that ship. So yeah, despite being on call this week, despite having to investigate a pretty lady’s dirty deeds, and despite having to sleep in an interior windowless cabin with a single bed, I’m still hoping it’ll be a good time.
Mr. Montoya, cruise director extraordinaire, beelines across the crowd towards a tall, slim someone with long dark hair and an enormous pink floppy hat on her head. She turns towards him, and all my synapses crackle to life. It’s like I’ve been asleep at the wheel until this very moment.
Anna Anderson-Bryson is stunning. She looks different from her photos. It’s subtle things, like the way her cheekbones are more pronounced in person, and her eyes angle up. Or how the set of her chin is sharper, tilted like she’s appraising things before making sudden moves. She’s cautious like me.
I edge closer to her and Eduardo, who’s just given her his line.
“Are you Anna Anderson?” He says. She nods. “Your mother contacted me about you.” He smiles the sort of welcoming smile that cruise directors must practice in the mirror, but Anna looks taken aback. “Your mother told me you were coming aboard and sent me a link to your website. She says Imustask you to sing in our talent show on the last night of the cruise.” Anna’s face flashes with annoyance for a hint of a second before she smooths everything back into a bright, blinding smile.
“Of course, Eduardo.”
As I get closer, I can tell the tone in her muscles sits right under her skin, like she works out every day, hard. It’s another small thing the photos don’t reveal. It’s like here, in the flesh, she’s in high definition and everything around her is low res. Like she’s technicolor and I’ve been seeing the world in black and white. I guess this is what it takes to make it in Hollywood.
“Excellent.” Eduardo claps his hands together. “And will you be signing up to sing with your husband?”
“Oh no, he doesn’t sing.” Anna’s voice grows tight. She doesn’t mention he’s not on board.
“Very well, I’ll put you down for a solo. You can pick your song later.” Eduardo sweeps off to greet more guests.
Anna whips out her phone and starts texting, fast. A tall man with a beard and a man-bun walks up behind her, places a palm on the bare skin above her strapless white and pink sundress, and leans in to whisper something in her ear. She looks up, laughs, and stares after Eduardo with a smirk.
Man-Bun is the guy she’s into? He’s tall, yes, but less in-shape than Mike, and he’s wearing a long Japanese-looking avant-garde tee shirt over drop-crotch calf-length pants. He even has on a bracelet. Mike wore a Rolex. Perhaps this is about variety for Anna?
This is why I stay single. Lifelong partnership and that till-death-do-us-part crap? That’s a thing of the past. It died with my grandparents’ generation. I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the pair, sending it to Mike.
Sebastian: Do you know this guy?
Mike: Shit, no.
Mike: Is he staying in her room? Our room?
Sebastian: I’m about to find out.
CHAPTERTHREE
ZOEY
Jamie wantedto get ice cream before checking out our room, on the theory the ship wouldn’t be crowded yet. But now we’re stuck in line in the middle of this big, bright food court, staring up at a sign for a place called Lick Me. Gross. This ship is full of stupid punny names for everything. I can’t stand how cheesy it all is. And that cruise director, Eduardo, my god! How could my mother have reached out to him to orchestrate a singing gig for Anna? How did she even find him online? My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth so hard.
“Babes, you look like we’re about to eat liver. What’s going on?” Jamie asks.
“It’s that stage-mom move my mother pulled.” I shake my head, adjusting Anna’s unfortunate strapless sundress, which won’t stay put. I’d be a lot more comfortable if she would’ve let me bring a few tank tops and shorts, or at least my favorite linen shirtdress.
“Once a stage-mom, always a stage-mom, I guess.” Jamie shrugs. He doesn’t even know the half of it. It’s so typical for our mother to butt in like this. It’s gotten worse, too, since she started dating this younger guy we don’t like. Anna and I put up a few boundaries, and it’s like Mom’s fighting for a new in. “You’ll be fine,” Jamie goes on. “Bow out of the talent show later. Catch a cold, lose your voice. I’m sure Montoya won’t kill you over it.”
“Disappoint my mother, prepare to die.” I jump into a fencing stance before wincing at the sudden jolt to my ankle.
“Alright, Princess, keep the weight off that thing.” Jamie wraps his arm around my back so I can lean on him. “What flavor do you want?”
There are so many ice cream choices. It’s insane, and of course, they all have punny cheese-ball names too. Is it me, or is Festival Cruises trying a tad too hard to be hip? They even have built-in Instagram photo backdrops. I’m sure Mike will adore the pics I plan to take at all of them, and I meanallof them, since I have orders to be photo ready at all times. As Anna says, you never know when I (she) might get photographed and tagged online. Other guests are the most likely culprits, but also staff members doing PR. So, I have to wear her clothes and stay in character.
The guys in front of us erupt with squealing and cheers as one of them orders a “Mustachio Ride” flavored ice cream cone. The next one goes up and asks for Mint-Chocolate-Chip-n-Dale, to more laughter. All three have drinks in hand and are wearing bright tank tops with tight athletic shorts. Jamie’s gaze zeroes in on them one by one.
“Hot damn,” he whispers into my ear. “I’d like to order one scoop of each, please.”
