The dance floor was a glossy black mirror so well polished, remaining upright was a challenge, let alone exhibiting any terpsichorean grace. The orchestra had an ersatz Crosby, and, as I danced with Ruby Darrow, he was singing Russ Columbo’s tune “Love Letters in the Sand” while a ukulele laid in the main accompaniment.
“They seem determined to get us in the island mood, don’t they?” I asked.
“When are you going to ask Miss Bell to dance? She’s the prettiest girl here, you know.”
“You’re the prettiest girl here…. I might get around to it.”
“You’ve danced with me three times, and Mrs. Leisure four.”
“Mrs. Leisure’s pretty cute. The way her husband’s all caught up in this case, maybe I can make some time.”
“You’ve always been a bad boy, Nathan,” Ruby said affectionately.
“Or maybe I’m just playing hard to get,” I said, glancing over at Miss Bell, who was dancing with Darrow, who was windmilling her around and occasionally stepping on her feet. She was wincing with pain and boredom.
I felt sorry for her, so when they played “I Surrender, Dear,” with the would-be Crosby warbling the lyrics, I asked her to dance.
She said, “No thank you.”
She was sitting at our table, but everyone else was out on the dance floor; I sat next to her.
“You think I’m Jewish, don’t you?”
“What?”
“The name Heller sounds Jewish to you. I don’t mind. I’m used to people with closed minds.”
“Who says I have a closed mind?” She turned her pouty gaze out on the dance floor. “Are you?”
“What?”
“Of the Jewish persuasion?”
“They don’t really persuade you. It’s not an option. It comes with the birth certificate.”
“You
“Only technically.”
She frowned at me. “How can you be ‘technically’ Jewish?”
“My mother was Irish Catholic. That’s where I got this Mick mug. My father was an apostate Jew.”
“An apost…what?”
“My great-grandfather, back in Vienna, saw Jew killing Jew—over their supposed religious differences—and, well, he got disgusted. Judaism hasn’t been seen in my family since.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s true. I even eat pork. I’ll do it tomorrow. You can watch.”
“You’re a funny person.”
“Do you want to dance or not? Or did Darrow crush your little piggies?”
Finally she smiled; a full, honest, open smile, and she had wonderful perfect white teeth, and dimples you could’ve hidden dimes in.
It was the kind of moment that can make you fall in love forever—or for at least as long as an ocean voyage.
“I’d love to dance…Nathan, is it?”
“It’s Nate…Isabel….”
We danced to the rest of “I Surrender, Dear,” then snuggled close on “Little White Lies.” We left in the middle of “Three Little Words” to get some air out on the afterdeck. We leaned against the rail near a suspended lifeboat. The fog of San Francisco was long gone; the stars were like bits of morning peeking through holes punctured in a deep blue night.
“It’s cool,” she said. “Almost cold.”
The thrum of the engines, the lapping of the ocean against the luxury liner cutting through it, made us speak up a little. Just a little.
“Take my jacket,” I said.
“No…I’d rather just snuggle.”
“Be my guest.”
I slipped my arm around her and drew her close; her bare arm did feel cold, gooseflesh tickling my fingers. Her perfume tickled my nose.
“You smell good,” I said.
“Chanel,” she said.
“What number?”
“Number Five. You’ve been around, haven’t you?”
