“Who is Lucille?” I asked.
“She’s been on board for eleven months. Her family built the Chrysler Building.”
Gee, Baby, Ain’t I Good to You?
AS SOON AS WE stepped inside the ship, what little energy I had evaporated in a pouf. I was so wiped out that I could hardly appreciate the magnificence of the six-story lobby in which I was standing—its ice palace decor, the white marble floor, the three-story ceiling-to-floor waterfall, the staircase so grand and sweeping that Rhett Butler would have found it suitable for hauling Scarlett O’Hara up its steps were they alive and cruising today.
Waiters in black tuxedos offered champagne and hors d’oeuvres while passengers buzzed about with excitement. In the center of the room was a table filled with shrimp, crab, and lobster encircling a giant ice sculpture of a mermaid. A band made up of four men, one black, one Latino, one white, and one Asian—a pu-pu platter of nationalities—played “Hot, Hot, Hot.” I looked for Pops, but he was somewhere else, in la-la land most likely.
“What do you think they do with the ice sculptures after they melt?” I mused. Did I just say that? Okay, now I was starting to scare myself. “Thanks for everything, Carleen. I’ll meet up with you later. I need to catch some Z’s.”
Carleen handed Famous and her packages to a tuxedo-clad gentleman. “Oh, no you don’t, darlin’. No one sleeps until they see the maître d’, make their Il Valentino and Au Mandarin reservations, and set up their spa appointments. If you don’t do it now, you’ll be shut out. Follow me.”
I felt like I was in a dream, but tagged behind Carleen nonetheless. As we floated up the grand stairway and down to the back of the ship (aft? port? I had no idea), we passed a Sotheby’s showroom with artwork that would be auctioned on the ship. There were Monets, Picassos, da Vincis—surely they weren’t real, or were they? This didn’t seem like a reproduction-type crowd. An old but well-maintained woman ambled toward us. She was tall, grasshopper-thin, and green-eyed, with beauty-parlor-teased hair the color of wet sand. With the help of a walker, she shuffled steadily but slowly. The walker looked like it was gold-plated, but that would be ridiculous, or would it? She gave Carleen a nod and asked how she’d spent the day.
“Lucille, this is my new young friend, Holly. She’s going to be speaking on the ship, but really she’s here to nurse a broken heart. Do you know that her boyfriend was arrested for child molestation? And then he dumped her? Can you believe it?”
Lucille gasped and regarded me with pity. “You poor lamb,” she said. “You must hate yourself.”
“She’s sick about it,” Carleen said. “Practically suicidal.”
So much for Carleen’s sacred vow to never reveal my private business to a living soul.
“I’ve recently suffered a broken heart myself,” Lucille confided.
“Really?” I said squeezing her bony, gnarled hand until the canary diamond on her finger made a ten-karat indentation in my palm.
“Don’t let the age fool you,” Lucille said under her breath. “There’s a smoldering cauldron of sexuality bubbling under these liver spots.”
I laughed. This old bird was a hoot.
“Do you think you can cool your flame long enough to lend Holly some clothes?” Carleen asked. “She lost her luggage and is going to need to borrow some things from you. I think they’ll fit.”
“Of course,” Lucille said. “It would be my pleasure.”
“So what do you think?” Carleen said. “Can you fix her up with your son?”
“He’s on this leg of the trip with my granddaughter,” Lucille explained. Then she leaned into me and whispered, “And his fiancée, whom he’s marrying when we dock in Rome.”
“That girl’s as useful as goose shit on a pump handle,” Carleen stage-whispered.
“Hush, Carleen,” Lucille said, wagging her finger.
“She’s colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra.”
“Stop it,” Lucille said. “You know this marriage is my raison d’être. It is the coming together of two of America’s top industrial families, like a Rockefeller marrying an Astor.”
“Lucille, it’s the twenty-first century. People marry; they don’t merge. Wouldn’t you like your son to be happy? After dating a pedophile, don’t you know that a wounded sparrow like poor, pathetic Holly here would appreciate what he has to offer and would treat him like a prince?”
“Carleen,” I said, “I’m standing right here. I can hear you. I wish you wouldn’t talk about me like that. My troubles are personal and you promised.”
“Don’t you fret, darlin’. The one person I’ll tell is Lucille and only because we need her to lend you clothes. Tomorrow’s a sea day and dinner’s formal. She’ll set you up. And, Lucille,” she said, turning to her friend, “not a word to anyone about Holly’s troubles, and I’ll tell you all the rest later.”
Lucille pretended to zip her lips. “I’ll take your secrets to my grave.”
The deep baritone whistle of the ship sounded. I looked out the window and realized we were sailing. It felt like we were standing still, but the shoreline was moving. That was my clue.
“We’re off to see Bradley. We need to get Holly set up for dinner,” Carleen said.
“Oh, fabulous,” Lucille said. “You simply must be seated at the right table.”
As we walked along the corridor and talked, Carleen pointed out the library, cigar, piano, and champagne bars. She told me where to find the various boutiques, the casino, the gym, the spa, the tennis and basketball courts, and the computer room.
“I’ll bet you’re dying to know Lucille’s story,” Carleen said with no prompting from me whatsoever. When it came to other passengers’ personal affairs, Carleen was the human Google. “Well, she’s been suffering a deep depression ever since May, when her favorite dance host died. Claude Chavasse—he was French. They were ‘sinking the titanic’” (wink, wink).
“No!” I said. “He was on top of her when he died?”
“Yes!” Carleen
