Anchors Aweigh - 6 (14 page)
I grimaced. It was a depressingly graphic picture of marriage.
“Sorry,” I said, unable to think of anything else to offer. What did I know of marriage, anyway? Or rowing? I was Tugboat Tressa. I was powered by obstinacy and motored by bull-headedness. Oars optional.
“When you tie the knot, Tressa, be sure. Be sure you’re ready and be sure he’s ready. And most of all, be sure he’s the one,” Steve said. “Marriage is difficult enough when you are sure. It’s a calculated risk when you aren’t.”
I nodded, not missing the fact that he’d used insurance-industry lingo in his last observation for my benefit.
We made our way to the Fish Bowl. I didn’t have to look long to locate my gammy. Dressed in a silver sequined top and black pants, she stood to the left of the stage, apparently next up to perform. Taylor appeared to be trying to talk our gammy out of her chance in the limelight. At a large table close to the stage sat my brother, Craig, Kimmie, and Joe Townsend. My stride faltered when I caught sight of the dark-headed ranger-type sitting across from Craig.
Kimmie saw me and got up to greet me. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You’re always so good at talking your grandmother out of something. Or into something, depending on how you want to look at it,” she said. “I just hope you remember how you do it,” she added, “or we’re screwed.”
“I thought maybe the folks would be here to spend some time with the family,” I said sounding like one of the Corleone clan. “And Taylor didn’t mention Rick Townsend would be here,” I told Kimmie.
“She didn’t?” Kimmie remarked with a wide-eyed, innocent look that I wasn’t buying. “Oh, and who’s this?” she asked, motioning to Steve.
“This is Steve,” I said. “A new friend.”
“Steve Kayser. Hi.” Steve put out a hand. “My wife Courtney and I met Tressa and Manny at the Stardust last night,” he said.
Kimmie’s expression looked like she’d bitten down on gristle. “Oh, really,” she said. “Tressa was with Manny? Isn’t that sweet?”
“All the newlyweds, honeymooners, second-honeymooners and engaged couples were there,” Steve said.
“No doubt someone’s idea of a little joke,” Kimmie said.
“Joke?” Steve repeated.
“Do you like sports, Steve?” Kimmie asked. “You look like someone who likes sports.” She let go of me and took Steve’s arm. “Come meet my husband, Craig. He loves sports. He can talk sports day and night. And frequently does.” She pulled him to the chair she’d vacated and shoved him into it. “Steve, Craig. Craig, Steve. Steve, Rick. Rick, Steve. Steve, Joe. Joe, Steve,” she made the frenzied introductions. “Steve happened to make the observation that he felt the Vikings were destined never to win the big one,” she said. She squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “Enjoy!” Then she tugged me to the stage.
“It took you long enough,” Taylor said as we approached. “Why didn’t you let anyone know you’d checked yourself back into the infirmary?” she asked.
“Joe knew,” I pointed out. “Hey, you,” I said, reaching out to pat my gammy on the shoulder, trying not to appear too comfortable and familiar. “Big night, huh? I bet you’ve got some really romantic song selected to croon to your new husband,” I commented. “Too bad you can’t talk Joe into a duet. That would really be romantic,” I observed.
“It would?” Gram asked.
I gave Taylor and Kimmie each a pointed look.
“It would! It would!” they parroted.
“It would be sooo romantic, Gramma Hannah,” Kimmie added.
“Joe can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Gram said. “He’s got what they call a tin ear.”
“Isn’t there a saying like ‘Love’s the greatest beautifier’?” I asked. “So, maybe all you’ll hear is Joe’s sweet, sweet love washing over you,” I suggested, “and not all those sour notes.”
Meet Tressa Jayne Turner, romantic philosopher.
“And Craig has our video camera, so he can record your dynamic duet for posterity,” Kimmie said.
“Posterity who?” my gammy asked.
“Kimmie means you’ll have a DVD keepsake of this special honeymoon moment, Gram,” Taylor explained.
“And when you get back home, you can invite your friends over for cake and coffee and entertain them with your and Joe’s moving Fish Bowl performance,” I interjected, motioning for Joe to join us.
Meanwhile Gram pursed her lips. “What would we sing?”
“ ‘Memories’?” Taylor suggested. “Are you comfortable with Barbra Streisand?”
“If I don’t have to look at her while she’s singing,” Gram said. “That nose.”
“How about that Elton John song, ‘Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart’?” Kimmie suggested. “That’s got a beat to it.”
“Didn’t he sing that one with a man?” Gram asked, and I began to think we were going to be stuck with Grandma sailing into “Virgin” waters.
“ ‘Endless Love,’ ” I heard, and turned to find Joe had joined us and taken my gammy’s hand. “That’s the one, Hannah. ‘Endless Love.’ ” I watched as moisture entered my grandmother’s eyes. She smiled.
“Trust you to come up with the perfect love song,” Gram said, clutching his hand to her dry, rouged cheek.
My gammy’s very own knight in shining armor, I thought as I watched their poignant exchange.
“This will be fun,” Gram told her husband. “Just try to stay on key. Craig’s recording the performance for posterior.”
I shook my head. I loved my gammy.
Kimmie and Taylor wished them luck and returned to their seats at the table. I moved to stand along the wall to the side of the stage so I could watch the performance without others watching me. It promised to be an excruciating assault on the eardrums or one hell of a tearjerker. Or both. Either way, I planned to maintain a how-low-can-you-go profile during this lovey-dovey duet.
You see, although I don’t cry very often, on those occasions that I do, I really let loose. And I’m not one of those neat, petite criers. I’m a messy bawler, complete with red splotches, loud hiccups and lots of snot. Not a pretty sight.
Gram and Joe were introduced and took the stage, microphones in their left hands and their partner’s hand in the other. The music started. They hadn’t finished the first two lines of lyrics and Messy Tressa was already reaching into her bags of tricks for tissues to mop up the tears.
It didn’t matter that Joe really couldn’t carry a tune in, over, above or inside a bucket, or that my gammy was always a few words ahead of her hubby. It didn’t matter that Joe muffed the lyrics and Gram started singing his part. It didn’t matter that Joe wore white tube socks and Reeboks. It simply didn’t matter. It was the single most romantic thing I’d ever seen in my life.
Bogie and Bacall? Mere lightweights. Scarlett and Rhett? Couldn’t hold a candle. Brangelina? Not even close. This? This was magic. This was endless love.
My nose began to run like someone had turned on the phlegm faucet. My jaws ached from the effort required to keep from wailing. I soaked the wad of tissues through and reached in my bag for more. A white linen hankie appeared in front of my puffy, red eyes.
“That bad?” Ranger Rick said, and I shook my head and took the proffered snot rag.
“That good,” I said, and blew a long, loud honk into the handkerchief. “It’s beautiful,” I said, sniffling. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“True enough,” Townsend replied. He leaned one broad shoulder against the wall and looked down at me. “Just beautiful.”
“Who’d have suspected?” I asked, mopping more moisture as Gram and Joe finished up their sweetheart serenade to each other and the crowd went wild. “Your granddad and my gammy are a hit. But I get dibs on the world tour,” I said, trying to make the shift from Messy Tressa back to Cocky Cowgirl.
“World tour? Hmm. I think we’d better see an audition first, before we send you on tour,” Rick said, and I gleaned his intent just about the time he snared my hand. “And no time like the present,” he added, yanking on my arm as he pulled me toward the stage.
“Wait! What are you doing? I’m not going to get up on that stage and sing!” I argued.
“Yes, you are,” he said.
I shook my head. “You’re nuts. Look at me. I’m so blotchy I look like I’ve got some rare parasitic tropical disease. Rudolph would trade his flying ability for this red nose.” I pointed at the proboscis in question. “I’ve so much mucus in my nasal passages I feel like I’ve got a deviated septum. Or two. And my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. Plus this crowd doesn’t look like it goes for hillbilly rock,” I told him.
“That’s okay,” he said, “because we’re not singing hillbilly rock.”
I stared at him. “We? What do you mean ‘we’? Are you going to sing?”
In all the time I’d known Rick Townsend, never once had I known him to get up and perform in a karaoke bar. Not once. He hated karaoke. Despised it.
“What? You don’t think I can sing?” Townsend asked.
I shook my head and tried to pull away. “Everybody can sing but not everybody should,” I pointed out. “Besides, you don’t seem like the type who enjoys karaoke,” I observed.
“I’ve never been a fan,” he admitted.
“Then why are you planning to sing?” I asked. “And why are you insisting I join in your impromptu sing-along?”
“You’ll see,” he said.
“I’d rather see from the audience,” I told him.
“You don’t want me to be totally humiliated on this, my karaoke debut, do you?” Townsend asked. “I need you, Tressa. I can’t do it alone. It’s a duet.”
“Ask Taylor,” I suggested, “because I do not want to sing. I probably won’t even know the song,” I said. “Or have you forgotten the files that have been temporarily deleted from my memory banks?”
“They’ve got a teleprompter,” he said. “And you’ve always been pretty good at improv,” he said with a wink.
“No. Really.” I resisted but didn’t make any progress in forestalling Townsend’s march to the stage.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve had my musical moments. I performed quite a memorable rendition of “Shoulda Been a Cowboy” several years back at the Bud Tent at the state fair. Add to that “I Shot the Sheriff,” “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow up to Be Cowboys” and “Bang, Bang, You Shot Me Down” and I had a rather respectable karaoke cowgirl repertoire. (We won’t talk about the time I had a beer or two too many and brutalized “Over the Rainbow.” I got booed off the stage. The beer and peanuts were flying that night, I can tell you.)
I was still arguing with Townsend when the bright lights hit me and I realized I was on stage. The musical host, King Karaoke, slapped a microphone in my hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for another dynamic duo, Rick and Tressa, who will be performing a song selected especially by Rick,” he urged. “Made popular by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, please welcome Rick and Tressa performing ‘Islands in the Stream.’ Take it away, dynamic duo!”
He passed the other microphone to Townsend. I just stood there and stared at Ranger Rick. The music started to build. He put his mouth to the mike. I still stared. He started singing the opening lyrics. I stared some more. He took hold of my hand and almost shoved the mike up my nose when he stuck it in front of my mouth.
But I couldn’t make a sound. Yes, folks, it is possible. All of a sudden I made like a friggin’ mime, gut-kicked by the lyrics coming out of Ranger Rick Townsend’s mouth. Lyrics he’d hand-picked. Lyrics he sang. Lyrics he sang…to me!
And what those words said. Tender words of love that spoke of heartbeats and dedications. Of making love. With no one in between. Words that implored me to sail away with him to a different world. A world where the two of us start and end as one. A world where there was no need for words, and pain was muted when hearts were joined.
The clear, strong, sure tones that came from Ranger Rick shocked me, shook me to my very core, his hold on my hand so tight my fingers began to cramp. This was a side of Rick Townsend I never in my wildest dreams (and believe me when I say I’ve had some wild dreams about Ranger Rick) suspected existed. And it occurred to me that maybe this was a Rick Townsend who hadn’t existed until now.
But why now? I wondered as his words proclaimed that this could be the real thing.
My hand holding the microphone began to palsy. Badly. So much, in fact, I smacked myself in the mouth, nearly chipping a tooth, but somehow didn’t feel a thing. Didn’t feel anything but stunned shock and amazed awe. And the suffocating certainty of time running out.
Why now? Because it was now or never, that’s why, I thought. Time for Tressa to put up or shut up. High noon for Calamity Jayne Turner. Speak now or forever hold her yip.
Rick’s dark, intense gaze didn’t move away from me throughout the entire song. His rich baritone remained powerful, potent and passionate, weakening not one iota.
As he came to the end of the song, I felt my composure slipping. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—what I was hearing. What it meant.
Talk about those in peril on the sea! I, Calamity Jayne Turner, was being courted by not one man, but
two
men!
Then it happened. He came to the lyrics that were my undoing. “ ‘Sail away with me,’ ” he said. “ ‘Let’s rely on each other.’ ”
From one lover to another, he confided.
It was too much. He was too much. And in that moment I knew. As sure as Joe would make another raid on
The Epiphany
’s galley, I knew. As certain that as soon as I got back to my cabin I was going to rip into that box of chocolates and gorge myself, I knew.
And that knowledge scared me to death.
So I did what had to be done. I tossed the microphone at King Karaoke, twisted my hand out of Townsend’s tight grasp, jumped from the stage to the audience below and ran like a little girl.
Messy Tressa had left the building.
The next morning when Reveille blew, I woke with my fingers clutched around the box of chocolates.
I’d returned to the cabin prepared to rip the paper off the box with my teeth, close my eyes, select a surprise chocolate and begin to eat my way through those pricey crèmes and caramels, but for some reason, once I actually stood there, box in hand, fingers at the ready, I couldn’t make myself open the box. Maybe because I knew this was one case where chocolate wouldn’t comfort me. Wouldn’t make me feel better.
Instead, I’d slipped into bed and held the box to my chest all night as I lay awake and pondered what kind of
Truman Show
extravaganza was playing out around me that cast me as the object of desire to two knock-down-drop-dead-gorgeous men.
A cockeyed cowgirl courtship fantasy, that’s what.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I recalled Ranger Rick’s shocking stage debut. For him to put himself out there like that, to profess his feelings so publicly, so compellingly, in such an uncharacteristic way, was the very last thing I’d expected from Rick Townsend. The very last.
I was still trying to wrap my head around all the implications. For me. For him.
For us.
And while I wasn’t sure Townsend bought the whole amnesiac Tressa story, either way, he seemed to be sending me a very clear message. And that message had the L-word in it.
I began to softly hum the music to the song that, from this day forward, would be known as “our song.” No matter what happened. It would forever be our song.
“Oh. You’re awake.” Taylor walked out of the bathroom and greeted me, her gait a bit unsteady. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw the chocolate box in my hands. “Most people prefer to cuddle a pillow or a stuffed animal,” she observed.
“I’m not most people,” I said. “I’m me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because the Tressa I know would have been on those chocolates like there was no tomorrow, especially given the dietary restrictions onboard. Yet, that box appears to be unopened. What gives?”
I sat up. “Maybe the fall down those stairs affected more than my memory,” I said. “Maybe I’m becoming a different person.”
“A person who no longer craves chocolate like a drug?” Taylor asked. “That’s not a change. That’s a miracle.”
“They do happen,” I said, thinking once again about Ranger Rick’s crooning. “By the way, how are you feeling?” I asked, thinking it was really suspicious Taylor hadn’t had any motion sickness since that first night.
She frowned. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?” she said as she fiddled with a baggie containing pills. Vitamins, I’d bet.
I shrugged out of the covers and put the box of candy at the foot of the bed. “Someone mentioned something about seasickness and I just wondered because you look just fine.”
“I am fine,” she snapped.
“Good. So…you’ve found something that calms the swells in your stomach. That’s good. Do you mind me asking? What’s your miracle remedy for motion sickness? Just in case I happen to be similarly afflicted at some point.” I asked primarily because Taylor, the health and fitness nut, had bitten my head off when I’d suggested she take motion sickness pills, preferring instead to rely on gingersnaps and natural remedies. Since I hadn’t seen any ginger tablets or cookies around the cabin, I smelled a rat. Of the hypocritical variety.
“I don’t have a miracle remedy,” she said, her movements jerky and spastic as she attempted to stuff the bag of tablets back into her carry-on case. A tablet rolled off the edge of the desk and onto the floor.
“Really?” I said, jumping to scoop it up. “What is this?” I asked, putting the pill up to the light and recognizing it as one of the same motion sickness pills the family had tried to get Taylor to take for the plane rides. And the car trips. And the shuttle.
“A vitamin,” Taylor hissed.
“This isn’t the vitamin you took yesterday,” I said. “You broke that one in two and took one half in the morning and the other half at bedtime. No, this is something else,” I said. “Maybe something for bloating and cramps?” I added. “Or is it a secret cure for motion sickness?”
“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is,” Taylor replied, snatching the pill from my fingers.
I put my hands up. “Sorry to offend,” I said. “I was just making polite conversation.”
“You don’t just’ do anything,” Taylor said.
“Sooorrreee,” I said again. “So, what happened at the Fish Bowl after…after I left?” I asked, deciding if I wanted to get any information from Taylor I’d better not risk ticking her off
“You mean after you ran off and left the guy who’d just sung his heart out to you on that stage looking like a fool? You mean after that?” she said, zipping her bag and putting it in the closet.
I winced. “What was I supposed to do given the circumstances?” I asked, hoping she would understand I meant the memory thing. And I did. If I had reacted in any way other than I had, the jig might well have been up. And because I knew that fall down the stairs was no act of clumsiness on my part, and because I suspected it had everything to do with someone thinking I knew more than I did about who was planning a send-off for their sweetheart, I also knew I had to keep my cover intact. Shaky as it was. To have reacted to Ranger Rick’s blow-me-down performance in any way other than exiting center stage would have made it clear I was remembering things. Remembering people. Remembering how Ranger Rick made me feel. And to remember before I’d discovered whom I’d overheard was to put not only me at risk, but possibly everyone close to me.
“I don’t know what you should have done,” Taylor said. “Maybe acknowledge the courage it took for him to do that. Express some gratitude. Make some kind of response. You left him floundering on that stage like a bloody mackerel,” she told me.
I sighed. “You don’t understand what I’m going through,” I said.
“No.
You
don’t understand,” Taylor replied. “You don’t understand that this may well be your last chance. Your last opportunity. The end of the road for you and Rick. I’m telling you here and now and, memory or no memory, don’t forget it! The heart doesn’t lie. Regardless of what your brain knows or doesn’t know, your heart will always tell you the truth. If you take the time to listen to it.”
I sank back down on the edge of the bed. Good gawd. My sister could be one of those motivational speakers corporations bring around to energize the working class. She could write books. Sell DVDs. Make millions motivating people.
“Just think about it, will you?” she said.
I nodded. “Was…everybody upset with me?” I asked.
Taylor shrugged. “Kimmie was totally ticked off, and Joe kept muttering about people who would take a risk for beef but not for love—whatever that meant. Your friend Steve left to go look for his wife, who was a no-show. He was pretty peeved. At her, not you.”
“And…Rick?”
She hesitated. “He met up with a friend from college who is on the cruise. I imagine they caught up.”
I frowned. “You imagine?”
She shrugged again.
“They left.”
Oh, goody. Brianna to the rescue.
“So, what’s on tap today?” I asked.
“Weigh-ins. Various competitions,” she said. “For all kinds of prizes.”
This got my attention. “What kinds of prizes?” I asked.
“Don’t you ever read your daily bulletin?” she said, frisbeeing the pamphlet in my direction. “They’re giving away tons of things. From exercise bikes to treadmills. Steppers to plasma TVs.”
I snapped to attention. “Plasma TV?” I said.
Taylor nodded. “Wide-screen.”
“How big?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Huge. Why?”
“I don’t have a wide-screen plasma TV, do I?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so. That’s why.”
“You’re not thinking of competing for that TV, are you?” she asked.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Your injury. Your head—”
“Is much better.” Besides, how strenuous could the competition be? Most of the competitors were not in that great of shape. Okay, me included.
“I don’t know, Tressa. You’d better check with the doctor first and see if he clears you,” Taylor suggested. “Then maybe if it’s something fairly low-impact, it might be okay. It’s probably safer than leaving you to roam free throughout the ship,” she admitted.
Nice.
She got ready to leave. At the door, Taylor stopped and looked back at me. “About Rick,” she began. “You’ll think about what I said?”
I nodded.
Like I could think of anything else—any
one
else but Rick Townsend.
I showered and dressed quickly, putting my swimsuit on beneath a white T-shirt trimmed in brown, the silhouette of a cowgirl in chaps, boots, and spurs on the front that read
Cowgirl Attitude.
I slid my legs into a cute denim skirt and stuck my feet into brown Skechers. I stuck my hair in a ponytail, put my face on and tied the black and red buff around the top of my head.
During my shower, I’d shifted my attention to the primary dilemma at hand: discovering who was out to maim their mate on
The Epiphany.
If I was to expose that person, I could regain my memory and set about reclaiming my life—and all that entailed. But how did I begin the process of elimination?
I grabbed a notepad and wrote down the names of all the possible suspects. I’d already established that the cruise culprit more than likely had to be at the Stardust reception that first night. I listed the names of the couples that had been present. The buff I’d ripped off the head of my attacker during the sickbay assault corroborated the fact that the villain in this oceanic odyssey was one of the Scallywags—the same group who’d gathered at the Stardust. The same group who’d heard my brilliant “I don’t know who you are but I know what you want to do” red alert.
I looked at the names.
I crossed Dolph and Major off the list—for obvious reasons. Vic and Naomi had split the Stardust before my impromptu pitch so it was probably safe to eliminate them. Next were Tariq and Monique. I didn’t know enough about their situation to make a judgment one way or the other. I somehow had to get close to Monique and ask some probing questions before I could eliminate them.
Then there was Steve and Courtney. I couldn’t think of Steve as wanting to off his wife. He seemed to genuinely love her and want a future with her, despite the fact that she liked to spend money they didn’t have. People who are thinking of killing their wives for profit within a few days don’t talk about budgeting so they can afford a bigger home several years down the road. Unless, of course, they thought that would throw the suspicion off them once the spouse was dead. You know, “Here we were, saving and planning for our future together and now we have no future.” That sort of thing. I’d learned firsthand that people could be tricky.
Next on tap, Ben and Sherri. (I still got the urge for ice cream whenever I said their names.) I hadn’t had the chance to visit with Ben much, but Sherri had seemed nice. Quiet, but nice. I’d also need to carve out some time with Sherri to scope out possible motives and clues.
And that left Coral and David. I wrote their names down and circled them. Off to the side I added Sam Davenport’s name. An affair? Coral’s dishabille certainly pointed to that. If David knew of Coral’s feelings for Sam, he might be afraid she would leave him—and since he acted as her agent, that would leave him high and dry and on the street. But why pick this cruise? A cruise where Samuel Davenport was head of security? So maybe that meant David Frazier Compton didn’t know about Sam Davenport. That didn’t mean David wouldn’t benefit from her death. And their behavior toward one another hadn’t spoken of deep, romantic feelings for each other. More like a business relationship.
My task was set. The first order of the day was to sit down with Monique and Sherri and have a talk about financial futures and married life. What woman didn’t like to dish about her husband? And I just happened to have your basic sympathetic ear.
Item two on the agenda? Winning a wide-screen plasma TV Sweet.
My gurgling stomach reminded me the pilfered repast shared with Joe the night before had long since made it through my digestive tract and I was in need of a nutritional replacement. I grabbed Harry Javelina, slung him over one shoulder and went in search of breakfast.
I managed to replenish my dwindling reserves with whole wheat pancakes that were more than a little hard to swallow, make-believe eggs I ate with my eyes closed, turkey bacon I tried to delude myself was the real thing, and strawberries doused with Splenda. Two cups of decaf did nothing to get wind in my sails as I prepared myself for my roles as truth seeker and prizewinner.
I made my way to the contest area. Late, as usual. I figured, with such a nifty prize, by now they had all the contestants they needed.
“Hey, Tressa! Come join us!”
I looked in the direction of the call and saw Courtney and Sherri and their spouses waving at me. Nearby sat Tariq and Monique and Dolph and Major. Everyone had a buff on. Everybody, that is, except Steve. My hand went unconsciously to the buff I wore. My legs shook as I made my way to the group of cruisers.
“Hello,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“You should’ve been here earlier to watch the menfolk compete for a plasma TV,” Courtney said. “It was hysterical, wasn’t it, Sherri?”
Sherri nodded her agreement. “My husband sure made a big splash,” she said without much emotion.
“Literally,” Steve added.
I looked at him, not sure what to think of the fact that he was the only one at the table not sporting a buff.
“Oh?”
“They’re holding a ‘plank race,’ ” Courtney explained. “They have this thing that resembles a balance beam set up across the pool and you put on a grass skirt and swimsuit top, some oversized sunglasses, walk to the other side, grab a tropical drink and a rice cake and get back to the other side without falling into the pool. Once you’ve made it to the other side, you have to shuck the tropical get-up and hit the buzzer.”
“Plus you have to have finished drinking the drink and eating the rice cake before you can jump off the plank and disrobe,” Sherri added.
