Okay, I’m never leaving.
You know when you’re a kid and you dream about the perfect place? For me it was a castle with a water park attached, where all day long they served bologna sandwiches and gave away free puppies.
Eventually you come to realize the perfect place doesn’t exist. You have to make wherever you are the perfect place. Right?
Wrong.
A cruise ship is the perfect place.
It’s been right under my nose all these years, and I had no idea. But now that I know, I’m staying here. If Damon and I pool our savings (he’s got a couple thousand put aside, and I have roughly seven dollars in my wallet) we could float around for a while, couldn’t we? After that, they’ve got to have some job that needs doing around here. Like swabbing the deck! I’m not entirely positive what swabbing is. I think it’s sort of like mopping but with a bucket and rags, probably. I can learn! To stay here forever, I’m willing to do just about anything.
The deck is gorgeous, gleaming in white and brass. The onboard swimming pool is circled with wicker lounge chairs dotted with pillows. Everyone sprawled in these chairs is remarkably tan and in shape.
Just seeing these women in their bikinis makes me want to wear a muumuu poolside. And the men are handsome and white-toothed and oiled. I wonder if they have some kind of requirement for sitting in these central chairs. Like you have to pass an attractiveness inspection before you’re allowed to lounge. That way everyone sitting by this focal point matches the perfect cruise image.
But even that cannot sully my euphoria. It’s not just the flawless turquoise water stretching to the horizon or the sweet, warm breeze, or how everyone is smiling and smelling of suntan lotion. The thing that really seals the deal is at the far end of the deck.
The buffet.
I’d heard whispered stories, but nothing could prepare me for the real thing. Like a knight who has been searching all his life for the Holy Grail, and when he finally finds it, he’s so awed that his face melts off . . .
I might be mixing my metaphor with Indiana Jones. But the concept is the same.
This buffet sits and laughs at every B-rated family restaurant that assembles a line of wilted lettuce and questionable puddings and calls itself a buffet.
The mahogany counter is literally piled with the most amazing food I’ve ever seen. It’s the daily lunchtime menu: the makings for cheeseburgers and gourmet sandwiches, chicken in every form (fingers, strips, nuggets, fried or grilled or barbecued on little skewers), brisket, roast beef, ham, and lean portions of steak, every vegetable known to man in the salad section, French fries, and mashed potatoes with gravy. Not to mention all the other salads: potato, pasta, noodle, egg, and chicken.
Then an array of actual puddings. Usually chocolate mousse looks like melted brown mush. But the mousse here is like a chocolate cloud lassoed from the sky right down onto this buffet table just for me.
Behind the buffet, smiling waiters assist guests with their food selections. They deftly assemble sandwiches and burgers, slice off thick wedges of brisket, and spoon potatoes and salads. We aren’t even expected to make our own sandwich if we don’t want to. And the mound of French fries is being constantly refilled, so it’s never shorter than Everest.
This truly is heaven.
I honestly get a little weak in the knees when I see it all. Damon, laughing, takes my arm to steady me.
“I thought you might like it,” he says.
“Like it?” My voice is faint. “It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Are we here in time?” I’m cursing the precious minutes we wasted at the rail waving to those on shore as the ship pulled out of the harbor. I wanted the bon-voyage experience even though we didn’t know a single person we were waving to. If I’d known this was here, I would’ve shoved my way to the main deck without waving so much as a finger to any strangers.
“I mean, when will it close?” I persist. “How much time do we have before they take it away?”
“Relax. The buffet runs all day until ten p.m. And this is only the lunch menu! For dinner they add seafood then eggs and stuff at breakfast.”
I’m tingling. “You mean they leave this here all day long, and it just changes over for the different meals?”
“That’s right.”
I kiss him solidly on the mouth. “I have never loved you more.”
Damon grins. “You are easy to please.” He motions toward the buffet line. “Shall we?”
Like Indy selecting the Grail, I’m overwhelmed by choices. But finally I decide on a club sandwich stacked with more turkey than I’ve consumed at many a Thanksgiving. It’s served on a croissant roll with a heap of French fries.
Plate piled high, I follow Damon to a free table in the sunshine. There we sit, staring out at the dazzling water as we eat the best meal of my life.
It’s not fancy, but everything is of a superb quality. Even the croissant is equally moist and flaky. By the time we finish the meal, I’ve surely gained back those last five pounds. But I’m so full and blissed-out I don’t even care.
I tip my head back, half enjoying the sunshine on my face and half lapsing into a food coma. I am ruined for all turkey sandwiches forever.
“Still awake over there?”
I murmur in response.
“Those were not words.” Damon laughs.
“Just . . . sooo happy.” I sigh.
“All those months depriving yourself were worth it?”
“Totally.” I lift my head and peer at him. “Except now I’m going to get fat on our honeymoon, and you’ll regret ever marrying me.”
“Believe me.” He stands, hands on either side of my chair, and leans in to kiss me. “No regrets here.”
Perfection overload.
“So,” Damon muses when at last he pulls back. “What do you feel like doing? Swimming? Sunbathing?” His eyebrows lift. “Maybe take a nap?”
“Maybe a nap and a swim.” I yawn, sleepy with tranquility. “And I want to check out the spa sometime.”
“Didn’t you pay attention to the itinerary I gave you?” Damon glances at his watch. “We’re booked for a couple’s massage at five.”
I stare at him, utterly overcome. “You really are the perfect husband.”