Abe Cross stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He’d actually gotten up, felt semi-awake, and it wasn’t even eleven forty-five yet as he sneaked a look at the Rolex on his left wrist. He spit out the last of the toothpaste, rinsed, then dug around in his Dopp kit for the dental floss, found it and tock a piece and began working it between his teeth. This Doris Knight sounded like a real winner, with a fakey name like that. And she would be ticked that her regular pianist had gotten the axe. Probably fake blonde hair, fake fingernails and falsies and a voice that sounded like a parody of itself. He shrugged his shoulders, finished with the floss.
Naked, he walked out of the small but adequate bathroom and toward the bed. There had been no time to unpack and he rummaged through his things to find clothes—underpants, a pair of black socks, a black long-sleeved knit shirt, black slacks. He wondered if there was a dress code for persons who worked for the line aboard the Empress. There’d be one for evening, of course. He didn’t have to wear some kind of god-awful uniform, did he? He stuffed his feet back into the black loafers he’d worn the previous night and went over to the dresser, ran a comb through his brown hair a few times and snatched up his cigarettes, his cabin key, his lighter and his little Swiss Army Champion, pocketing all. “Handkerchief, ’ he muttered, rummaging through his things again, finding one and stuffing it in his pocket. There was no need for wallet or passport and he had been told that all his meals were included in the deal so he didn’t need money. Cross grabbed up the black leather satchel in which he carried his music and let himself out.
Unlike earlier that morning when he had come aboard, the corridor bustled with activity, stewards and housekeeping staff moving in and out of cabins open and unoccupied. Sailing tonight, there would be much to do, passengers due on board any time throughout the afternoon he guessed. When he’d been making his way to his cabin, he’d spied a coffee shop and had logged away its location for future reference. He made his way toward it now, hoping it would be open for the convenience of the crew.
He took the elevator up to what he hoped was the right deck and exited, orienting himself, aiming himself in what he hoped was the right direction. After a moment’s wandering, he found the coffee shop. It was closed. “Shit.” He shrugged, consulted the deck plan in the glassed-over metallic frame near the coffee shop doors and found the Seabreeze Lounge. A glance at his watch again showed that it was five to twelve anyway. If this Doris Knight person was already on the prod over him, he didn’t want to make it worse. He despised working as an accompanist even for four sets a night.
The Seabreeze Lounge doors—big etched-glass affairs with brass-ringed fake portholes somehow set in the upper third, the etching showing fantasy dolphins and palm trees and curling waves—were open wide, but no real seabreeze would be possible here because it wasn’t an open deck amidships, and one had to content oneself with staring through Plexiglas. Tenders bringing baggage and stores aboard were all there was to be seen.
Cross entered the Seabreeze Lounge. It was the nice thing about being a pianist. Pianos were so big they were easy enough to find. This one—a concert grand with glass sides and glass top, looking for all the world as gaudy as something the great showman Liberace would have used in Las Vegas—was on a raised stage at the far end of the double-football-field-sized room, glass doors like the ones through which he had entered nearby to it, but closed. A mirror-backed bar ran along his left as he approached the piano, tiered rows of tables on his right. He was crossing a tiled dance floor.
The colors here, glistening blacks and silvery greys and subdued pinks, were classic art deco, as were the idyllically slender nudes with chignoned hair who posed in miniature splendor holding up discreetly sized lamps as though they were something vastly more important than they were.
Two shirt-sleeved men were working behind the bar, bottle counting and filling, two women helping them, drying and polishing glasses. There was no sign of Doris Knight and there had been no easeled announcement beside the lounge doors of her performing.
He approached the piano.
A woman’s voice—kind of raspy sounding—called to him and he turned around. “You the guy who’s replacing Lenny Brooks?” It was one of the women behind the bar.
“If he was the last pianist, then I’m the guy.”
“I’m Helen.”
“I’m Abe. Good to meet you, Helen.”
“If you want some coffee or some sweet rolls—you know, Danish?—just go through those doors. Doris isn’t here yet.”
He looked where the red-haired woman pointed. Portholed doors, but mahogany colored, at the end of the bar nearest the piano. He set his music down against the lip of the stage and headed for the doors, shooting Helen a wave, going through the swinging doors. It was a kitchen. Apparently the lounge served late-night meals. It wasn’t large enough for much of anything else. But there was an urn of coffee and an urn of hot water, beside the latter a bowl of tea bags. And there were Styrofoam cups and napkins and there was a tray covered with white linen napkins. He lifted them back. Fresh Danish that even smelled good. He took a Styrofoam plate and two rolls, avoiding any with nuts or coconut, and some coffee. There was no sign of cream or milk for the coffee, only sugar, which he never used.
He heard the doors behind him and turned around.
Whoever she was, she was exquisitely lovely. A veil of dark brown hair the same color as his own hung to her bare shoulders, parted in the middle and softly waved. Touching at the edges of her shoulders was the top of a bell-sleeved off-white peasant blouse. It was tucked in at the waist of an almost ankle-length navy blue skirt with a single fold at the front. She wore white, textured stockings and flat-heeled brown shoes. When she spoke, her gently throaty alto sounded at once sexy and innocent. He thought he must be dreaming.
“There’s milk and cream in that first refrigerator. Or at least there was this morning. I’m an early riser whenever I get the chance. ”
“Thanks.” Cross nodded, still looking at her, realizing he was holding the plate he’d made for himself in one hand and his coffee in the other.
“You’re the pianist, Helen said.”
“You’re not—”
“Doris Knight?” She laughed and her laugh sounded like a carillon ringing. “They told me Doris got all upset that her pianist was canned. Maybe that’s to her credit. Loyalty, I mean. She threatened to quit—at least that’s what they told me—and they let her. I’m her replacement.”
“That’s why there wasn’t a poster outside….”
“Um-hmm! I guess they’re making it now. I’m Jenny Hall.” She walked toward him and extended her right hand, a smile lighting her face and her green eyes, her wide, pretty mouth upturning at the corners and making little things like dimples in her cheeks.
Cross stood there balancing his food and his coffee, then set them down and took her hand. “I’m Abe Cross.”
“I heard you play in London—one of the hotels. I can’t remember. I was spending the night there, leaving the next morning. I remember you because you were so good.”
“You’re sweet to say that.” He realized he hadn’t let go of her hand. He didn’t want to.
“Can I have my hand back? I mean, you can hold it again if you want.” She did the laugh again and it had the same effect.
“Only if you promise.” He smiled.
“I promise.”
He let go of her hand. She tossed her head to get her hair back from her face. He noticed delicate-looking gold-pierced earrings. There was a thin gold chain at her throat. “Wanna take some coffee in there and try a few songs, Mr. Cross?” She nodded her head toward the Seabreeze Lounge and did the thing with her hair again.
“It is after twelve,” she told him, turning back the cuff of her blouse and reading a ladies Rolex. It was plain except for a Jubilee band of alternating stainless steel and gold links.
“Only if you call me Abe.”
“I’ll call you Abe if you’ll call me Jenny.”
“Deal.” He extended his hand and she laughed, then took it. “I’m gonna use any excuse I can get to touch your hand again. Just figured to be up front about it.”
“All right. I like that.”
“You’re the most marvelously beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Except, maybe, in a dream.”
She actually blushed a little and her eyes cast down. “You’re still holding my hand.”
“So I am.” And he let her fingers drift from his. “Would you like some coffee?”
“okay.”
He poured a cup for her. “First refrigerator, you said?”
“Uh-huh. How’d they get you to replace the pianist?”
“Hotel I was playing at is owned by the same people who own the Empress Britannia. Made me the proverbial offer I couldn’t refuse. Or something like that. Cream in your coffee?”
“Milk.”
“Right.” He poured milk from a little metal pitcher into her cup first, then his own. “They catch you between engagements?” He thought better of it after he’d said it.
“I was going back to the States anyway. I’ve been doing club dates in France and Germany and Italy for the last eight months. I figured it was time to go home. How about you? Going all the way up to Alaska and over to Japan with the Empress?”
He put the milk away. She took both coffees and he took the plate with the Danish, held the door for her to pass through. “I think so. But that could always change. I don’t have a family or anything.” Why had he said that?
“I have an older sister and a younger brother. Our parents are gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was just about to ask if there were anymore at home like you, though. But younger brothers never interested me and the older sister couldn’t be as beautiful as you.”
Jenny Hall laughed. “She was always the pretty one. Blonde hair. She was captain of the cheerleaders in high school. I never even made it on the squad.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice. She set the coffee down on a small table behind the piano and just looked at him.
“If you’d been on the cheerleaders, it would have been the only high school with enough team spirit to beat the Chicago Bears. Trust me on that.” He didn’t sit down at the piano yet. “Want a roll?”
She just looked at him, startled.
“I mean a Danish.” He grinned.
She looked down at her shoes for a second and he thought he saw her smile. “Do you always come on to girls like this?” she asked after a moment.
His mouth was half full of danish. He shook his head, swallowed, almost choked. “I’ve never met a girl who looked like you. Sounded like you. Smiled like you.” He took another bite of his danish and she sipped at her coffee, blowing across it first like a child might try to cool a cup of hot chocolate.
Cross finished the first Danish—pineapple and light as air—and took a swallow of coffee. It wasn’t all that hot. He’d forgotten the napkin, so wiped his fingers clean on his handkerchief. “Don’t want sticky keys,” he told her. “Do you play piano?”
“I can pick out a few things. But I don’t play very well. I played in the high school band and kept up in college.”
“What instrument?”
“Then promise you won’t make any jokes about it. You’ve got to,” she insisted.
“Promise,” Cross agreed.
“The flute.”
“I can see where flute jokes might be awkward on the ear. I’ll keep my promise.” Cross adjusted the seat—his predecessor had apparently been shorter than Cross’s own plus six feet—and flexed his fingers, then tried a few arpeggios to check for tune. He had imagined that with all the subtle movement of a ship and the constant humidity of the salt air, there might be a problem with the tune. But it was more than acceptable, almost dead on pitch. “What can I play for you?”
“Why don’t you just play something your way and I can get your style before you try to catch mine. It was just when I came to Europe that I heard you in that hotel in London.”
“I know the perfect thing. ‘You Go to My Head’?”
She smiled as she said, “I know that,” and Cross wondered if she really knew it like he’d meant it.