Music drew me toward the Wayfarer Bar after Petronella and I left Catherine and Bob outside the dining room.
They were heading toward a show and invited us to join them. I’d declined. Petronella said Oh, no, I couldn’t, without indicating why she couldn’t.
Unlike too many musical performances I’d heard on cruises, what came from the Wayfarer Bar was actually, well, musical.
“I’m going to stop in here for a nightcap. Want to come?” I asked Petronella.
“If you don’t mind and you think you’ll be…”
“I’ll be just fine.” To support her faltering step toward expressing her desire, I added, “This is your vacation, too. Do what you want. What do you want to do?”
“I’d like to go to my cabin and have an early night.” Before I could endorse that option, Petronella became flustered. “I should say to your cabin. Not where you’re staying, but your cabin nonetheless, since you so generously paid for it.”
I thought she’d run the excessive gratitude tank empty. Apparently she’d rested enough to refill it.
“Kit did all the work.” As well as paying, but that had to remain our secret. “She planned the whole thing.” At this moment I wasn’t as grateful as I probably should have been. “About all I did was meet you at the airport and follow Kit’s instructions.”
“No, no, no. I know how very much I owe you for your kindness. I’m sure Kit did some, helped you in little ways as she has while she’s lived with you and as I’m determined to do in her absence. But I know who is truly behind this great kindness in my time of need and I can’t possibly thank you en—”
“Kit. All Kit. Like the manicure. All she left for me to do was hand you that unlimited ShipCard and say Knock yourself out.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly… To impose on you by using that card. No, no, no.”
“It’s already paid for, Petronella. If you don’t use it, it goes to waste.”
“But surely you could get a refund.”
I shook my head firmly. I had no idea how the things worked, but I wasn’t letting any uncertainty show. “No refunds. Only thing to do at this point is get the most value from it by using it all the time.”
“Then perhaps I should…” She cast a weary look toward the entrance of the bar.
“The only should is to do what you want.” I turned her, then took her shoulders from behind. “Rest up tonight. If you feel like being a party animal, we’ll dance the night away tomorrow.”
I nudged her shoulders to start her away from me. She continued moving that direction, but looked back with a sad, slightly scolding smile. “Oh, no, no, I couldn’t possibly.”
* * * *
I could find a seat, then wait for a server to come take my drink order.
But as I walked in, I saw only one server attending several groups beyond where a man with a guitar and woman with a violin sat and played the music that had drawn me.
Another look showed one of those groups was Odette, Leah, and the others. They had empty glasses in front of them and Ralph tried to catch the server’s attention.
Another server showed for an instant, then was recalled to the area reserved for those in the cruise line’s loyalty program. I caught a glimpse of the spa quintet’s leader and the window-sprawler there.
If they duplicated their table’s rate of alcoholic consumption at dinner, they’d have that server tied up for good.
I diverted to the bar.
The redhead from the spa invaders sat on a stool, elbows on the countertop, leaning forward. Which had to give the bartender a mighty fine view down the front of her dress.
The guy next to her — not either of the men she’d sat between at dinner, so presumably not her husband — tried for the same view, but he had a difficult angle to gawk effectively.
She said something, looking at the bartender through her lashes.
He laughed. Loudly. Echoed by the guy next to her.
The guitar player’s head jerked toward the sound. He glared. The woman next to him, with her hands and head occupied with the violin, nudged him with her knee.
He looked at her. Her raised eyebrows acknowledged his right to be irked, but reminded him it did no good. Or maybe I was reading a lot into raised eyebrows.
Apparently, he did, too.
He angled away from the bar.
Through all this — accomplished in a flash — the music never faltered. They were good. Really good. With something deeper than what sounded to me like impressive technical skill. They were connected.
They truly made music together.
The bartender had caught the musician’s reaction, but he was more focused on the redhead departing. “No need to—”
“Thanks for the restaurant tip,” she said loudly and casually.
She pushed past me, her motion turning me partially away from the bar or risk being knocked over. I saw her slide her arm around the neck of a shorter man I’d seen her with in the dining room and now guessed was her husband. She leaned into him as they walked past the musicians and toward the area in back reserved for the frequent cruisers.
“Musicians. Damned touchy artistes. We’re all supposed to sit here like we’re in church and I get nothing in tips. That’s not right,” the bartender grumbled.
Was his grumble about tips? Or being deprived of sight-seeing the redhead?
I’d tip him — but not offer sights — if I could get past the guy who’d been sitting next to the redhead, but his splayed out legs blocked me. And then another man slid onto the stool the redhead abandoned and gave his order.
Sheesh.
The bartender came out of his funk over the loss of the redhead to begin pouring drinks.
The guy blocking me shoulder-butted the newcomer, who drew back in surprise or displeasure or both.
“See that bottle, second from the left,” the first guy said, with no sign he’d noticed the other man’s withdrawal. “That sailboat on the label? That was my grandfather’s boat. I used to have a little boat at the same yacht club. Before the place got overrun. You know. Not our sort.”
Now the newcomer looked offended.
The guy in front of me gave no sign of noticing as he went on about sailboats — his, his grandfather’s, and other people’s — and how they could not possibly stay in some marina where they’d be rubbing hulls with sailboats belonging to lesser mortals.
The bartender delivered his drink then and he turned, showing off one of those tans that makes you think of dust bowls.
Bad enough he blocked me from placing my order, letting the man who’d arrived after me get in first, but now he looked me up and down like he was doing me a favor.
“Excuse me—” My tone meant he should be excusing himself. “—I want to order.”
“I bet you do.” He tried to make it suggestive, which made no sense.
“Excuse me.” That dripped ice.
The guy who’d slipped in ahead of me must have ordered something simple, because he turned away already. I sidestepped Mr. Grandpa’s Sailboat on the Label to get that bar-front spot. As I did, Mr. Sailboat brushed his palm against my hip and started around to my derriere.
I jerked away to leave a gap between us. “Do not touch me.” Not loud, but distinct enough to turn a few nearby heads, including the bartender’s.
“Jason,” I said to the bartender, cribbing off the nametag, “you will need to call security immediately if this passenger bothers me any further.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to, uh…”
I held Mr. Grandpa’s Sailboat on the Label’s gaze. He’d gone red of cheek and neck, but assumed a smirky grin and raised his hands in would-be innocence, barely missing dribbling his scotch on me. “I’m leaving. No need for hysterics.”
Forget security, I’d throttle the guy myself. Hysterics, my—
I bit my tongue, held my cool, and Mr. Grandpa’s Sailboat on the Label went away.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. If you’d like me to call—”
“What I’d like is a glass of champagne.”
Perhaps by way of amends, Jason came through with Veuve Clicquot.
Jason was in my good books, as my tip showed him.
* * * *
I took a chair by a window. A couple sitting across from me smiled briefly, then returned to absorption in the music. Perfect.
I know a lot of passengers enjoy the energy of the shows in the theaters. I’m closer to Aunt Kit’s viewpoint.
She maintains the shows are impossible to listen to because they are too loud. “How can anyone say they’re any good when the volume is cranked so high it distorts the music? After a few I doubt that’s an accident.”
Had I learned that attitude from her?
But these musicians were good. The guitar and violin supported and enhanced each other. Sometimes swapping the expected roles of strength (guitar) and sweetness (violin), making the most familiar song fresh.
It was lovely.
Except for bursts of sound from the frequent cruisers room.
One particularly raucous episode of laughter, hoots, and shouts prompted me to turn my head.
I couldn’t see the offenders, but I saw Leah standing and starting toward the back area. Odette caught her arm, slowing her, but she would have kept going if Ralph Russell hadn’t stood in her way.
Although I couldn’t hear her, I could see Leah saying things to him. Not nice things.
He stood without responding. She gradually ran out of steam.
Odette said something, possibly about the musicians, judging by her gesture toward them.
Leah finally sat, turning toward the music.
When the musicians took a break, I opted to leave.
Odette’s group remained. As did the loud group in back. I raised a hand in acknowledgement of Jason’s Veuve Clicquot largesse, but didn’t stop to say good-night. I would cement his Veuve Clicquot pours another time. Mr. Grandpa’s Sailboat on the Label had returned.
I left humming the last song played, knowing the tune was familiar but unable to capture its name.