“Did you hear? The she-devil is onboard.”
“No.”
“Shh.” The whispered order from the spa receptionist to her coworker was banished with a perfect, professional smile. “May I help you?”
She-devil? Had I heard correctly? I wasn’t supposed to have heard. It seemed such an unlikely word, especially in the bright and shiny spa of the Diversion.
“I’m Sheila Mackey—”
“I will do your nails, miss.” The mahogany-skinned young woman who’d exhaled that distressed No smiled at me.
I smiled back. “—and this is Petronella—”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the receptionist. “We have detailed instructions. Everything has been spelled out precisely. Right this way, Miss Petronella.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. This is too much.” Petronella had protested all the way to the spa — up several decks — and wasn’t done yet. “I shouldn’t…”
“This way,” the receptionist kept repeating, leading us past an open area to our left with a hallway straight ahead. The receptionist gestured to the hallway’s first door. “Right here for you.”
Petronella put on the brakes. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”
Another smiling young woman came out of the room and told Petronella, “The instructions specifically said you were to have a private room.”
This smiling young woman also wore the uniform of the ship’s spa. She had an Eastern European accent and a firm hold on Petronella’s arm.
Were Kit’s reasons for this arrangement to spare me? Or more Machiavellian?
At the moment it was moot. Petronella wasn’t budging.
“Oh, no, no. I couldn’t possibly…”
If you mentioned Petronella — known throughout Kit’s extended and far-flung web as Poor Petronella — to anyone in my corner of the family, they instantly mimicked, “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…” Sometimes at the most inopportune moments.
You’d be saying, “I walked up to the casket beside Poor Petronella and—” You’d be interrupted by a chorus of “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…” instantly followed by chuckles.
According to Kit, this distant relative of her long-dead fiancé had been Poor Petronella since she was old enough to display a personality, which came later than most kids.
If there was a mishap floating around, Petronella reached out and grabbed it like the last life jacket on the Titanic — sorry, not a good image when I’m talking about cruising. But it fits.
Her latest misfortune was getting divorced by the husband who’d been abusing her mentally, physically, emotionally, and financially since before they were married. Yes, before and she still married him.
You should hear Aunt Kit on that topic.
Then how was the divorce a misfortune, you might ask. You and me both. To Petronella, however, it was a tragedy of epic proportions.
Her kids, who loved her for reasons beyond explanation but with the sane caveat of living in distant time zones, begged Aunt Kit to beg me to help her.
They’d thought I would pay for the cruise, while Kit would have soulful, reasonable talks with Petronella.
Instead, Kit paid for the cruise, then bailed on both of us.
“You must go in the room to be happy and for your giver to be happy,” said the young woman who’d been talking with the receptionist when we arrived and said she’d do my nails. South African accent, possibly with English not her native language. Her nametag read Imka.
Between Petronella’s protests, she put one arm across Petronella’s back and the other on her forearm and simply walked forward, scooping along the recalcitrant client. In less time than I could have imagined, Petronella was in the room off the hallway and the door closed.
“Do not worry. Your relative will be very fine.”
“I’m not worried about that. I am a little worried about your colleague and I’m wondering if I could learn that move.”
She slanted a look at me, apparently found me trustworthy, and said in a low voice, “I learned helping with the old ones at home. They don’t always want to go where it’s best for them to go. But it’s not respectful to pick them up and put them like a child.”
“Very true.” Though Petronella wasn’t that old. Chronologically.
Imka waved me to an open area with floor-to-ceiling windows angled out at the top. If you wanted to look almost directly below, you could by leaning out. But why would you want to?
Two chairs in white leather — crossbred from recliners and airline pilot seats — offered the best views of the windows, blow-out stations, hair dryer chairs, and the hallway, depending on which way you swiveled.
One was occupied by a woman around Aunt Kit’s age. She had mostly gray hair, with dark brown at the back. Laugh lines waited for employment at the corners of her mouth and eyes. They flickered when she smiled, polite but not intrusive, as I was directed to the other chair.
“I’m afraid you have a remedial case here,” I told Imka.
I’m not the best about getting regular manicures — something the publicist reminded me before each TV appearance — but never far enough ahead of time for me to actually get a manicure. Just enough to make me feel insecure about my long, too often raggedy nails.
Imka smiled broadly, rounding her cheeks becomingly. “We will fix you.”
I wished that were true, since that promise seemed to cover more than nails.
The older woman met my gaze and her laugh lines deepened.
I said hello. She did the same. She introduced herself as Odette Treusault. I gave my name — the one known as the author of Abandon All.
She looked at me intently for a moment, then gave a small nod and carried on as if she didn’t recognize the name. She did. Neither of the nail technicians did, or were too discreet to show it.
Quickly, I learned Odette had cruised on this ship multiple times and knew both nail technicians. She was onboard with a group she’d cruised with for decades. She and I and Imka and Odette’s technician, Bennie, chatted about cruises, cruising, the schedule ahead of us, and excursions.
“We’ve done this so often, I’ve become quite the curmudgeon about excursions,” Odette said. “We’ve done them all multiple times. Are you signed up for any?”
When Aunt Kit ran the show, we seldom joined the excursions. If she was deeply interested in a stop, she’d hire a driver and guide. Otherwise, we tramped around the town, poking into interesting corners, gathering a sense of the place along with a string of factoids, and people-watching. Always, always people-watching with Aunt Kit.
“I don’t know.”
As I said the words, a phrase repeated in my head. When Aunt Kit ran the show.
She wasn’t running my show anymore. I was. I could — had to — decide for myself.
“I’ll have to check them out.” The excursions were a couple days off, when we stopped at a different port in the Canary Islands three days in a row.
“There’s a hike into a volcano that’s breathtaking.” Odette chuckled. “In more ways than one. Also, if you’ve never ridden a camel, that is worth doing, even if it is a short ride under the tamest of circumstances. Though sometimes even then…”
Looks flickered among the other three women.
“She is onboard? Your… The, uh, other Mrs.?” Imka asked.
Clearly the other three recognized a connection between a camel ride and Imka’s question. I was in the dark.
Odette asked, “Did you see her last year?” As an aside to me, she added, “I wasn’t here last year. Only one couple of our group was.”
“Yes,” Imka said carefully. “She—”
All four of us broke off to turn toward the noise coming our way.