Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (6 page)

So that’s why Paige had offered me the job. I was a last-minute replacement.

“And bingo was too crowded,” he added, “so I wandered in here.”

Great. Nothing like an enthusiastic student to get the ball rolling.

“I’m Rita,” piped up the woman sitting next to him, a wiry-haired dame with small, squinchy eyes. “I’m president of the West Secaucus Women’s Reading Club, and I never miss an opportunity to hear an author speak.”

Okay, at least this one had a vague interest in writing.

“On my last cruise,” she announced proudly, “I saw Mary Higgins Clark.”

“Really?” I said. “That must’ve been fun.”

“Yes, she was fabulous. Just fabulous. Utterly spellbinding.”

“Looks like I’ve got a tough act to follow. Haha.”

“Humpph,” she sniffed, clamping her arms over her chest, having clearly reached the conclusion that it would be a cold day in hell before I came close to filling Mary H. Clark’s shoes.

“And what about you?” I asked a long-haired teenage boy, sitting at a table some distance away from the others. He couldn’t hear my question, though, thanks to a pair of earbuds stuffed in his ears. Totally oblivious, he nodded his head in time to music from his iPod.

“Young man!” I screeched.

“Who? Me?” he asked, popping out an earbud and peering at me through his fringe of bangs.

“Yes. What’s your name?”

“Kenny.”

I couldn’t help wondering what a kid his age was doing in a class like this.

“Well, Kenny. Tell everybody why you’re taking this class.”

“My parents made me. They want you to help me with my book report on
The Scarlet Letter
.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. First Samoa, and now this. It seemed like everyone on board had something for me to edit.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. This is a memoir-writing class. Feel free to drop out if you want.”

I hated to lose him, but I was not about to play High School English Teacher.

“Nah,” he said, “that’s okay. There’s nothing else to do on this dumb ship. Everybody here is like a hundred years old. Besides, my parents are paying me fifty bucks if I stay out of their hair for an hour.”

I nodded wearily to my last two students, a sixty-something couple, dressed in identical jogging suits—his blue, hers pink.

“We’re David and Nancy Shaw from Seattle,” the man said.

“And after forty years of marriage we’re taking this cruise to renew our wedding vows,” his wife chimed in.

Eyeing their matching jogging suits, wide, toothy grins, and Early Beatle bobs, I wondered if they’d always looked like each other, or if they were one of those couples who grew alike as the years went by.

“Anyhow,” David said, “we thought it would be a wonderful idea to write down our memories to pass down to our children.”

Alert the media! At last I had some people who actually wanted to write their memoirs.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, fighting the impulse to race over and kiss them.

I spent the next few minutes giving my students a mini-lecture on the principles of writing, trotting out the old “Show, Don’t Tell” adage, urging them to go for specific memories rather than sweeping generalities.

“Just remember,” I said, winding up my little chat, “what you write doesn’t have to be perfect. Just keep writing. If you have difficulty, pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend. Now let’s get started. Everybody take out your pads.”

“I don’t have a pad,” Kenny, my teen angel, sulked.

“I don’t either,” Max chimed in.

“I do,” Rita said, with a virtuous sniff. “I always come prepared.”

“You can write on the back of these,” I said, tossing Max and Kenny some of my extra handouts.

Then, just as I was about to give them their first writing exercise, a tiny, white-haired woman drifted into the room. In her hands she carried a tote bag almost as big as she was.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said in a whispery voice.

“That’s perfectly all right,” I said, grateful for another mate on my motley crew. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Amanda.”

“Take a seat, Amanda. Here’s a handout. We’re just about to get started.”

She sat down next to Max and smiled up at me. Thank heavens this one seemed pleasant.

“Now I want each of you to write about a first in your life. Your first date. Your first job. Your first day at school—”

“Can I write about my first colonoscopy?” Max asked. “It’s where I met my second wife.”

Talk about your love connections.

“That’s fine,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” Rita piped up, poking a finger through her wiry curls to scratch her scalp. “Aren’t you going to talk about your books?”

I refrained from telling her that, aside from
You and Your Garbage Disposal
, I had no books to talk about.

“No, Rita, I’m afraid not.”

“But Mary Higgins Clark told us all about her books,” she pouted.

“She sold her first book,” she said, turning to the others to spread the news, “when she was widowed with five children!”

“How interesting.” I forced myself to keep smiling. “But as I’ve already explained, this is a writing course.”

“But I thought we’d be hearing stories,” Rita whined.

“The only stories in this class will be yours,” I said firmly. “Now, let’s start writing, shall we?”

Rita’s hand shot up.

“Are we going to be graded on penmanship?”

“There are no grades. Just write.”

By now, I was
thisclose
to giving her a wedgie.

Nancy and David, the married couple, picked up their pens and started writing with gusto. The others were a tad less enthused. A lot of ceiling-staring and what I suspect was doodling ensued. But at last I saw pens crawling across paper. The writing process had begun.

The only one who wasn’t writing was the old lady who’d come in after the class began. Instead, she’d taken a pair of knitting needles from her tote bag and was clacking away at what looked like an argyle sweater.

“Aren’t you going to write anything, Amanda?” I asked. “It’s fun once you get started. Just pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend.”

“Oh, no thank you, dear.” Another sweet smile. “I’ve already written postcards to my friends back home.”

“Don’t you want to write about your life?”

“Oh, no, dear. Living it was enough for me.”

Clearly the woman was not operating with a full deck, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see a smiling face.

For the next hour I continued to swim upstream with this bunch. Rita kept punctuating every assignment with tidbits from the Mary Higgins Clark files. In a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to Cabo San Lucas, she kept up a running commentary on how much more famous and entertaining Mary Higgins Clark was than yours truly.

At first I was gratified to see Kenny, the teenager, writing industriously, but when I peeked over his shoulder I realized he’d been busy perfecting his pornographic cartoon skills.

Max nodded off somewhere during the second writing assignment, his jackhammer snores echoing in the empty restaurant.

But on the plus side, you’ll be happy to know that Amanda got a lot of work done on her argyle sweater.

My only shining lights were the married couple, who attacked their assignments with gusto.

At last, sixty painful minutes had come to an end. Not a nanosecond too soon.

“That’s all the time we have for today,” I said, hoping they couldn’t hear the relief in my voice.

Kenny’s hand shot up from the back.

“If there’s homework, I’m not coming back tomorrow.”

“There’s no homework, Kenny. Just bring in what you wrote today, and we’ll take turns reading aloud.

“See you all tomorrow!” I said, smiling my most appealing smile. As motley a crew as they were, I couldn’t afford to lose a single one of them. “Any questions before we go?”

My sweet, white-haired lady raised her hand.

“Just one, Professor Heinmann,” she said. “When are you going to tell us about your Arctic explorations?”

Chapter 5

T
alk about your demoralizing experiences.

I wanted nothing more than to trot over to the Tiki Lounge and bolster my sagging ego with a frosty margarita, but it was only 11 A.M. and I simply could not justify glugging down tequila at that hour of the morning.

Besides, I needed to keep my brain cells perky for their upcoming bout with Samoa’s masterpiece.

So I trudged back to my cabin, where I found Prozac clawing on a cashmere sweater she’d dragged from my closet. Several pieces of my underwear were also scattered gaily on the cabin floor.

“I’m glad you’ve been having fun,” I snapped, picking up the mess. “I’ve been through utter hell.”

She scampered to my side and sniffed my ankles, then looked up at me with big green eyes that could mean only one thing:

So where are my snacks?

“Oh, for crying out loud, Pro, you ate enough ham this morning to feed an NFL quarterback. I’ll bring you something later.”

After scribbling a note to Samoa, asking him to pretty please bring me another pillow, I grabbed his manuscript and headed up to the pool deck. I found a spot in a secluded nook far from the frolicking crowds at the pool and settled down to do battle with
Do Not Distub
.

The less said about Samoa’s opus the better. Let’s just put it this way: I’d read better plots in my DVD manual. I spent the next few hours gritting my teeth in frustration, trying to decipher his minuscule scrawl.

All the while I could hear the happy shrieks of vacationers splashing in the pool.

For a mad instant, I considered tossing the whole ghastly mess overboard. But sanity prevailed and I slogged on, breaking only for a late lunch at the buffet (a heavenly roast beef panini, with just the weensiest chocolate chip cookie or three for dessert).

When at last my eyeballs were begging for mercy, I packed it in.

I was heading past the pool en route to my cabin when I heard someone call my name.

I turned and saw Emily Pritchard surrounded by her entourage: Kyle and his wife, Maggie; the formidable Ms. Nesbitt; and, of course, Adorable Robbie, who was looking particularly adorable in cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt.

With a jaunty wave, Emily beckoned me to join them.

As I made my way across the deck, I became aware of someone else in the Pritchard party. Cookie’s boyfriend, Graham, dashing as ever in his nautical blazer, was standing at Emily’s side. I hadn’t seen him at first, so engrossed had I been in Robbie’s cutoffs. But there he was, his hand resting most chummily on Emily’s elbow.

How odd. I didn’t think the hired dancers were allowed to fraternize with the passengers off the dance floor.

“Jaine, how lovely to see you.” Emily beamed as I approached.

“Is that a manuscript you’re carrying?” Nesbitt asked, catching sight of Samoa’s masterwork in my arms.

I nodded wearily. I preferred to think of it as recyclable waste, but I suppose technically it was a manuscript.

“How marvelous!” Emily gushed. “We get to see your new book before anybody else.”

Clearly she hadn’t glommed on to the fact that I was not a famous author.

“Actually, this isn’t my book. I’m editing it for a friend.”

“How exciting! Isn’t that exciting, everybody?”

“Oh, yes!” Maggie said, as Kyle stifled a yawn.

“
Do Not Distub?
” Nesbitt sniffed at the cover page as if it were a dead rat.

“And what have you guys been up to?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

“We’ve had such a fun day,” Emily said. “We’ve been busy shopping.”

Indeed, I looked down and saw they were all carrying shopping bags from the Holiday gift shop.

“I always like to treat everybody to little souvenirs of our cruises.”

“Really, you shouldn’t, Aunt Emily,” Maggie said. “You’re much too generous.”

“I’ll say,” Kyle snapped, darting a none-too-subtle glance at the shopping bag dangling from Graham’s wrist.

“Yes, my dear,” Graham said in his velvety British accent. “It was much appreciated—but most unnecessary.”

“It was my pleasure, Graham,” Emily said, beaming up at him.

Up to this point, I’d been avoiding eye contact with Robbie. After the way he’d ditched me last night, I was determined to play it cool. But now I couldn’t resist taking a peek at his face. And the minute I did, he hit me with his bad-boy grin.

Oh, rats. Why did he have to be so darn cute?

I stiffened my resolve to be cool and distant and unattainable.

But before I got a chance to give him the snub he so richly deserved, our peppy social director, Paige, got on the mike and announced that an exciting ice sculpture demonstration was about to begin.

Sure enough, I turned to see Anton seated at a table not far from us, with some ice picks and a big block of ice.

“Ooh, let’s watch!” Emily said, with childlike enthusiasm.

“I’m afraid I can’t, my dear,” Graham said. “I’ve got some important business matters to attend to.”

“What a pity.” Emily’s face fell.

“But I hope to see more of you later, sweet Emily.”

Then he took her liver-spotted hand in his and kissed it. Wow, this guy was Cary Grant and Hugh Grant rolled into one.

Emily stared after him, dreamy-eyed, as he walked off.

Kyle was staring after him, too, with the wary, calculating look of a pit bull whose turf has just been threatened.

“C’mon,” Ms. Nesbitt said, grabbing Emily’s elbow. “Let’s go see that ice sculpture.”

“Yes, let’s!” Maggie seconded, hustling us over to get a better view.

I tried to stay in the background, off Anton’s radarscope, but unfortunately he saw me in the crowd and waved.

I smiled weakly and waved back.

I have to admit, Anton lived up to his own hype.

He wielded his ice picks with dramatic flair, picking and chipping away with the deftness of a neurosurgeon. Oohs and ahs erupted from the crowd as a bust of George Washington gradually emerged from the ice.

He finished with a flourish, and the crowd broke out in applause. He was so proud of himself, I was surprised he wasn’t joining in.