I turned to see who it was and my heart sank.
Oh, crud. It was Anton, the ice sculptor, decked out in Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, his ponytail specially greased for the occasion.
“May I steal this lovely young lady for a dance?” he asked Robbie.
Say no, say no, say no, say no! I pleaded silently.
But my prayers went unanswered.
I gulped in dismay as Robbie shot me a rueful smile and turned me over to Anton, who instantly clutched me in a death grip and dragged me around the dance floor, mauling my toes with his two left feet, yakking about some swans he’d carved out of kielbasa sausage for a Polish wedding.
I counted the seconds till the song was over. But then, to my horror, I realized it was just the first in a medley of tunes, one song leading to another. And so I was trapped with Anton and his two lethal feet through a fox-trot, a mambo, and—horror of horrors—a jitterbug.
At last the music stopped and the nightmare came to an end.
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Anton asked in all seriousness.
“Yes, very.” Like childbirth with a crowbar.
I couldn’t wait to get back to where I’d left off with Robbie. But when I looked around the room, there was no sign of him.
So much for shipboard romance.
“So,” Anton asked, “how about a moonlight stroll on deck?”
Not if he were the last ponytailed, sausage-sculpting bad dancer on earth—which he may well have been.
“Thanks, Anton, but I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to turn in.”
And before he could stop me, I scooted to the exit. The last thing I saw as I headed out to freedom was Emily Pritchard out on the dance floor, still tripping the light fantastic with Graham.
It looked like dancing was good for her digestion after all.
I wasn’t lying when I told Anton I was exhausted. After all the tumult of my first day at sea, I was in serious need of a tranquilizer or three. When the heck was the relaxing part of this vacation going to kick in?
I hurried along the corridor, checking over my shoulder to make sure Anton wasn’t following me. Then, with the unerring accuracy of a homing pigeon, I returned to the buffet, where I picked up some roast beef for Prozac and a restorative dose of brownies for me.
It was too bad about Robbie ditching me, I thought, as I stowed my booty in some napkins. He probably saw a better-looking pair of functioning ovaries and decided to make a play for them. What did I tell you about the cute ones? Trouble with a capital T.
Banishing all thoughts of the beach bum with the bad-boy grin, I took the elevator down to my cabin in the Dungeon Deck.
I was feeling a bit guilty about leaving Prozac alone for so long, stuck in that tiny closet of a room. But it was her own fault, I reminded myself. Nobody asked her to sneak into the trunk of my car.
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about Prozac being lonely. Because when I opened the door to my cabin, I saw she had company.
There, sitting in the cabin’s only chair with Prozac on his lap, was my steward Samoa.
“Good evening, Ms. Austen,” he said, with a sly smile.
After recovering from what I’m certain was a mild coronary, I managed to squeak, “What are you doing here?”
“Samoa came to turn down bed.”
Oh, rats. I’d forgotten to call housekeeping and cancel my maid service.
“Such a pretty kitty,” he said, stroking Prozac.
I only hoped he didn’t come from a country where she was considered an entrée.
“Such a pity,” he said, “if kitty winds up in quarantine.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I begged, then launched into a fevered explanation of Prozac’s adventures as a stowaway.
“So you see,” I concluded at the end of my recitation, “I didn’t really mean to bring her on board.”
Alas, he was unmoved by my tale of woe.
“Kitty not allowed on board ship,” he said, his brown eyes cold as a calculator.
Damn. It looked like the little stoolie was going to turn her in.
“But Samoa won’t tell.”
“You won’t?”
A ray of hope began to shine in my heart.
“On one condition,” he added, that sly smile back in action.
I certainly hope he didn’t expect any dipsy doodle. I love my cat, but there are limits, you know.
But he was not about to ask for sexual favors.
“You famous writer, right?”
“I’m not actually famous,” I demurred, “although I am the proud recipient of the Los Angeles Plumbers Association’s Golden Plunger Award.”
He nodded, impressed. Which, I have to confess, is a reaction I don’t get very often.
“You fix Samoa’s book.”
He looked down at the floor, and for the first time I noticed a huge pile of paper at his feet.
Dumping Prozac from his lap, he reached down and handed me what turned out to be nine hundred manuscript pages. All handwritten in a microscopic scrawl.
Oh, lord. He wanted me to edit his manuscript.
“Do not disturb,” he intoned with great solemnity.
Huh? Did he want me to edit his book or not?
Then I realized that was the title of his book: Do Not Disturb (spelled Do Not Distub).
He then proceeded to give me the highlights of the plot, a stirring opus of a swashbuckling steward who (in between changing bed linens) manages to foil an international terrorist plot on the high seas.
“Best seller,” he nodded proudly.
Oh, yeah? In what universe?
“But Samoa’s English not so good.”
Tell me something I didn’t already know.
“You fix for me.”
I eyed the massive pile of handwritten pages. Yikes. This stuff made the Rosetta stone look like Fun with Dick and Jane.
“You fix by end of cruise.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Sad to say, he was quite serious.
“You fix by end of cruise, or kitty goes to jail.”
“Okay, okay,” I sighed, kissing my relaxing vacation bye-bye.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: What a Day!
Jaine, honey, what a day it’s been. All I can say is, I refuse to fly with your father ever again. He spent the entire trip following the flight on his TV screen, convinced the captain was going the wrong way. Talk about your backseat pilots. He kept shouting things like, “Turn left at Amarillo! Left, dummy! Left!” Finally, the flight attendant asked him to lower his voice; said he was disturbing rows 14–27. Honestly, sweetheart, I was counting the seconds till we landed.
And