Caribbean Crossroads (14 page)

 “
The Grapes of Wrath
.”

 “John Steinbeck.” He half-turned to her and smiled. Even at this early morning hour he looked heart-hammering attractive. “Anyway, that was before he turned to lumber, trying to help out a neighbor.”

She took the chocolate he proffered and tried to lighten the mood. “So your parents are a little on the tough side?”

 “Just Dad. Mom was always the sugar.” He shifted his position. “Except at ball games.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, she was bad. She watched the Big Four with me one time and threw her sandwich at the TV screen when the refs missed a key foul. She jumped up and down, yelled. My friends love it. She got thrown out of one of my high school basketball games.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, and she’s a little thing, about 5’3”, but takes her sports
very
seriously. To be fair, the refs were terrible that game, especially to me.”

“What did your dad do?”

“Oh, the whole town knows and gets it. The ref said, ‘Shirley, you best sit down now or I’m gonna put you in the locker.’ And she said, ‘You and what army, Bill?’ So he marched up to the stands and carried her down in a fireman hold. The crowd was laughing—Mom was still talking smack to him. But Sunday she was in her dress and holding the ladies’ tea and all that.” 

Megan laughed. “Sounds like a great family.”

 “What about yours?” He handed her another chocolate. “Probably tight-knit and quilting bees, that kind of thing?”

Megan shook her head, thinking for a minute. “My parents divorced when I was 10. It was messy.” She fingered the wrapper. “We all reacted differently. My brothers got into a lot of trouble, mainly because that was my dad’s streak, and I think they sensed this could be a time to play it up.”

He nodded, as if he understood.

Megan paused, wondering how much to share, and why she even wanted to. “My sister and I are . . . let’s say she’s more of the Rodeo Drive type, and I’m just the rodeo type. I’d rather play football with the guys than cheer them in a skirt.” Her voice tightened slightly. “Kara’s big on appearances—matching shoes, purse, toenails, the whole nine yards, and that’s just to go to the bank. Not really my personality. But, there you are.”

He looked over at her. “Pretty different strokes.” Then he added, “That must have been tough, seeing your folks split up.”

Megan half nodded. “Yes and no. It’s never that clear cut. He had some issues, and she did too, with not dealing with his issues. Hence the counseling and law interest for a while, trying to solve it I think. Or at least prosecute it.”

 “And the psych major now is to what, understand it?”

She looked over at him. This was what she couldn’t fight. His warmth, his genuineness. A part of her wanted to lean into him and never leave. But still, that gray fear kept her back. What did she really know of him, the mainland Bryant versus cruise line performer?    

“You’ve got chocolate on your chin,” she said, and reached up to wipe it with her finger. The touch of his skin surprised her—it looked rugged but was soft, even with the stubble. He gently held her wrist as she pulled away. A shiver tickled her spine. He stared at her with that clear, knowing look, like he’d known her a very long time. A part of her, deep and scared, didn’t like it, not one bit. She wasn’t ready to for him to know her that deeply. That’s always how it began, slipping into comfortable togetherness, where you can see yourself with that person, until you can’t see yourself without them. A flash of nausea went through her—she’d been there before.

Abruptly, she let go of his hand and stood up, gathering her faded cotton robe about her. “It’s late, Clint will have my head. Anyway, I hope you can get past today, with no hard feelings?”

That’s it, keep it official. Keep it impersonal.

Bryant stared at her for a minute—his eyebrow raised— then stood up close to her. Megan felt her ankles start to tremble. Gently touching her shoulder Bryant fixed her robe collar to sit flat. Then he caressed her face. Frantically, she tried to think of something to say or do, her heart thumping loud and hard.

No, no, no. I will not fall.

She stepped back. “This feels right out of ‘The Love Boat.’ Any minute I’m going to hear Captain Stubing wish us good night.”

 “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Too late.” 

He gave her the puzzled math look.  

 “I mean,” she backpedaled, “it’s just really cliché. And you’re—perfect, amazing. A really good . . . person.”

 “Person?”

 “Guy. Man,” she said, rambling. “Hunk. Heartthrob. Whatever. It’s just, there’s this lineup wherever you go, and that’s not my style. I’m not going to beat down hairdos to get to someone. No offense.”

Bryant shifted his weight, completely baffled.

 “I—it’s curfew. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Quickly, she turned and hurried down the hall before he could ask questions. There was no possible way to explain.

Moving to her cabin, Megan’s emotions bounced between wanting to cry and laugh at the same time
. It’s curfew?
She rested her forehead on the door, bonked it once intentionally, then turned the handle and entered the dark cabin.

It stops tonight, she promised herself. Back to normal. Back to safe.

***

In his room, Bryant lay on the bunk, arm behind his head, staring at the frayed mattress tag above him.

What was the matter with him? He had almost tried to kiss her. What happened to taking it slow and not scaring her into flying away? Idiot. But it had been her tonight, that real Megan he wanted. She had been soft and open, almost fragile. He’d wanted to hold her, right there in the hallway, even fall asleep like that. 

 “So what happened?” said Chad sleepily, from the opposite lower bunk. 

Bryant rolled to his side, arm still under his head. Recalling the conversation, he opened his mouth to speak. But then considered his reason for trying, and failing, to kiss her, and he felt confused. Thinking of her rejection, he scowled and closed his mouth. He shrugged.

“I seriously have no idea.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Megan raised her hand to knock on the door, dropped it, then raised and knocked three times, trying to push down the nervousness. For heaven sakes, it wasn’t like she was meeting with the president of the United States.

With more performances routinely going well and Mrs. V. having attended a few more of them, Megan felt slightly more confident in talking with her. Slightly.

A uniformed Jamaican man with white gloves opened the cabin door. “May I help you, mum?” His smooth, lyrical voice soothed her.

 “Yes, I have an appointment with Mrs. Van De Morelle. Bryant Johnson recommended me?” It came out as a question.

 “Dis way, mum.” He led her into the lushly decorated salon room that reminded her of a 19th century Rockefeller home but with modern touches. She saw a set of closed double doors that presumably led to the inner sanctum of Dolores Van De Morelle, wealthy heiress and tireless philanthropist.

Sitting on the Victorian-style dais, Megan observed that the overly decorated room was devoid of personal items. Everything looked exquisitely expensive—silver and ceramic pieces, ornate frames on thickly painted art—but no photos or personal touches.

 “Hello dear, I must apologize as I have a meeting in 15 minutes.” As the older woman entered, Megan was immediately struck by her energy. Though physically she had merely walked into the room, Mrs. Van De Morelle was a
presence.
Bedecked in a regal full-length burgundy gown fit more for a dinner party, Megan had the feeling she slept and awoke in the exact same state. She
was
the dress, incarnate, and all that that embodied.

 “Thank you, Mrs. Van De Morelle, I really appreciate your time.” Megan had automatically stood with the matriarch’s entrance.

 “Tush, sit down. And it’s Dolores, none of that pomp and circumstance.” She spoke with a mixed accent—British with a hint of New England—and settled her full body into a majestic wingback chair. She rang a small silver bell. The butler entered from another white door that led off to another room.

“Keenan, a very quick gnosh if you don’t mind. Just the small silver tray and some lemonade.”

 “Yes, mum.” And he quietly left the room.

 “Keenan is a treasure, been with me for 25 years. Believe it or not, it’s hard to find good domestic help. No one wants to stay in one place for long, or to value it.” She fingered a set of reading glasses that hung by two miniature pearl strands upon her ample bosom. “My grandmother was in service over in England and I can tell you, it was an honor to help at the big houses. We’ve lost the value in taking care of people, I think.”

Megan nodded, struck by the direct but warm manner of the woman. “My grandfather was actually a tradesman, a home builder. Even after doing very well, he used to say that staying close to the ground kept his feet there too.”

 “Sounds like a sensible man. I like that.” She paused, taking it in for a moment. “All right then, to business. I dispense with all that preliminary nonsense, if you don’t mind. You have a question and I have 15 minutes. So let’s get down to cases.” Her tone was factual but a smile played at the corner of her eyes. Megan couldn’t think why.

 “As Bryant may have told you, there is a young girl in the employ of the cruise ship, a cabin maid. I know there are many, but there’s something about her that’s different.” She saw a fleeting look go over Dolores’ face. Megan realized she was likely in a long line of people with their hand out.

 “I’m sure you hear this a lot, but, in my interactions I’ve seen and felt that if she could have a chance to do something with her life, she could not only shine but help a lot of people in the process. She has a plan for her future and how to give back.”

Dolores tapped her glasses, the warmth still there but a shrewdness about her face. “Tell me about her plan.”

From Rosa’s conversations, Megan recounted in greater detail her idea to create a cleaning company, preferably in a bigger city such as Los Angeles where she had some distant cousins. Rosa had shown surprising knowledge of cleaning permits, taxes, and payroll. But there was more. She had outlined a plan, with the help of Miguel, her friend who spoke better English, to provide rotating daycare for the cleaning shifts. Rosa had shared stories of women who left their children in the car in parking lots while cleaning on night shifts at commercial buildings.

Dolores listened carefully, occasionally tapping her glasses on her chest. After Megan had finished, she nodded slowly and said, “Well, my dear. You give me something to think about. How much start up cash do you think she wants?”

 “I believe she would be the best one to talk to about that. But I understand she is hoping for a modest loan that can be repaid with a decent interest rate and time frame.”

Dolores’s eyes went up. “She’s not looking for a cash gift?”

 “No,” said Megan. “Rosa doesn’t want a hand out. She specifically said she wants to earn her way and to pay it back.”

Tap, tap, tap
went the reading glasses.

 “Thank you, dear. Give me a few days to think and talk with my bean counters. This is when I miss Harold the most, you know.” She sighed. “Everyone comes with their hand out—not your type, dear—but it’s so tiring. My Harold used to take care of it all, and enjoyed the money side to no end. But it just
exhausts
me.”

Megan didn’t think Dolores could be exhausted about anything.

The butler knocked and entered the room with a silver tray of a few delectable-looking cookies and a pitcher of cold lemonade.

 “Thank you, Keenan.”

 “Mum, your meeting is in five minutes.”

 “Yes, thank you. We’re just wrapping up.” After offering lemonade, which Megan took, he bowed and exited through the same door.

 “Now, dear Megan. Why don’t you ask what you really want to know?” Dolores sat back in her chair, that same merry quality around her eyes again.

Megan sat in stunned silence. What she really wanted to know? But she’d said everything that Rosa had told her, hadn’t she?

 “Come now, Megan, I may be old, but I’m not dead, at least not yet. I told you Bryant is a catch, and he’s had occasion to share how highly he thinks of you.”

Bryant had said something to Mrs. V.? Megan thought back on her attendance at the performances and occasional backstage pop-ins.

 “But something keeps you at bay, doesn’t it? What are you worried about?” Mrs. V. had tipped her head slightly sideways.

 “I—I’m really not sure what to say.” Megan debated between baring her soul and getting up to leave. This woman had some nerve. And yet, she had to admit it fit Mrs. Van De Morelle. She was a combination of Grandma and nosy talk show host.

 “Well then, my dear, let me share with you a few things and perhaps in the mix of it all you might find some help.”

Momentarily, Megan wondered how she should respond to this whole conversation.

 “For one thing, Bryant comes from a stern father, and he has that in him too. But I’ve seen him for almost five years, in one way or another. Took to him right away, there’s just something about him, very son-like. But I’ve been careful. Cast and crew don’t take lightly to favorites.” She smiled then resettled herself in the chair.

 “He’s been lost at sea, as it were. Pulled between home and lumber yard, and feeling constrained.”

 “Like he doesn’t want to settle down?”

 “Ah, the commitment worry. No, it’s not that. More”— she lightly stroked the arm of the chair —“Bryant is the type of man who will take time figuring what he wants. But he’s not lost. He’s weighing the options, going deep, deeper than one would guess face front. He’s processing, all the time.”

Megan thought of his expression—continually figuring out a math problem.

 “And very intelligent. But his biggest flaw is personal communication. Over the years I’ve seen him work with the company, the passengers, the bigwigs”—she nodded deprecatingly —“and he started off so strong and, frankly, overbearing. But he learned quickly that it got him nowhere. That’s Bryant. He’s an observer, and a quick learner, when he wants to be. And he made small changes. Helped someone with packages. Remembered someone’s name. Brought a passenger down to dance on stage, on impulse. Now it’s a plus, he’s really very good. But it took a while for him to see it and get there.”