Playing for Keeps (3 page)

“Not the
Titanic,
” I’d answered. “There are no icebergs in the Caribbean.”

“But just the same, you’ll be on a great big, gorgeous ship. Does it have a sweeping staircase?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet it does. You’re going to look great gliding down the staircase in your formal gown while he watches you adoringly.”

“While
who
watches me?”

“I don’t know his name,” Becca said, “but you’re bound to meet him—your one true love. You’re going on a glamorous ship with a sweeping staircase, and your name is Rose. It’s fate.”

“I’m too young to meet my one true love,” I said.

“You’re sixteen—almost seventeen. Rose Calvert was only seventeen when she traveled on the
Titanic.
”

I couldn’t help laughing as she asked, “Are you going to stand in the prow with your arms stretched wide?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “All by myself.”

“Not by yourself. With
him.
I want to know every detail when you get back. You’ll tell me everything.”

“I will,” I answered. “I always tell you everything.”

But I didn’t tell her about my argument with Mom. It hurt too much to talk about.

As Neil took his grandmother’s elbow and gently led her to her wheelchair, Glory called from the open doorway of the terminal, “Rosie! Have you got my carry-on?”

I turned so quickly that I collided with a squarely built, muscular man. He staggered a few steps, then caught his balance. “Oh! I’m so sorry,” I said as I realized I’d bumped into a man who was probably somewhere in his late sixties.

“It is quite all right,” the man said, smiling. He politely touched the brim of the straw hat he was wearing, then motioned to a teenage boy who was standing off to one side. “Ricky,
venga. Ahora,
hijo.
”

Ricky, wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, didn’t respond at first, but as the man snapped “Ricky!” again, the startled boy hurried to his side, grabbed his carry-on bag, and strode with him into the terminal.

Neil pushed his grandmother’s wheelchair to where I was standing. “His face is familiar,” Neil said.

“Ricky’s?” I asked as we entered the terminal, repeating the name I’d just heard. “Maybe you saw him at the airport.”

“No,” Neil said. “The older guy’s. I know I’ve seen his face before.”

I had no answer for him. Eager to enter the ship, I quickly followed Glory and her friends up the long ramp that led to the top of the terminal.

“What’s the bottleneck?” Mrs. Fleming asked as we came to a stop behind a large group of passengers. “Why has everybody stopped here?”

“They’re taking the passengers’ pictures, Grandma,” Neil answered.

With the ship as background through the open window, passengers were posing in groups, smiling or giggling as their pictures were taken by the ship’s photographer. The man I had bumped into earlier, however, was vigorously shaking his head. He propelled Ricky around the group and up the gangway to the ship’s entrance.

“He doesn’t want their picture taken,” Neil said, and I realized he’d been watching them too.

“I understand enough Spanish to know that he called Ricky ‘son,’ “ I told Neil. “But Ricky seems to be only about our age. Do you think he’s really the man’s son?”

“Probably more like his grandson,” Neil said. He quoted some statistics he’d recently read about the number of children and teenagers traveling with grandparents instead of parents, but I wasn’t interested. The last thing in the world I wanted to be was part of a statistic.

I smiled for the camera, cheek to cheek with Glory, then started up the gangway. I would soon set foot on this gigantic, glamorous ship, and I was jumpy with excitement.

Glory fished in her large handbag and pulled out the preboarding papers she’d been given at the airport. As she handed my papers to me, I stepped to one side. At that second someone bumped into me so hard I stumbled backward.

“Lo siento,”
the boy named Ricky mumbled. He stopped in his dash down the gangway, reached out, and grabbed my shoulders, keeping me from falling.

“That’s all right,” I told him as I caught my balance. I wondered about the wary, almost fearful look in his eyes. “You were ahead of us. I thought you were already checked in. Aren’t you going the wrong way?”

Ricky shrugged. “
Mi chaqueta
—my jacket. I forgot,” he said, and began edging away.

The older man took a few steps toward us. “My sister-in-law’s grandson left his jacket on a bench outside the terminal,” he explained. He frowned at Ricky, and I saw the same caution in his expression. “Go. Hurry,” he said in English, and Ricky scurried down the gangway, careful not to collide with anyone else in the crowd of people moving toward the ship.

The man walked back onto the ship, holding up a blue plastic card the size of a credit card. A woman in a trim uniform glanced at the card, then motioned to him to enter.

As I reached the doorway, the woman asked the members of our group for their papers, then gave each of us similar blue plastic cards.

“These cards are your identification, your room key, and your charge card for anything you purchase on the ship,” the woman said. “Always take them with you when you go ashore because they’re your means of returning to the ship after a visit to one of the ports. In fact, keep them with you at all times.”

As I tucked my card into my wallet, I noticed Neil craning his neck to look ahead. “I don’t see him—Ricky’s uncle,” he said. “And I wanted to ask him something.”

“What?” I asked.

“If he ever—oh, there he is.”

Neil hurried to join the man, who was standing at the nearby elevator bank, and I heard him ask, “Did you ever play professional baseball?”

The man stiffened. For a moment his face was tight with what looked like fear. “What makes you ask a question like that?” he countered.

Neil shrugged. “I’m a baseball fan. I started by getting interested in the game when I was a little kid. Then I began memorizing statistics and collecting photos of the players and teams—you know, getting autographs and baseballs and all that stuff. I read a lot about baseball players. When I saw your nephew wearing that Cincinnati Reds cap—well, it helped me remember. Aren’t you Martín Urbino, who used to play third base for the Reds?”

“No!” The man’s answer was brusque to the point of rudeness, and I looked up, surprised.

As if trying to make up for his attitude, the man began to speak quietly and politely. “You have me confused with someone else, son. I am José Diago, and I have nothing to do with baseball. I operate an imports shop in Boston.”

An elevator door opened and people swarmed inside, Mr. Diago with them. His head was down as though he was afraid of looking anyone in the eye.

Weird,
I thought, but then an idea hit me that was even weirder.

2

“HE DIDN’T WAIT FOR HIS NEPHEW TO COME BACK,” I told Neil.

“He didn’t have to,” Neil said. “They both have their card-keys, and we all know our stateroom numbers from the packets that were mailed ahead of time. Ricky can get to his stateroom without any problem.”

“Who was that man, Neil?” Mrs. Fleming shouted. “And who’s coming back?”

“Just somebody I was saying hello to, Grandma,” Neil answered.

For a moment she looked confused, but Glory stepped up, with the rest of the group right behind her. “Have y’all got copies of the list of our stateroom numbers?” Glory asked.

“I think you typed in a mistake,” Dora Duncastle said. “We’re all supposed to be near each other on deck seven, but Eloise and Neil are listed as room thirteen hundred. Isn’t the one in that number supposed to be a seven?”

Petite Betty Norwich elbowed Mrs. Duncastle and whispered, “Eloise booked one of those big two-bedroom suites that cost a fortune. It’s up on the tenth deck.”

Mrs. Duncastle raised an eyebrow, but no one said anything. Neil looked away, studying the designs on the wall as if he hadn’t heard what had been said.

One of the elevators arrived nearly empty, and I thankfully joined the others, crowding inside.

Glory smiled at me and asked, “After lunch, while Eloise is resting, why don’t you and Neil explore the ship and see what fun things there are to do?”

I didn’t dare look in Neil’s direction. I was going to have to have a long talk with my grandmother.

“We may as well have lunch right away,” Mrs. Duncastle said. “That ship’s attendant who met us at the airport said it takes a long time to get all the baggage delivered to the staterooms, so we can’t unpack. Let’s just drop our carry-ons in our rooms and meet in the café.”

A few minutes later, as Glory and I stood outside the door of our stateroom, 7278, I said, “Glory, there are people everywhere to take care of your baggage and whatever you need. You didn’t really need me to come along to help you. Did you invite me to come on the cruise just to meet Neil?”

“Of course not,” Glory answered. “But it occurred to me when you were getting scolded about that party—and you should have been—that meeting a nice boy like Neil would be good for you.”

“Neil is a brain.”

“What’s wrong with being intelligent?”

“Nothing. Except I’m not in Neil’s league. He wouldn’t be interested in me. And I’m not interested in him or in all that stuff he knows—especially not all those statistics he rattles off.”

“Don’t be silly,” Glory said. She put her plastic card in the slot and opened the door. “Neil was only answering his grandmother’s questions.”

“She brags about him.”

“Of course she does. All grandmothers brag. I brag about you. Let’s go inside and take a look at our stateroom. We even have our own little balcony.”

As I stepped back to move out of Glory’s way, I heard a sharp intake of breath and realized I had stepped on someone’s foot.

“I’m sorry,” I said, regaining my balance. I quickly turned and saw Mr. Diago shutting the door of his interior stateroom, which was opposite ours.

“It is of no importance,” Mr. Diago said. He checked to make sure the door was locked. “These passageways are narrow.”

Realizing that Glory was watching from our doorway, I introduced Mr. Diago. Then I asked him, “Did you find your nephew?”

“My nephew?” For a moment Mr. Diago seemed flustered. “Oh, yes. Ricky. He is here on the ship.”

“Then I guess he got his jacket and made it back all right.”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “There was no need for concern.” He tipped his straw hat to Glory, said, “I am pleased to have met you,” and walked quickly down the passageway.

“Who is Mr. Diago? Where did you meet him?” Glory asked as soon as we entered the stateroom.

I didn’t answer for a moment. I was captivated by the beauty of our stateroom. The blues and grays seemed to draw in the sea and sky. Opposite me was a wall of glass with a sliding door that opened onto a private balcony. The stateroom was small and compact, but I loved it.

“Well?” Glory asked.

I hurried to answer. “He’s just someone traveling with his nephew.” I put the bags on the two twin beds. “I bumped into him, his nephew nearly knocked me down, and I stepped on his foot.” I giggled. “I hope we don’t continue meeting like that.”

Glory put an arm around my shoulders. “It’s past one o’clock, and we’re both starving,” she said. “Let’s join the others in the café and have lunch.”

A few minutes later, after I’d gone through the serving line and was seated between Glory and Neil—how had Glory managed to do that?—I noticed Mr. Diago seated at a nearby table against the wall. Most tables had been quickly filled, with seats taken the moment they became empty, and his table was no exception. But there was no sign of Ricky, not even an empty seat saved for him.

I knew from having read the preboarding instructions on the plane that this large café was the only place on the ship to get lunch before we sailed. The main dining room, the small specialty restaurants, and the fast-food diners and ice cream bars were closed for this first, informal meal on the ship.

I gave a quick glance to the heaped plate Neil had prepared for himself. It was a well-known fact that teenage boys were always hungry, so Ricky was bound to be. Mr. Diago was bent over his plate, looking as if he were concentrating on his food and nothing else. Where was Ricky? Obviously his uncle didn’t care.

I turned toward Neil, deciding to tell him about Mr. Diago’s odd behavior, but Neil was listening to Mrs. Duncastle. I heard her say, “My father never missed a major baseball game. If it wasn’t TV, then it was radio. I took in every game right along with him. So it was only natural, I suppose, that my late husband was also a baseball fan.”

“Did you follow the Cincinnati Reds?” Neil asked.

“Yes, but they weren’t my favorites.” She giggled and added, “Don’t ask me why, as a native west Texan, I rooted for the Minnesota Twins. I still remember 1965—before you were born—and the Cuban stars who brought the Twins the pennant— Tony Oliva, Sandy Valdespino, and Camilo Pascual. Pascual was one of the best pitchers in the majors.”

“Don’t forget Zoilo Versalles, a top shortstop with a great batting average.”

Mrs. Duncastle swallowed a large bite of potato salad and said, “Those Cubans really made a name for themselves. I still remember Cookie Rojas. He was with the Phillies and ended up managing the Angels in 1988.”

“There was another Cuban star—Martín Urbino,” Neil said. “Remember him? He was a good all-around player and went on to manage one of the Cincinnati Reds’ minor-league teams.”

“I remember Urbino,” Mrs. Duncastle said. “Stocky and strong. He had a lot of power behind that bat.”

“Take a look at the man facing us at the table next to the wall,” Neil said. “Doesn’t he look like Martín Urbino?”

Mrs. Duncastle put on her glasses and leaned forward. “Where?” she asked.

Neil turned to point him out. I looked too, but Mr. Diago was no longer there. A young blond woman sat in the chair where he had been. She was eating and chatting with the woman next to her.

“I guess he left,” Neil said. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If I see him later, I’ll point him out to you.”

As Neil and Mrs. Duncastle went back to discussing baseball, I turned to Glory on my other side. But she was busy listening to a detailed complaint from Myra Evans about her son-in-law.

I finished my salad, my thoughts on Mom. They were bound to have postcards on the ship. I’d send one to Mom, just to let her know I was thinking about her. To say I was sorry we’d parted on such unhappy terms. To say . . . I put my napkin on the table and began to slide my chair back.

I was about to excuse myself when a tall, muscular man who was probably in his mid-sixties stopped behind my chair, blocking my way.

“Dora?” he asked Mrs. Duncastle in a voice so deep it sounded like the voice of a bear in a Saturday-morning cartoon. “Is it really you?”

Mrs. Duncastle turned, looking up with surprise. She beamed, a tiny speck of broccoli decorating her smile. “Anthony Bailey!” she said, grasping his hand. “I haven’t seen you since Fred and I had dinner with you at that builders’ convention in Las Vegas.”

“How is your husband?”

“Oh, Fred’s fine. Enjoying retirement.” Without letting go of Mr. Bailey’s hand, Mrs. Duncastle introduced him to everyone at the table and giggled. “I was so impressed because Anthony was staying in the Las Vegas hotel’s presidential suite.”

He tried to look modest but didn’t make it as he said, “This time it’s the
royal
suite—top of the line.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Duncastle said, sounding impressed all over again. Then she asked Mr. Bailey, “Are you on board for the bridge tournament?”

He laughed. “No. Bridge is not my game. To my way of thinking, playing cards for fun, as you once put it, is a waste of time.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” Glory began, but Mr. Bailey interrupted her by holding up his free hand.

“Ladies, I own a company that builds and operates casinos. You can see why I said what I did.” He laughed in a low rumble, and some of the women smiled in return.

“Do you manage the casino on this ship?” Mrs. Duncastle asked.

He shook his head. “No, but my associates and I have been discussing the possibility of establishing cruises exclusively for gambling. Excursions in various ports would also be connected to casinos. This is not strictly a pleasure trip for me, since I’m on this cruise as an observer.”

Neil swiveled in his chair so that he could look up at Mr. Bailey. “How many Caribbean ports besides Havana have gambling casinos?”

“Not enough,” Mr. Bailey answered. “But it’s a problem my company can easily remedy, given the right cooperation. As for Cuba, I’ve already made initial contact with authorities in Castro’s government. Eventually, when the tourist trade with the United States is fully restored, I hope to get permission to build and develop a Havana casino that will put any Vegas casino in a backseat.”

“Do you enjoy gambling, Mr. Bailey?” Alicia Carver asked.

Neil spoke before Mr. Bailey could answer. “In any casino the odds are always in favor of the house,” he said. “I could give you statistics, but Mr. Bailey probably knows them. I’m sure he doesn’t gamble.”

Mr. Bailey chuckled. “Only on a sure thing, kid,” he said. “I make it a point never to pass up a sure thing.”

He pulled his hand from Mrs. Duncastle’s grip and patted her shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you and your friends again on this trip,” he said.

Mrs. Duncastle gave him time to leave the café, then said, almost purring, “Anthony is such a nice, friendly person.”

“Handsome, too,” Mrs. Applebee said. “Did you notice that the polo shirt he was wearing matched the blue of his eyes?”

“I think he was flirting with you, Dora.” Mrs. Carver giggled.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Duncastle said, but she giggled too.

“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Fleming asked as she adjusted her hearing aid. “And who was that man?”

“Dora’s good-looking boyfriend,” Glory answered, and all the women laughed.

I couldn’t take any more of their silliness. It was embarrassing to hear grandmothers talking about boyfriends. “Please excuse me,” I said, pushing back my chair. “I have to buy a postcard.”

Glory leaned forward. “Neil, why don’t you go with Rosie? I’ll take Eloise to her stateroom and see that she’s comfortable. That will give you two a chance to look over the ship.”

The back of Neil’s neck turned red as he said, “No thank you, Mrs. Marstead. Maybe some other time, but I promised Grandma I’d look out for her, and I’d feel better about it if I stayed with her at first.”

Was every guy I met going to reject me? Uncomfortable because all the women were watching, I quickly said, “It’s okay, Glory. I’ll see you soon. Excuse me, please.” I strode away from the table to the nearest elevator bank. I’d go to the desk on deck five, where I could probably get a postcard with a picture of the ship.

A girl with long brown hair was the only occupant of the elevator. She wore a sheer pale blue blouse over a white tank top and shorts.
I wish I
looked that cool,
I thought. “Hi,” the girl said as I got in.

“Hi,” I answered automatically.

“Are you going to Star Struck?” She pulled her I.D. card out of her blouse pocket, examined it, then put it back.

I shook my head. “No, I’m going to deck five.” It suddenly dawned on me what she had said, and I asked, “What’s Star Struck?”

“It’s the hangout they’ve got on board for teenagers. It’s on deck twelve.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, and made a face. “Crafts and other so-called fun stuff designed to keep us busy.”

“No. It’s not like that. It’s a cool place. And almost every night there’s a band with some pretty good music.”

The elevator doors began to close. The girl took a step forward, then paused, brushing back her hair. She let the door close again. “Never mind. I’ll ride down to five with you,” she said. “My name is Julieta Vargas.”