The Time-Traveling Fashionista (13 page)

“She’s been ill,” Mr. Baxter offered, throwing up his hands in a gesture of defeat. He turned to Louise with a puzzled expression.
“But you love caviar,” he remarked in a baffled voice. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Not anymore,” Louise replied.

He stared into her eyes for a moment, not quite able to place his finger on exactly what was different, and then hastily drank
his champagne in one gulp.

“Miss Baxter, isn’t this ship fabulous? Bruce Ismay has really outdone himself this time. Have you ever seen such luxury?”
asked a sturdy woman sitting opposite Louise. Mr. Baxter had referred to her earlier as Ida Straus.

“No, Mrs. Straus, I haven’t,” Louise agreed. And she really hadn’t.

“We were just speaking about one of your productions,” Mrs. Astor said, turning to Louise, as the men talked about
business among themselves. “Simply brilliant. You are a true talent, my dear.”

“Thank you.” Louise felt strangely proud that she was apparently a famous actress. She was starting to take all these compliments
personally.

“Do you have anything in the works?” Mrs. Straus asked in a conspiratorial tone, hoping to get some juicy gossip.

“I don’t know,” Louise answered honestly, picking up a glass of lemon water.

“Well, it’s a tough business, but you have a good manager. It’s nice to keep it in the family,” Mrs. Astor interjected, nodding
to Mr. Baxter.

Mrs. Straus smiled warmly and raised her glass to Louise. “Cheers to that, darling.”

Louise let out a yelp of surprise as she suddenly felt a socked foot suggestively touch her ankle. Was someone actually trying
to play footsie with her? She watched in shock as everyone continued on with their conversation about American politics as
though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The sweaty foot was slowly making its way under her dress and up her calf.
Disgusted and alarmed, Louise quickly and firmly stomped down on the offending foot with the heel of her shoe, and as if in
a cartoon, Benjamin Guggenheim sprang out of his chair with a howl, knocking over his champagne into Mrs. Astor’s cream of
barley soup.

“Benjamin, what’s gotten into you?” J. J. Astor exclaimed while trying to help his wife fish the crystal glass out of her
broth.

Mr. Guggenheim flushed a deep rose color. Finally Louise wasn’t the only one embarrassed. “Nothing, pardon me, just a bit
of a foot cramp,” he said, flustered, giving Louise a humiliated look as he sheepishly sat back down.

“How is dear Florette, Benjamin?” Mr. Baxter asked pointedly. “It’s a shame she couldn’t make it on this journey with us.
Is she ill?”

“Florette is fine,” Benjamin stammered.

OHMYGOD. This guy has a girlfriend?! Or a wife? A Florette! What a creep!
Now she was starting to understand what “we” meant.

“Please give our best to your lovely wife. Have you sent her a telegraph yet? The technology on this ship is truly mind-boggling.”

“You simply must come into the shop when we arrive in New York,” Ida interrupted. “Isidor and I would love to dress you for
your next event!” she said enthusiastically, seeming to sense the uncomfortable vibe and trying to change the subject.

“The shop?” Louise asked. Ida had found the one subject that could distract her from the horror of the last statement.

“Oh, you know, Macy’s, our store,” Ida answered, as though Louise should obviously know that already.

“You own Macy’s?” Louise asked incredulously while buttering a warm dinner roll.

“Of course, sweetie. Did you hit your head this afternoon?” she asked, laughing.

“I suppose so,” she answered. Brooke would be so jealous if she knew that Louise was having dinner with the owners of Macy’s!
She couldn’t wait to tell her. She wondered if Brooke was at Macy’s at that moment trying to find a new dress for the dance
on Friday.

After that exchange, Louise hardly said a word during dinner. She was still totally hung up on the fact that the dashingly
handsome man, the one who she had shared a boring but romantic walk with just a few hours earlier, was the biggest two-faced
jerk she had ever met. Todd wasn’t the most charming or gorgeous guy in the world, but at least he didn’t have a secret double
life! She was starting to wish she hadn’t run away from him in the hall the other day. He deserved more than that.

When the rest of the table started talking about the Sherman Antitrust Act and the monopoly of Standard Oil, Louise tuned
out. She hadn’t reached that chapter yet in Miss Morris’s history class and felt like she was stuck at a dinner party with
her parents’ older friends.

Her focus turned completely on the banquet of food that was practically spilling off the table. She had hardly eaten
anything since her chicken salad sandwich that afternoon after swim practice. Did she really eat lunch in her Connecticut
home earlier that day? It seemed like a lifetime ago. She was famished.

The next courses came out in rapid succession: ice-cold oysters that looked like slimy slugs but tasted like a burst of the
sea, freshly caught salmon with cucumber and rich hollandaise sauce, filet mignon grilled to perfection and served with artichoke
hearts and earthy mushrooms called truffles, lamb with mint sauce, creamed carrots, cold asparagus vinaigrette. Each course
was delivered separately, by a constant parade of waiters. It was the most elaborate meal she had ever experienced; it was
like going to the theater. These were by far the most scrumptious dishes Louise had ever tasted. Vegetables actually tasted
delicious. Meat tasted tender and flavorful. There wasn’t a drop of malt vinegar in any dish; so much for her mother’s theories
on English cooking. She ate with a greediness and hunger that she had never experienced in her previous life.

“Quite an appetite my niece has worked up,” Mr. Baxter joked, trying to make light of an increasingly embarrassing situation,
as the other ladies at the table delicately nibbled and picked at their food. He patted droplets of sweat from his head nervously
with his damp pink pocket scarf. Louise had a feeling that Miss Baxter probably wouldn’t be pigging out like this, but she
couldn’t help it.

“Ooh, I’m going to save this for Kitty,” Mrs. Astor exclaimed, placing a lamb chop wrapped in a white cloth napkin into her
silver beaded evening purse.

“My dear, that is absolutely disgusting,” Mr. Astor said with a chuckle.

“Who’s Kitty?” Louise asked, swallowing a mouthful of heavenly mashed potatoes.

“Silly, she’s our Airedale. I’m sure you’ve met her before. How I love that dog,” Mrs. Astor gushed.

“She eats better than I,” Mr. Astor joked, taking a bite of his own food.

For dessert, yet another waiter rolled out a multitiered cart of sweets. There was no one to tell Louise that she should take
only one little treat, that she had eaten enough already—only Mr. Baxter, who was staring in amazement at her display of consumption.

Louise had selected a piece of decadent chocolate cake, which had been prominently displayed on the top shelf of the cart.
Shoveling a heaping spoonful into her mouth, she discovered it had a warm and gooey center that tasted like brownie batter.
It was perfectly accompanied by a scoop of silky vanilla-bean ice cream. With each bite, Louise’s corset was getting tighter
and more constricting. How did women eat in these things?

Spooning up the last succulent bit of chocolate goo, she
reluctantly acknowledged that her body was in intense pain. She leaned back in her chair and rested her hands on her stiff
corseted belly. The rest of the table was still eyeing her suspiciously, although pretending to be engrossed in their personal
conversations.

Louise opened up her gold mesh evening purse to reapply Miss Baxter’s glamorous lipstick. She would have to find a way to
sneak a tube of this back to Connecticut with her. It was the perfect shade of movie-star matte red. The texture was thick
and creamy, and they didn’t make anything like it anymore.

Fishing around the deceptively cavernous clutch, she pulled out a crumpled-up piece of cardstock. Louise unfolded the balled-up
piece of paper.

Say what?! I’m where?!

“OHMUHGOD we are on the
Titanic
?” Louise screamed in panic, holding up the piece of paper. The table got quiet, and all eyes stared directly at her. Then,
in unison, everyone burst out laughing, like it was the most hilarious joke they had ever heard.

“Of course we are, my dear. What an amazing actress she is, isn’t she?” Mr. Baxter exclaimed. “I’m glad I signed her when
I did!” He took another large gulp of his champagne.

“You are an odd bird,” Benjamin Guggenheim chided through his laughter.

And you are a cheating creep,
Louise wanted to scream back at him. But she didn’t, because it hardly seemed important anymore, considering this newest
and extremely disturbing revelation. With shaking hands, she dropped the boarding pass onto the food-stained tablecloth.

“May I be excused?” Louise asked, not forgetting her man
ners in even the most dire of circumstances. “There’s something I need to take care of.” Shakily, she got up from her seat,
still in shock that she had failed to realize she was a passenger on the most infamous doomed ship in history. Without waiting
for a response, she unstrapped herself from Miss Baxter’s pinching high heels and hurriedly walked barefoot toward the captain’s
table.

Halfway across the dining room, she heard Mr. Baxter calling out, “Alice! Where are you going? We haven’t had the cheese course
yet….” But Louise didn’t turn around. She was sick of playing the role of Miss Baxter, and now she was scared. She marched
straight ahead, determined to speak with the captain. This wasn’t a game anymore. She needed to get home.

The captain’s cheeks were rosy from drink, and he had the entire table enraptured by an anecdote he was telling. When Louise
walked up to the table, he stopped mid sentence and greeted her warmly.

“Excuse me, Captain Smith, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began hesitantly.

“Miss Baxter, not at all! It’s wonderful to see you looking much more vivacious. How are you feeling?” he asked enthusiastically.

“I’m fine, sir,” Louise replied slowly, not sure how to phrase what she had intended to say now that all eyes were on her.

“But I need to speak with you privately; it’s rather urgent.”

“Let me get you a seat,” he gestured. “I’m sure nothing can be that pressing on such a gorgeous night as this. And you’ll
have to pry me away from this chocolate soufflé,” he added, pointing to the china plate on which sat his half-eaten dessert.

“Have you met my lovely wife, Eleanor?” the captain inquired. Mrs. Smith smiled at Louise with a vapid expression. She was
an attractive enough older lady with silver chin-length hair and thin lips who looked a lot like the librarian at Louise’s
school.

“And my first officer,” the captain continued, “William Murdoch. You two met this afternoon.”

“Yes,” Louise said impatiently, “but—”

“Please, do join us,” Mrs. Smith chimed in. “Edward was telling me that you had quite a scare this afternoon.”

“I’m fine,” Louise repeated, a bit more firmly. “But I really do need to speak with you, or else no one will be fine.”

“Dear, whatever are you talking about? Please sit down, have some tea. You’re getting quite flushed,” Mrs. Smith remarked
calmly.

Almost on cue, Louise felt the warmth spreading up her neck to her cheeks. “I don’t have time to sit down. I need you to come
with me. We need to change the direction the boat is headed,” Louise said as she looked intently at the captain.

“Change our course?” the captain responded in disbelief.

“The
Titanic
is going to hit an iceberg. I’m not sure when, but we can’t have much time left.” As Louise said this, her voice was getting
louder and more hysterical. Passengers at nearby tables turned their heads to see what the commotion was about.

“Miss Baxter, please lower your voice. What’s gotten into you?” he asked, his voice now stern.

“I need you to listen to me. I can’t explain now, but you need to trust me. We are going to crash. I’m sure of it,” Louise
pleaded.