This was one of those little bits of movie dialogue that I must have heard while nodding off to sleep at night in front of the TV’s late-late-late show. These arcane expressions just pop out of my mouth from time to time, usually when I’m in tricky situations with men.
“But I’ll be sure to give him your message,” I added meaningfully, as if to imply that he’d better back off or Jeremy would have thugs of his own beat him up. The Russian stared at me to see if I could possibly be so innocent, then he laughed good-naturedly.
Jeremy returned, took my hand firmly, said to the Russian, “Cheers, thanks,” and yanked me away toward the car. We had scarcely roared off when Jeremy said to me, not without a slight accusing tone, “So. How much did he offer you?”
“For the boat, or for me?” I countered.
Jeremy said, “Hah. Both!”
“For the boat, three times what you paid for it,” I admitted. Jeremy made a snort of derision. “For me,” I added loftily, “he ’vants to sail me around the world and show me all its vonders.’ ”
“And what did you say to him?” Jeremy asked.
“I told him I’d meet him down by Pier Six,” I said with a straight face. “I said I’d have the keys to the yacht between my teeth.”
“This Riviera is having a mighty bad influence on you,” Jeremy scolded. “I suppose I’m lucky you weren’t carried off by an Arab prince.”
I reached into my pocketbook for my sunglasses. The purse had come unsnapped, I noticed. And sitting there, right on top, was a cream-colored business card with only one line of text on it:
Andrei Gaspar
. “Huh,” I said, reading the words aloud. “How did this get here—?”
Jeremy whistled. “So that’s who he was,” he said. “You almost got shanghaied by one of the richest blokes in Russia.
Out
of Russia, actually. Lives in London now.”
“That guy?” I asked, astonished. “Wow. When did he manage to drop his card in my . . . ?” Then, remembering his hot breath tickling my neck, I blushed. I felt indignant, and quickly rummaged through my purse to make sure nothing was missing. It wasn’t.
“Well, darling,” Jeremy said with a sideways smirk, “you’ve met your first oligarch.”
Chapter Eleven
In the next few days, Jeremy and I became absorbed in all things nautical. I couldn’t believe how much there was to learn about a boat. And instead of experiencing "buyer’s remorse,” I found that everything we learned about the yacht made us happier" I and happier, with pleasant surprises about how lovely it was. Jeremy had contacted Claude, the captain, who in turn would arrange to reassemble the crew, which included Brice, the first mate; Gerard, an engineer; and François, the steward who would do a little cooking.
The captain met with us at the yacht to go over some preliminary details. Claude was an attractive, athletic-looking Frenchman in his mid-fifties, with neatly clipped salt-and-pepper hair, a rugged tan, and a taut, muscular body beneath his impeccably pressed clothes. He possessed a skillful combination of both nautical authority, and deference to Jeremy, the new owner. All of this inspired confidence in having him as the man who would literally steer our ship.
He shook hands with Jeremy, and nodded respectfully to me with the kind of politely approving smile that Frenchmen, regardless of their age, give to a woman to acknowledge her female presence.
He told us that a boat, no matter how beautiful, was only as good as its upkeep. Fortunately, this one had been well cared-for, and operated every summer until very recently when it sat through a few seasons and then was suddenly, unexpectedly taken out in stormy weather.
Although he would not recommend a major refitting, he would still like to hire some day workers to paint, repair, and give the cabins and salons a thorough cleaning. He would also advise putting some of the modern safety and security equipment aboard. He suggested I select some bed linens and bath towels from a store that catered to yachts, and would monogram everything for us. He thought we should pick out a monogram for the crew’s uniforms, too.
“See?” I told Jeremy. “Another reason to select fonts. I’m a pro by now.”
“And you said you wished to change the name, sir?” the captain inquired, consulting his notes. “You wish to call her
Penelope’s Dream
, is that correct?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jeremy said firmly.
“Very well, sir. It shall be done.” The captain smiled at me, because Jeremy had already introduced me as “Mademoiselle Penelope Nichols.”
I couldn’t even trust myself to speak until we had clambered down the gangway. My eyes misted over when I said, “Who did you name that boat for?”
“You, of course, you fool,” Jeremy said.
“Well,” I said, “it could have been for Aunt Pen.”
“Sure, her, too,” Jeremy said. “Claude says we should come back in a week and look over the boat. He says we can christen her and take a couple of friends out on a trial run which he would do anyway to see what needs to be done on her engine. Then he’ll need another few weeks to put in all the modern equipment and finish spiffing her up.”
“Jeremy,” I said, bursting with enthusiasm, “why don’t we hold a little cocktail party when we go for our test run? You know, invite our parents and maybe a few close friends.”
“Sure!” he said. “I’ll stock the yacht’s wine cabinet, too.”
Well. If you buy a fancy boat, there is no such thing as a private little party. Because apparently, it was big news among the yachting set that
Liesl’s Dream
had changed hands. The original owner, it turned out, had cut a dapper figure and was beloved by many, and had raced her and won trophies, so people were curious about who the new owner was. News items showed up in papers with names like
The Yachting Gazette
.
People who weren’t involved in yachting were also interested, because, I soon realized, it’s very common for onlookers to gather round marinas whenever a new boat pulls into port or gets christened; everyone’s hoping to spot a famous guest, like a rock musician or a fashion model or a Hollywood actor or sports hero or some international tycoon. Even if it’s just plain folks like us, the photographers snap away anyhow, in case we turn out to be more important than they guessed . . . or if we crash the boat on a drunken spree and drown in the deep . . . thereby becoming news-worthy after all.
And the press, whilst snapping away, aren’t the least bit shy about sidling on board for a free drink and snack. Actually we had quite a few uninvited guests that night, but Jeremy and I were initially too preoccupied to notice.
When we first came aboard, Claude and the crew, looking sharp in their new uniforms, had lined up to formally welcome “the new owners.” Jeremy looked ever so nice in light-colored trousers and dark jacket; and I wore a navy chiffon dress with white piping and white sash, white ballet flats and a white scarf on my hair.
My parents were in Europe now and they turned up spiffily dressed, with Mom in a pale pink linen pantsuit and Dad in light grey pants, a white shirt and navy cashmere sweater. Dad is one of those Frenchmen who looks fit and trim no matter how much butter he eats. I inherited my brown eyes and delicate pale skin from him. Mom has copper-colored hair like mine, but she’s adorably petite, and her face has that wry, watchful look that intelligent English women have. They were as eager to see us again as they were to view the yacht, and they listened, wide-eyed, when I regaled them with the story of the auction. Jeremy and I took them on a tour; my father was fascinated by the kitchen stove, and would have liked nothing better than to test it out, right then and there, but he behaved himself by going back up on deck to mingle with the other guests.
When we returned, Aunt Sheila, Jeremy’s mum, had arrived. She was positively stunning in a violet-grey dress, seeming perfectly at home at a yacht party, youthful as ever, with blonde straight bangs across her forehead and a cool Britannia attitude. She and my parents settled in together on the teak steamer chairs on the aft deck, and François brought them champagne.
Jeremy had not invited office friends from London, but one of our guests was a young French lawyer from the Parisian branch of his firm, who’d originally helped us with the settling of Great-Aunt Penelope’s will, and was now handling the legal transaction of the boat. This was Louis, an impeccable fellow with curly dark hair. He told me that the vivacious—and slightly rapacious—Severine, the inheritance lawyer who’d once been after Jeremy, was not only married now but was expecting her first child.
“I’ll bet she still looks great,” I said in a low voice. Louis smiled.
“But you look radiant,” Louis said diplomatically. “It’s nice to be happy, yes?”
“Penny Nichols!” cried Erik as he came aboard. My former boss, a terrific set designer, still looked like a big Irish wolfhound even though he’d cut his wild white hair shorter now. Right next to him was his partner, the wiry, dark-haired Tim. They were already in town to pick up a TV award for one of their movie sets.
“Darling, you look positively chic,” Erik said approvingly. “Let’s sit down this week and have a real chat. Bring Jeremy. Lunch, day after tomorrow?” And he gave me the name of a place where he’d be meeting all day with movie and TV people.
“Need someone to spin records for you tonight on that marvellous Victrola?” Tim offered, as we moved into the main salon. I wasn’t sure if Jeremy would let anybody handle that particular toy, but Jeremy said magnanimously, “Sure, that would be great.”
Lest you think we were the only ones playing music and making noise and being snapped by photographers, let me tell you, there were plenty of other parties in the harbor that night. In fact, some revellers were making a night of hopping from one boat to another because they’d lined up four boats in a row for their big bash. It was a little raucous at first, like a posher version of, well, tailgating at a football game. But it was fun to watch so many people having a good time, as if the whole jaunty yachting culture was at play, with boats coming and going, and big ships dropping anchor farther out to sea, sending their guests zooming into shore on zippy little “launches” so that they could dine at restaurants on land.
All in all, we had a good crowd of about twenty-five people . . . not counting the press and a few other strangers. Our guests were milling around the boat, some congregating on the deck, others hanging out in the main salon. As Brice and François moved about carrying drinks and canapés on silver trays, I noticed, over by the cocktail bar, a rather sad-looking, handsome man who stood alone, gazing at the crowd, and speaking with a German accent when he accepted a glass of champagne. He was in his mid-to-late thirties, with wavy yellow-blond hair, and greenish-blue eyes that glanced around the room as if taking in every detail. He wore a suit of fine linen woven in various shades of green and blue and brown, with a soft beige linen shirt.
At that particular moment Claude and Jeremy summoned me to christen the boat. As I walked toward them, the sad-looking German saw me glance at him and he nodded, bowed slightly and said, “The very best of luck to you.”
I nodded uncertainly, then reached Jeremy and the captain, who handed me a bottle of champagne.
“Oh, God,” I said, stricken, thinking of everything that could possibly go wrong and somehow be a bad omen. What if the bottle wouldn’t break? Or, suppose it shattered in a million pieces and sent shards flying everywhere to cut up the guests?
“Don’t be shy,” Jeremy encouraged. “Go for it.”
So I marched right up, leaned over, squinted in determination, wound up like a baseball batter, and said boldly, “I christen thee
Penelope’s Dream
!”
And . . .
Thwack!
It was kinda tricky, but I managed to crack that bottle on the first whack without slicing myself to ribbons or making any horrible dents in the boat. Everyone broke into applause, and the press even took pictures. So then I felt like Queen Elizabeth. Nothing to it.
“Whew!” I said under my breath. “Glad that’s sorted.” I beamed back at the smiling crowd, and noticed that the sad-looking German had vanished.
Then I spotted a familiar but uninvited face in the crowd—a man coming purposefully toward me with a broad grin. “Holy smokes, Jeremy, look who’s here,” I said under my breath.
Jeremy looked up sharply as good old cousin Rollo loped toward us, reaching out to shake Jeremy’s hand; and he gave me a wet kiss on the cheek, acting like a long-lost friend instead of the relative who’d tried to swindle our inheritance right out from under our feet.
“Congratulations!” he exclaimed, then roared with laughter at the expression on our faces. He hadn’t changed a bit. Wealthy as he is, his suits always look as if he slept in them on a park bench. His pouchy face still had the look of a burnt-out con man, and when he leaned near me I caught that whiff of stale tobacco, spilt whisky, and late nights in seedy bars with dubious women. Rollo is actually my mom’s cousin. He is what you might call a man of leisure. This leaves him lots of free time to collect various antiques and artifacts which have more than once been of dubious origin. It crossed my mind that Rollo was just the sort of fellow who’d read up on the latest yachting and auction news.
“I was over at Monte,” he said easily, “and heard all about it. What fun, eh?” he added genially as he snatched a drink from the steward’s tray. He was already holding a small plate piled high with assorted canapés from the sideboard in the salon. There wasn’t a single bit of food he’d missed.
“Monte, eh?” Jeremy said, and I knew that we were both picturing Rollo at the roulette table in Monte Carlo, already gambling away his portion of the inheritance. And when he ran out of dosh, well, guess who he’d come to for more?
Yet, there is something oddly vulnerable about him, despite his weaseliness, which makes all of us feel that when he stumbles too hard, he’ll need the family to protect him. And, I have to admit, there wasn’t a trace of rancor or ill-will in his face, voice or gestures. He seemed genuinely pleased . . . at least, to have relatives that he considered well-heeled and able to offer him even more of the finer things in life. It was as if we had suddenly become people worth knowing.