“Penny, my dear, I hope you have many pleasant voyages aboard this vessel,” Rollo said enthusiastically.
“Sir?” Claude said to Jeremy. “We are ready to embark on our trial run.”
Rollo respectfully backed away, but I kept an eye on him and noticed him studying all the little trinkets and fancy items aboard. I even saw him pick up the little antique hourglass and study it, and I half-expected him to slip it into his pocket, but he put it back, very reverently, exactly where it belonged.
Jeremy, seeing that I was eyeing Rollo, whispered to me, “Don’t worry. I told Brice to keep an eye on Old Sticky Fingers.”
And suddenly the crew was rapidly hauling up the funny balloon-like bumpers that keep your boat from knocking into other boats or scraping against the dock, and the deck hands were tossing up the ropes that tethered us. The ship’s bell clanged and the engine cleared its throat and everybody clapped for it, and the whole boat rumbled a bit.
“All ahead!” cried the captain. Jeremy led me to the front deck, which faced out of the harbor, because it was berthed with its back-end at the dock. Our guests all congregated on the decks, clinging to the rails expectantly, and, in a moment of unparalleled magic,
Penelope’s Dream
went chugging out toward the sea.
Other boats parked beside us seemed to float into retreat, in that funny way where at first you’re not sure who’s moving, you or them. Then you realize it’s you who are going forward, not they who are going backward. A few curious ducks paddled alongside us but soon gave up the chase. At first, we moved slowly, until we were clear of the harbor. Then, we picked up speed. Now the whole coastline began to rapidly recede as we pulled out into the wider sea. The beautiful Mediterranean opened her great blue arms in welcome.
Jeremy squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. Still standing on the fore deck at the railing, I could feel the salty spray rising up in a joyous mist as we sliced through it. Within minutes, it seemed, the harbor had completely retreated into the backdrop, and as the boat turned slightly to the right, I saw that everything on the coast’s rising cliffs looked doll-like in miniature. The pocket of sea that surrounded us seemed to expand and grow wider, and wider still, until we had the delicious, heady experience of being released from the land, set free upon the open sea and open sky with nothing to hem us in, tie us down or hold us back. It was almost like taking off in a balloon, with the wind pushing us along in a great big
pouff
of good luck.
Other boats passed us and honked their horns, and their passengers waved. We saw the slow, purposeful ferry that goes out to the island of Corsica, painted a gay yellow. As we sped along, we passed a monstrous megayacht followed by a fleet of its accompanying little adjunct boats, which trailed after it like ducklings following a mama duck. Claude, our captain, seemed to know about every yacht in the bay. He told us that the whole entourage belonged to an oil baron, and actually had a helipad and small chopper on board.
Jeremy and I walked back along the side galley to the aft deck, where most of our guests were relaxing. I found my parents still tucked up happily in the steamer chairs, chatting with Aunt Sheila. Jeremy went to get their drinks refreshed. My father rose, stretched his legs and came up to stand beside me at the railing.
“Well, little Penn-ee, how does it feel to have your very own boat?” he asked teasingly.
“A bit scary, but wonderful,” I admitted cheerfully. “No matter how comfy a yacht is, the sea is always bigger.” I had suddenly realized that my compact little personal universe was just bobbing along on the surface of a globe that itself is whirling around in the vastness of time and space.
“In life, it is good to take chances on a dream,” Dad chuckled. My father had spent his youth in France taking care of his mother until she died, but he’d managed to get his university degree while working as a chef; and he’d pursued his dream by coming to the States, where he met Mom, who had also made a break with England to seek her future abroad. When they told stories of their courtship days, it was almost like listening to a bedtime story that grows sweetly familiar as you hear it repeated. I’d felt protected by their cozy stories; but I wondered if I’d ever have stories of my own to tell. Now, as an adult, it was fun to offer my father a chance to relax, lean his elbows on the railing and tilt his head up to the sun. The nice thing about chasing a dream is that you get to share it with people you love.
As the wind rippled around us, Dad told me that he and my mother would be visiting friends in France, then they’d head back to London before flying home to the States. We both glanced at my mother, just as Rollo came over to talk to her. Mom smiled politely, but I could tell that she was rather alarmed at the sight of him.
“Rollo invited himself,” I told Dad.
“Ah. Then I had better go rescue your mother,” my father drawled. I moved along the decks, stopping to make sure that I’d spent some time with each guest. Jeremy was doing the same, and now and again we’d look up at each other and smile.
Since this little maiden voyage was a trial run to see what things worked properly and what needed tinkering, we trailed along only about as far as Antibes, then turned to head back. On the way, majestic sailboats appeared suddenly from around the bend, their sails flapping like proud swans. By now our guests had gathered together on the aft deck, and people began singing, in harmony and counterpoint, applauding anyone whose voice was especially entertaining. Sometimes I’d see a member of the crew, stopping to assess if things were going all right, and then he’d smile in amusement at the guests’ evident pleasure.
Finally, the now-familiar harbor at Nice came rising up into view, and
Penelope’s Dream
slowed her speed. Soon we were gliding past the boats that were too big to park at the dock. As we passed an enormous anchored yacht, I heard a strangely familiar sound which at first I could not identify because it seemed so out of place.
Ka-thunka thunka. Ka-thunka thunka.
I peered at the boat.
“Is that a basketball court on the aft deck?” I asked in utter disbelief.
Ka-thunka thunk.
“Yep,” Jeremy said, shaking his head. He thinks Americans will put a basketball net on anything, everywhere they go. (Maybe he’s right.)
Then
Penelope’s Dream
backed right into her snug berth. Lots of other people on the quay stopped by to admire her, too, and to wish us well. The sun, which made the sea sparkle like a movie star’s sequined blue gown, had become a flaming red-gold ball, that made the wood and brass fixtures on the boat just glow with polished glory; and, while the sky was still blue, the moon shot up out of the sea as if it had been fired from a cannon, rising high against the velvet backdrop of the sky, and hanging there like a great big pearl.
Our guests began to drift away, calling out their fond goodbyes, until it was just Jeremy and me (and the crew). Slowly, the stars came out, one by one at first, and then more, as if a magician had taken a magic wand and was lighting lamps for those at sea. The old-fashioned music playing from our Victrola echoed along the harbor like ghostly voices from the past.
Standing at the fore deck, I heard recordings of lilting singers from long ago, like Caruso and Chaliapin, floating toward me from the gramophone. Soon Jeremy came and stood by my side.
“We got an amazing collection of old classical records with that Victrola,” he enthused. “Claude says the owner used to just sit on the boat in the harbor, smoke his pipe and listen to Beethoven. People could hear the symphonies wafting out across the water at night.” He breathed deeply. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Just sit on deck and listen to the Victrola and chill out.” It was the first time I’d seen him look really happy at the prospect of kicking back and taking time off.
We stood there, side by side, a bit longer, watching as the stars intensified. The captain wished us good-night as we finally left the boat and climbed into Jeremy’s car. Claude had told us that the trial run was very successful. Once the final tweaks and upgrading were done, we would lay in food, water, and supplies. The boat would be refueled. And then, as Jeremy said,
Penelope’s Dream
would be on her way. And we would embark on our very special summer.
Part Four
Chapter Twelve
At five-thirty the next morning in the villa, we were awakened unceremoniously by a loud, startling
Oooo-ooo-wooo-WHOOSH!
sound that rattled the entire house, and even caused the chirping birds to shut up and listen in dread. It had begun as a low rumble, which crested in a loud boom, as if someone had beat a gong . . . in the basement.
Jeremy was already out the bedroom door before I could exclaim, “Oh my God, what was that?” We tore downstairs.
“It came from the cellar,” I said unnecessarily. He picked up a flashlight and shone it ahead of us, down the basement stairwell.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he said wearily. I peered around him.
Ahoy, mate. The entire basement was flooded, and anything that wasn’t nailed down was floating merrily by. Empty cans and bottles (Great-Aunt Penelope had been a saver of “useful” things) and ancient packets of garden seeds and even a punctured bicycle tire.
Jeremy, a man of few words (particularly when he hasn’t even had his morning coffee) was already on the telephone with Denby, who, in addition to fixing up my auto, now turned out to be a useful resource for getting workmen to show up in a hurry. He suggested a plumber and said, “Mention my name, I fixed his Ferrari.”
As Jeremy dialed the plumber’s number he muttered, “A plumber with a Ferrari. That will surely bankrupt us.”
The plumber was actually a very cheerful fellow named Jean-Paul. He arrived in thigh-high boots, a pair of overalls that were stained with grime and that orange stuff that collects in pipes, and he had a toolkit in hand. He sloshed around downstairs while I made coffee with hot milk in big cereal-bowl sized cups which the French use for their morning
café au lait
. I offered Jean-Paul a cup, which he accepted, as he explained that something had plugged up a pipe and caused it to burst. It could be anything, including a snake or animal that had nested, having assumed, since nobody was occupying the house, that we wouldn’t be needing our pipes.
"C’est normal,”
Jean-Paul said, “these things are bound to happen when you start really using a house that has been asleep so long.” He gave us his estimate and explained that the work ought to be done right away, so that the water didn’t soak the wood and require
détermitage
(termite control).
“Okay, okay,” Jeremy said hastily. Since he had the plumber here, he asked the guy to take a look at the bathrooms and toilets upstairs, which he suspected required work. Jean-Paul made his assessment; one of the toilets needed replacement, and there were a few pipes that looked suspicious.
“Know what I think?” Jeremy told me as Jean-Paul set to work. “We might as well have the renovations done all at once, right now. The plasterer, the electrician, the carpenter, everybody. Remember those loose floor boards on the upstairs landing? You nearly killed yourself on those the first time we came here.”
“Pardon me,” I reminded, “but where are we going to live?”
"On the good ship
Penelope’s Dream
,” Jeremy said enthusiastically.
“Could we really do that?” I asked, intrigued.
“Why not?” Jeremy said. “Once the upgrades are done. You said we should cruise around the Med, stopping at all the places we’ve always wanted to visit. We can always do an overnight in an hotel.”
“That sounds great!” I cried. “Saint Tropez, Monte Carlo, Portofino, Amalfi . . .”
“I’ll make the phone calls for some of the repairs now, while I might still catch these guys. Then, let’s go down to the harbor and plot our course on the maps,” Jeremy said. “We’re supposed to meet Claude at noon anyway.”
“Okay, but don’t forget, we’ve got lunch tomorrow with Erik and Tim in Nice at the Negresco,” I reminded.
“The Negresco! Why’d they pick that?”
“Erik’s got all kinds of meetings lined up there. But you have to come, they’re dying to chat with you because they didn’t get to really talk to you at the party,” I added.
“These are the guys you worked with on those movies, right?” Jeremy said warily. “Erik’s the set designer and what does Tim do?”
“Practically everything else on the set—he’s the prop-master, but he coordinates stuff with the wardrobe people, and with me, so that it’s all historically accurate.”
“They want to find out if I’m worthy of you. Okay, I can do it,” Jeremy said cheerfully. Then he asked curiously, “Do you miss the work?”
“It hasn’t been
that
long,” I said. “I’m not a workaholic, like you. But you’re improving, now that you’ve won your yacht and have taken your first class at ‘The Riviera’s Training School for Bon Vivants.’ ”
“Very funny,” Jeremy said. “Finish your breakfast and let’s go.”
Chapter Thirteen
Looking back on it now, I feel kind of sorry for us. I mean, we started out happily tooling along the
moyenne corniche
road from Antibes to Nice, the wind in our hair, the sun at our backs, the sea sparkling to our right, the sky overhead a soft, encouraging blue. On such a morning you want to sing with joy, and we actually did, tootling along, singing every song we could think of that had boats or the sea in them. It started with the radio, when we found an English-language station that was playing
By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea . . .
And then we swung around the curve of the harbor, parked the car and headed for our boat’s little parking slot . . .
... and stopped dead in our tracks. I turned around in confusion, mentally retracing my steps. For a moment I completely lost my bearings. “Hey, that’s weird,” I said. “We must have passed . . .”