Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
KELSEY
Imove into the interior lounge area a bit later, hoping to maybe catch up on my favorite reality show.
I’d spotted a giant screen on the wall during my explorations.
I grab the small remote from the table underneath the screen—set at a precise angle, naturally—and flip the thing on.
It shows some kind of system dashboard like with navigation stuff and weather conditions.
I click around, trying to find some kind of menu or search bar or something, but there is not one.
I text McGillicuddy.
Is there any way to get the TV to work? A password or any kind of streaming or cable or anything?
The screen displays vessel operations and weather conditions.
Can I transition it over to Netflix or anything like that? Is it hooked up to Wi-Fi?
Not at this time.
Are there any TVs that have streaming services or TV of any kind here?
Not at this time.
Okay, thank you.
I add a smiley face and sink into the couch. Well, there’s always my phone. I hop onto Netflix and watch it there—with earbuds.
I feel like I’m on a silent retreat I never signed up for. Who has a beautiful yacht where you can’t play music, can’t watch anything except on your phone, and can’t move a chair two inches without it snapping back the second you leave the room?
On the way back outside, I pass one of the crew members in the corridor—the dark-haired one who seemed to be having trouble keeping his contents under pressure.
He’s polishing a brass fitting on the wall, but when he hears me coming, he snaps into position, eyes forward, cloth dangling from his hand.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Okay, well…” I don’t know what to say, so I just keep walking.
I settle back onto the back deck and grab my phone.
Hi! I would love a snack if that’s possible. Do you have tortilla chips? Anything is fine.
The chef has prepared a menu for your stay.
A PDF appears in my text stream. I tap it open, hoping for a sandwich or something. Maybe a fish sandwich.
I scan down. There are tortilla chips with mango salsa.
I’ll definitely be having that! Puff pastry bites with fig and goat cheese, which is funny because they had those at the wedding and I kept going back for them; did the recipe get featured in a popular magazine or something?
There’s a pretty comprehensive charcuterie board a lot like the one they had at the hotel, which really saved me when I was hungry and didn’t feel like going down for a full meal.
There’s a teriyaki salmon dish, a nice-looking arugula salad, blueberry scones, which are hopefully as good as the ones at the breakfast this morning.
There are even lemon bars. Strange. I never see lemon bars and suddenly there were some lemon bars at the rehearsal and now there are lemon bars of all things on the yacht.
Wait a minute.
I look back through all of the items. Every single one of those items is something I was scarfing down at the wedding weekend.
What the hell? Did Bruno catalog all the things I ate and direct his chef to make up a menu? True we weren’t exactly on speaking terms after he forced my hand but... Also, how did they even achieve it all this quickly?
It’s weird and bizarre, but I suppose it’s somewhat convenient, being that there are lots of things I like on the menu.
I order the chips and salsa and a lemon bar and some sparkling water.
A few minutes later, a young woman with her blonde hair pulled back, maybe twenty-five, appears with a tray bearing a glass of sparkling water with a slice of cucumber in it—just like at the hotel—and my chips and salsa and lemon bar.
The salsa is in a small ceramic bowl with a sprig of cilantro fanned across the top—not just dropped in, but fanned. The chips are in a spiral radiating outward. The lemon bar is placed at a jaunty angle on a folded napkin. Another napkin is folded origami-style like a bird.
“Hi! Wow, that was fast!” I’m thrilled to see the food, and I’m also thrilled to see a human being, honestly. She nods and starts to turn away.
“Wait—this is gorgeous. Did you do this?”
She turns, looking around. “I plated it, yes.”
“It’s very artful,” I say. “Something not at right angles!”
She nods and begins again to retreat.
“Hey—wait,” I say. “What’s your name?”
She stops in her tracks. “Annie.” This she says without even turning around.
“Annie! Hi. I’m Kelsey.”
She nods and begins again to walk.
“Wait! Can you come back here for a second? I just had a question.”
Annie turns, looking frightened, now. “What is it?”
“No, like come here for a second if you’re not too busy?”
She comes up to me, gripping her tray in two hands, her expression all concern. “Texting is truly the best mode of communication.”
“But you’re right here! So, Annie. How long have you worked on this yacht?”
“Five years, ma’am.”
“Five years! Wow. Do you like it?”
“I do. Will that be all?”
“Did you ever watch that reality show Below Deck? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No,” she says with a nervous sideways glance. “Will that be all?”
“Well, it was okay. This yacht seems a lot more stringently run than the yachts on that show.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you not supposed to be talking to me?”
“This is a silent yacht. Will that be all?” Translation: Please let me escape.
“Yes, that will be all. Thank you.” Because what else am I going to say. I settle back with my snack, looking around. Are there cameras? She’s not being held here against her will, is she?
I’m feeling a little alarmed now.
I pick up my phone and text McGillicuddy.
I have a question. Can you come to the lounge area?
What is your question?
I’d like to ask in person.
This yacht runs on text-based communication. You may direct any requests to me here.
I stare at this for a while. This yacht runs on text-based communication.
My request is for you to come hear my request in person.
I wait.
McGillicuddy appears, walking my way, holding her clipboard against her chest like a shield.
“I just had an exchange with Annie,” I say. “When she brought the snack.”
“Is there an issue with the refreshment?”
“No, the refreshment is great. I’m just wondering, like, is there some kind of rule against having a conversation with a guest? Possibly under pain of death?”
“The standard for this yacht is minimal conversation, with the ideal being zero conversation.”
“But I’m going to be on this yacht for four days or so, and I might get lonely.
Is there a way to instruct the crew that they can interact with me in a normal way?
Like tell them it’s okay to even sit down next to me and have a conversation with me.
And nobody needs to freeze when I walk by.
Let it be known that this is a guest request.”
McGillicuddy sucks in her lips. “That won’t be possible. The crew is trained to provide seamless, unobtrusive, silent service. That is the standard Mr. Blackwood requires, and he would be the only one who could contravene that order.”
“It just seems outrageous! Annie seemed terrified when I asked her what her name was.”
“Naturally, a crew member would feel distraught, were a guest to attempt to engage them in a fireable offense.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, panicked. “I didn’t get her fired, did I?”
“She is still employed as of this moment.”
“Well, can you extend my apologies to Annie? Is that a possibility? I wasn’t trying to get her fired. I take full responsibility. I didn’t understand…” I look around. “I mean, it seems a bit Gulag-like.”
McGillicuddy takes a breath and fixes her gaze on mine for the first time. “Ms. Winters. Do you have any idea how competitive positions on this vessel are?”
“I—no.”
“For every open role, we receive approximately five hundred applications. The compensation is extraordinary. Mr. Blackwood expects the best—people who can rise to his exact level of precision and discretion. The people here are professionals.”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Do they get to talk to each other below deck?”
“The operation of this yacht is not your concern, is it?” Her gaze seems to be transforming into a glare.
“Right,” I say. “Okay. No.”
She nods once and leaves.
I sit there with my chips and salsa and the lemon bar. Bruno made them all an offer they couldn’t refuse.
Just like me.
We’re all parts of his big clock.