Chapter 75 Paros
Paros
Once a week, Paros was pulled from his duties in the Sloop Shop to teach knot-tying to the guests at the Tropical Bar. His class came at the end of Eduardo’s tutorial on creating bird sculptures from watermelon, and before Israel’s “Rum Cocktail Master Class.”
After his class, Monica cornered Paros and said, “I’ve got something for you, handsome.
” She winked (happily married for decades, Monica had done her damnedest to retain her flirtatious ways) and handed Paros a paper letter in a paper envelope, the first he had ever received on board.
It was a miracle the letter had reached him at all; someone at home had crossed out “Mr. Paros Georgiou, Ikaria Island” and written “Panagiotis Georgiou, The Flying Star, Port of Piraeus”—his family had never liked the fact that he’d had to choose an “Americanized” name to work on cruise ships.
But Paros loved his snappy nickname…after all, it was the name Charlotte cried out in her giant bed as they moved atop her heavenly “pillowtop” mattress… .
Oh, Paros! Paros, yes!
He recognized Charlotte’s handwriting at once, the swoops and curlicues only an American would have the audacity to create.
Charlotte—a beautiful peacock, a scared little chestnut.
He had placed his heart in her bejeweled fingers.
He took the letter below deck, ignoring Monica’s nosy gaze and the implications of her wiggling eyebrows.
Paros shared his crew quarters with three other men.
He wanted solitude to open what he desperately hoped was a love note, and climbed down the narrow ladder that led into the engine room, a dim chamber deep within the ship’s hull.
Grease-streaked pipes and steel were illuminated by bare, overhead bulbs, and the air was heavy with the scent of diesel fuel.
As Paros carefully slid his thumb along the envelope’s edge, easing it open, he felt the ship’s engine vibrating through the floor beneath him.
Charlotte wrote that her daughter Regan was missing in Greece—shocking words that struck Paros like a blow. The thought of a child—even a grown one—lost in a foreign country overwhelmed him with helplessness and fear.
But then, Charlotte’s tone changed. Tender endearments softened her harsh news.
Charlotte wrote that she had made “terrible mistakes” and was coming to Greece.
She offered, once her daughter was found safe, to visit his farm and kiss him.
Paros closed his eyes and thanked God. The farm was now owned by his sons-in-law, but he knew the land held no worth for Charlotte.
The Flying Star sailing ship, however, she would adore, especially the Tropical Bar, which was stocked with chardonnay. She would admire the sixteen canvas sails unfurling like wings under towering masts.
When they had shopped together at an antique store in Savannah, in fact, she had admired a painting of two bulldogs in sailor costumes aboard a four-masted barquentine, and Paros had delighted his Charlotte by purchasing the artwork.
He knew that she had hung the painting of bulldogs on a ship in her guest room, where her adult children slept when they came to visit.
Paros swooned. If Charlotte came aboard—maybe renting an Owner’s Cabin, why not?
—Paros could join her at sunset. He could explain every detail of the complex rigging while Charlotte ignored him completely and knew herself to be the most fashionable and fabulous woman on deck.
Charlotte belonged on this glorious vessel!
Paros folded the letter carefully. Charlotte’s family was in crisis—and in her time of need, she was reaching for him. Charlotte had sent her cellular phone number. Paros went to Captain Pedro at once to request a guest aboard the ship. “An American?” said the captain, who was Argentine.
“Yes,” said Paros.
“She is your lady friend?”
Paros’s heart swelled with joy. “Yes,” he said proudly, “her name is Charlotte.”