24
Maika
“This is going to be a disaster.”
I say it as I look at the makeshift kitchen next to the main pool, as if I were watching the scene of a tragedy set to blaring tropical music.
In front of us, several stainless-steel work tables are lined up in the center.
The teak decks gleam under the sky, the lounge chairs are packed, and in the background, the entertainment sound crew has the microphones ready.
The passengers are enjoying their cocktails and watching with interest the charity cooking contest organized by the cruise line for the day at sea.
And there we are, Helen and I, wearing company aprons over our clothes, surrounded by lemons and with absolutely no experience making sorbetto di limone in front of more than three hundred people in flip-flops. This certainly can’t end well.
No matter how intently Helen is studying the recipe.
Her glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and her brow is furrowed.
Her white officer’s uniform—a short-sleeved shirt with gold braiding and trousers—is spotless, for now, beneath the apron.
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail that looks capable of withstanding a Category 5 hurricane on the high seas.
In other words, a real stunner.
“Now you can call it ‘Operation Citrus,’” she replies without looking up from the paper. “We have to be the best—we have no other choice. As officers and crew, we’ll set an example.”
I look at her in utter disbelief and let out a long sigh.
“Helen, sweetheart, this is uncharted territory for me. I coordinate the bachata classes and the bingo nights; I don’t know my way around the kitchen. So don’t ask the impossible.”
“The recipe has very clear instructions,” she insists calmly, holding the paper right in front of my face, as if having the text in 14-point Times New Roman were going to work the miracle of turning me into a chef.
“So do the Ikea furniture instructions, and once I had six screws left over and ended up with a bookshelf that looked like a modern art sculpture.”
She sighs as if gathering all the patience in the universe before answering.
“Focus, Maika. Just a little.”
“I’m trying, really, but I’m so distracted by the idea of causing mass food poisoning on board and having to quarantine the ship. Imagine the headlines back home.”
Helen finally looks up and pierces me with that serious gaze that, lately, doesn’t intimidate me as much anymore. On the contrary, it turns me on. Beneath her usual composure, I sense other things—things I love much more.
All around us, the other pairs take their places.
The first officer, the chief engineer, some colleagues from my own entertainment team, and even the ship’s doctor are trying to break up what looks like reinforced concrete.
Gonzalo walks past us with a glass of ice-cold white wine in his hand and a smile so smug it makes me want to throw a lemon right in his face.
“Enjoying your culinary date, my dears?” he asks sarcastically, delighted that he signed us up for the charity event.
“I’m going to murder you and throw you overboard while you’re sleeping, Gonzalo. I promise,” I threaten, grater in hand.
“Wow… the sexual tension is really high around here,” he replies, chuckling under his breath.
Helen clears her throat, visibly annoyed.
“Gonzalo, get out of my sight right now if you don’t want me to file a report against you.”
“Ooh, ooh… The security officer is getting aggressive. I love it.”
“You have three seconds,” Helen warns, starting to point a finger at him with a look that could melt the icebergs of the North Atlantic.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving. But remember that this is for a good cause, that the funds go to the NGO. And, Maika…” He winks at me cheekily. “Please don’t set the deck on fire.”
Gonzalo walks away laughing out loud, disappearing into the crowd of sunbathing passengers.
“I hate him,” I mutter under my breath as I watch him walk away.
“No, you don’t,” Helen replies calmly, though I detect a hint of amusement in her voice. “He’s a pain, but he’s got a good heart.”
Helen sets the recipe on the table and begins organizing the ingredients. Her movements are methodical, almost hypnotic. It’s a delight to watch her in charge, honestly.
“Okay. We need sugar, freshly squeezed lemon juice, finely grated zest, cold water, crushed ice, and…”
“And a miracle. A miracle the size of an ocean liner,” I add.
“Maika, cut it out,” she scolds me.
“Hey, I’m helping out with emotional support. That should count toward the jury’s score, too.”
She looks at me for a long second, then shakes her head as a faint smile threatens to appear on her lips.
Oh my God. I think I’m starting to rediscover all her smiles.
And a few more besides. The small, resigned one.
The ironic one she uses when something strikes her as absurd.
The one she reserves for Gonzalo’s nonsense.
And the one she tries to hide because she knows perfectly well the devastating, seismic effect it has on me.
The cruise director steps onto the pool stage, microphone in hand, and raises his voice with contagious enthusiasm that booms through the speakers.
“Welcome to the crew’s charity dessert contest! A round of applause for our brave contestants!”
The passengers, settled in their lounge chairs and at the tables by the pool bar, clap and whistle enthusiastically.
“This afternoon, our pairs will compete to prepare the best Italian lemon sorbet in the Mediterranean. The jury is made up of our executive chef, the ship’s captain, and…” He pauses dramatically. “Members of the shipping company’s management who are on board inspecting the ship.”
I look toward the judges’ table, set up in the shade of the awning. Arturo Valdés and Julianne Ferguson raise their glasses with absolute composure, as if evaluating the crew’s desserts were part of their daily routine.
“This is starting to look like an Inquisition tribunal,” Helen murmurs, following my gaze.
“Right? Any minute now they’ll ask us for human sacrifices or, worse yet, to balance the safety reports in Excel at midnight.”
“The reports will come first, for sure,” she replies ironically.
“You’re so scary when you’re funny without even trying—I’m telling you.”
She completely ignores me and focuses on the utensils. The contest kicks off amid applause, shouts from the audience, and the sound of Caribbean music in the background. The pairs get to work while the passengers watch, enchanted, some standing and leaning on the railing of the upper deck.
And then I discover something fascinating: Helen cooks exactly the same way she works in the security department. Perfectly organized.
“Five more grams of sugar would completely throw off the sorbet’s acidity balance…” she informs me, tapping her lips with her index finger before weighing each ingredient on the scale.
“Are we making a dessert for the passengers or defusing a bomb?” I joke, resting my chin in my hand.
“Cooking is precision, Maika,” she says.
“Cooking requires faith, love, a good splash of alcohol, and a little improvisation, Helen.”
“That makes no scientific sense.”
“And yet I’m convinced I’m right. Remember, intuition is my superpower.”
She snorts, and I take advantage of her distraction to steal a bit of the liquid mixture with my finger. Helen looks at me in utter horror, as if I’d violated the maritime code.
“Maika!”
“It’s good. Really. A little tart, but it’s promising,” I say, licking my lips.
“You can’t stick your finger in there. We’re in front of the passengers and the bosses. Have a little hygiene, please.”
“Oops, well, I’ve already done it. Too late to write me up now,” I say, shrugging.
“We’re working in public,” Helen insists, though I can tell she’s holding back a smile and her eyes linger for a second on my mouth.
“Well, let the passengers learn some advanced tasting techniques.”
Helen closes her eyes for a moment, as if praying to Neptune for a little more patience.
“Please, try to behave like an adult for thirty minutes. That’s all.”
“That sounds incredibly boring and doesn’t fit with my role as an entertainer, but I’ll try…” I lean in close to her ear, lowering my voice over the pool music. “But only because you asked me to.”
I obey. Well, sort of. I zest the lemons vigorously while she prepares the sorbet base, and, surprisingly, we start to click.
Just like whenever we stop fighting over who’s right.
Helen organizes. I improvise. She adjusts the measurements.
I taste the flavors. She thinks about the molecular structure of the ice.
I focus on just making sure it cools everyone down.
And in between, in that narrow space at the table, we brush against each other constantly.
Little absurd touches of hips and arms that my body registers as full-blown wildfires.
“Pass me the steel bowl, please,” she asks.
“This one?”
“No, the other one.”
“Helen, there are seven identical bowls.”
“The medium one, Maika,” she specifies.
“They all look medium-sized from where I’m standing.”
She sighs, comes up behind me, and picks it up herself. And as soon as she invades my personal space, I feel the air catch in my lungs.
“Are you okay?” she asks, noticing my sudden paralysis.
“Perfectly fine. It’s the summer heat, you know,” I lie shamelessly.
“You just put coarse salt in instead of refined sugar.”
I look at the container in horror.
“Oh. Oops.”
Helen takes the jar out of my hands.
“Focus a little more, come on.”
“It’s your fault for existing, for being this close, for wearing those stripes, and for smelling so good,” I blurt out without any filter.
The words come out of my mouth before my brain can stop them. Helen freezes for just a second, the tips of her ears turning an adorable shade of red. Then she clears her throat, adjusts her uniform shirt, and goes back to the recipe.
“Interesting. Very interesting. The officer of my heart gets nervous, too.”
I try not to smile too much as the pool DJ switches to a more upbeat song.