Chapter 22 #2
“Hence the term perpetually discontent. But I have learned to be content in all situations. Or at least in all situations I’ve come by in my time. I have everything
I’ve ever needed.”
I rub my eyes. “So you’ve never been jealous of Hugh?”
Gordon raises one bushy brow. “Why be jealous of someone else? What’s the point? What’s to gain? It’s a gigantic waste of
time.”
“And you are financially in good straits?” I look at his game. “You don’t . . . have . . . a gambling addiction or anything?”
That seems fitting.
We are here after all.
He chuckles. “We have a casino on board, Pip. Do you think I’d be up here playing with quarters if I wanted that kind of trouble?”
Oh.
Right.
I have done what research I could on Gordon. As far as I know, he has no unique vices. Nothing, really. He’s clean as a whistle.
I sigh. “Forgive me, Gordon, but I just can’t get past this. Why don’t you care? Hugh was among your best friends—”
“The best of the best.”
“And yet here you are—not caring. At all.”
“Who says that?” A flicker of a smile, one of those old, wise smiles, lifts his beard. “Who says there is only one way to
grieve?”
That’s all there is to it.
He didn’t do it.
I take a breath.
“Gordon . . . what do you think of Nash?”
“Nash?” he says.
His brows rise as his gaze shifts to Nash and then back to me. I can see he understands the depth of the question. How I’m
asking for his opinion, and his opinion only. There’s weight to his words, and whatever he says next, well . . . it matters.
He purses his lips.
Pats my hand.
“I believe this is your interview, not mine.”
“You won’t tell me what you think?”
He shakes his head, easing my mind no more or less.
I sigh.
Gordon always has played by his own rules.
“Mind if I keep playing with you for a while?”
And at last, Gordon smiles.
Truly smiles and digs a handful of quarters out of his pocket.
His eyes twinkle. “I thought you’d never ask.”
We spend the next couple of hours at that bizarre little dungeon of an arcade, watching each other play games and playing
games ourselves. I’ll never be a “gamer,” but I will say, two hours and three fizzy Shirley Temples heavy on the cherries
later, I’m feeling more refreshed than I have in a long time.
The world still doesn’t make sense; nothing makes sense, but standing beside Gordon quietly cheering each other on as our
players grab gold coins and eat imaginary cherries, well, it brings just a little fairy dust to the day. A little hope that
not everything is going to stay dark forever.
“Well, I guess I gotta go back to the real world.”
“It’s the gamer’s remorse. Probably wise to get out while you can.”
“See you at dinner?” I say.
“I will. And before you go, Pip?” I feel the gentle press of his hand on mine. I turn.
His eyes are soft.
“Keep your chin up. I think we’re nearer the end of this journey than we know.”
“Six interviews down and done. Did you break through any mental walls back there?”
We are walking down the hall toward the dining room, and quite frankly, I hate myself for keeping a solid distance between
myself and Nash.
Nash walks with his eyes alert but his hands in his pockets.
Afraid of something around the corner?
Or is he at peace knowing he’s the only thing to fear on board?
“Not yet,” I say. I shake my head.
“Maybe it’s as simple as someone else getting on the ship. Some old criminal from Hugh’s past. Revenge. That’s the most logical
idea.”
“They did know he’d be here,” I say. “I publicized it enough exactly where he’d be, sure. But”—I shake my head—“that’s not
what Hugh alluded to.”
“What?” Nash halts. “When he spoke with you the night before he died?”
I flinch.
I’m guilty, aren’t I?
He came to me, sharing his fears with me, and yet what did I do?
Not take them seriously.
“He said he was afraid it was someone from the inside,” I say.
“Yes, but did he know it for sure? He just felt threatened,” he says. “It could’ve been anyone.”
“Sure,” I say, hedging around the fact that Hugh—or possibly a skilled copycat—pinned the blame on Nash in his letter.
A skilled copycat.
Could Ricky have . . .?
But surely even I could have copied that down . . . forged his signature . . .
“I guess he could’ve been threatened by anyone. He wasn’t specific,” I say.
“It absolutely would make sense if it was someone else. What did he say again exactly?” Nash is keyed up about this direction.
He likes the attention being drawn away from any of The Six and spends the next five minutes breaking down, yet again, exactly why
the most logical suspect is the one who got on board with an indirect relation to some handcuffed con man. Some elderly sister
or mother or aunt of someone Hugh threw in jail.
Some elderly woman with the means, power, and motive to overtake two men when they least expected it and somehow slip one
into my room when I wasn’t looking.
I skirt away from the question and sit down at the same long table I’ve sat at the past several nights on this ship.
Darkness sweeps over the horizon outside the windows, and the glowing candles of the hanging chandeliers flicker with as much
warmth and emotion as the ones in The Dungeon down the hall. White tablecloths have been replaced with deep red ones, each
of the tables with its own set of flickering candlesticks dripping wax amid a cluster of votives.
Everybody else has come to this final feast on the ship in pearls and satin.
Emotions run high from nine long days at sea.
Tomorrow we set foot in Barcelona.
The trip is over.
A celloist plays solo in the corner, his bow sliding with long strokes against his instrument. The music swings between somber
and sweet, I realize. I can hear both emotions in one tune.
A mood to be decided, I suppose, by your mind.
All the book cruise visitors are cheery, with cheeks sunburnt from days on deck with paintbrushes and salt water, minds energetic from daily workshops with favorite authors and new friends.
Everybody else is oblivious. And happy.
All in all (to their minds), the inaugural book cruise of The Magnificent Seven is a raging success.
As the meal is served, conversation buzzes around the room about evening activities in various venues all over the ship. A
set of telescopes set up with a master astronomer. A slew of glowing bowling balls for a final tournament down in The Hole.
The Hole.
It was a horrid slang name for the bottom floor of the ship.
The rest of the musical ensemble joins in now, and a man who sounds an awful lot like Perry Como begins to croon across the
room. It’s not but a minute more before Neena is up and dragging Gordon along with her.
Our eyes connect as he walks to the center of the floor and takes her in his arms.
They begin to sweep along the dance floor.
He winks at me.
It’s like he’s saying wistfully, See? See all that you can choose to live for? Go live.
Slowly he dips her, and Neena, surrounded in a halo of shimmering purple, smiles like all is right in the world.
To everyone’s surprise, several peacock bow-tie staff members walk to the tables and begin holding out gloved hands, and several
ladies with broad smiles oblige.
Incredible.
Even the staff members dance.
“Want to dance, Pip?” I feel the press of Nash’s hand on mine and look over.
There are approximately two male guests in a room of hundreds of ladies (not counting Ricky, who is currently inspecting an insect climbing up the wall), and one of them—the one who before all this I’d have wanted more than anything, more than Michael even, in my heart of hearts—is asking me to dance.
I feel his hand squeeze mine. “C’mon,” he whispers, and I feel the heat creep up my spine.
“You don’t dance,” I say.
“When I’m in a room with the most beautiful woman in the world, I dance.”
Nash Eyre is two people: a suspect on paper, and this.
The most wonderful man in the world.
And yet.
“It’s a terrible time.”
“Horrible,” he agrees.
“We shouldn’t be doing anything for ourselves at a time like this.”
“Or ever again, most likely.”
“But I guess . . .”
A tiny smile creeps up my lips.
Fine.
I’m the worst “investigator” in the world. I’m dancing quite possibly with the enemy. But I can’t help myself.
“One dance.”
Nash grins as his fingers curl around mine and he leads me to the dance floor.
He’s quite a bit taller than me, pulling my posture straighter as I reach up and around his neck. His hand pulls around my
waist, and for several seconds, we fall into a shuffling rhythm around the room.
Then suddenly his hand pushes me gently away at the waist, his other hand holding tight to mine, and before I know it, I’m spinning and stepping sideways as we shuffle in the opposite direction.
His hands gently receive and release me a dozen times, this way and that in rhythm, and before I know it there are gentle
swoops and smiles going around the room. Watching us.
It’s effortless movement.
Somehow I step and glide around in ways I’ve never known before.
The tune drifts into a slower beat after one particularly energetic chorus, and Nash’s hands receive me back into his arms
one final time, and this time don’t let go.
I’m breathless, I realize, with a mix of surprised euphoria and movement.
There’s a little smile at the curve of his lips, put there, I’m guessing, by the feel of me clinging to the collar of his
shirt with one hand and gripping his hand tightly in the other. His head dips toward me as we shuffle, his hat forming a sort
of curtain separating us from the rest of the world.
I’m almost standing on tiptoes to be closer.
Him dipping down, me rising to meet him.
“I didn’t know you danced,” I whisper lowly.
“There was a girls’ camp down the road. They always needed volunteers for the final ball. Let’s just say, my mother was awfully
generous with her five boys.”
My laugh is warm, rich, and foreign to my own ears, it’s been so long.
I feel his hand pull me in closer in response.
“What a kind mama,” I say.
He smiles, and we spin again.