’57 Cadillac. When I stepped forward to kiss her hello, I noticed the silver-and-tanzanite brooch at the base of her throat.
“Nice pin,” I said as she regally offered me her cheek.
“Lars gave it to me,” she said.
Just out of Beverly’s line of vision, Lars nodded, winked, and gave me a thumbs-up sign. The wily old turkey had followed my advice after all.
“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Jonas?” she asked.
“No. I just wanted to get a look at the two of you all duded up. Are you going to have pictures taken on the way into the dining room?”
“Yes, we are,” my grandmother declared determinedly. “And whether Lars likes it or not, we’re going to buy some of them to take home with us.”
To his credit, Lars seemed to know when he was licked. He was prepared to be agreeable, but not so much as to appear out of character. “If that’s what you want,” he muttered. “But I still think they charge way too much.”
Once the pictures were taken and Lars and Beverly proceeded into their dining room, I wandered out on deck. It was a cool, brisk evening. I strolled around on the Promenade Deck for a time, then I went indoors and sat in one of the artfully arranged seating areas. All the while I was observing the other formally dressed, party-going folks, I struggled with my own case of pre-party jitters. I kept coming back to my shrink’s parting words. “Go and have a good time,” Dr. Majors had said to me. “It’s going to be a wonderful trip, Beau. Try to savor every moment.”
Right about then, I was dreading dinner rather than savoring it. In the old days I would have screwed up my courage with several stiff shots of MacNaughtons and gone into the dining room in a warm, boozy haze. Because I’m still on the wagon, I marched into the Crystal Dining Room much later, having ingested no artificial morale boosters other than a single cup of dreadful coffee in the Sea Breeze Bar.
Part of my problem was concern that this dinner would be a repeat performance of the previous evening’s grilling session. I have to admit I wasn’t looking forward to that. For my money, a little bit of Margaret Featherman’s company went a very long way. By the time I entered the dining room, I had decided that if the situation didn’t improve, I’d do whatever I had to the next morning to make alternative seating arrangements for the remainder of the cruise.
I’ve heard it said that ninety percent of the things people worry about never happen. That’s how it turned out to be with that night’s dinner. All my advance concerns proved to be groundless. After a somewhat awkward start, the whole affair — dinner, right on through the show and dancing afterwards — wound up being a rousing success.
Marc Alley and I were the first to arrive. He was dressed in one of those stylish double-breasted tuxes favored by the younger set. He seemed to be in much better spirits than he had been earlier in the day. “I take it you’re over the shock of being deemed unworthy to be counted among the honorable Dr. Harrison Featherman’s lucky patients?”
“I guess,” he replied with a wry grin. “Maybe it’s the same way a trout feels when the fly fisherman throws him back in the water. Lucky, but still wondering why I wasn’t good enough to keep.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m sure there are plenty of other doctors in Seattle who’ll be only too happy to take you and your money.”
The women — two of them, anyway — arrived about then. Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz, dressed in long gowns that did them proud, had evidently stopped in the bar long enough to be in a party mood. And now that word was out that I wasn’t a “dance host,” Virginia was noticeably less hostile. When she and Sharon took seats on either side of
“Nice pin,” I said as she regally offered me her cheek.
“Lars gave it to me,” she said.
Just out of Beverly’s line of vision, Lars nodded, winked, and gave me a thumbs-up sign. The wily old turkey had followed my advice after all.
“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Jonas?” she asked.
“No. I just wanted to get a look at the two of you all duded up. Are you going to have pictures taken on the way into the dining room?”
“Yes, we are,” my grandmother declared determinedly. “And whether Lars likes it or not, we’re going to buy some of them to take home with us.”
To his credit, Lars seemed to know when he was licked. He was prepared to be agreeable, but not so much as to appear out of character. “If that’s what you want,” he muttered. “But I still think they charge way too much.”
Once the pictures were taken and Lars and Beverly proceeded into their dining room, I wandered out on deck. It was a cool, brisk evening. I strolled around on the Promenade Deck for a time, then I went indoors and sat in one of the artfully arranged seating areas. All the while I was observing the other formally dressed, party-going folks, I struggled with my own case of pre-party jitters. I kept coming back to my shrink’s parting words. “Go and have a good time,” Dr. Majors had said to me. “It’s going to be a wonderful trip, Beau. Try to savor every moment.”
Right about then, I was dreading dinner rather than savoring it. In the old days I would have screwed up my courage with several stiff shots of MacNaughtons and gone into the dining room in a warm, boozy haze. Because I’m still on the wagon, I marched into the Crystal Dining Room much later, having ingested no artificial morale boosters other than a single cup of dreadful coffee in the Sea Breeze Bar.
Part of my problem was concern that this dinner would be a repeat performance of the previous evening’s grilling session. I have to admit I wasn’t looking forward to that. For my money, a little bit of Margaret Featherman’s company went a very long way. By the time I entered the dining room, I had decided that if the situation didn’t improve, I’d do whatever I had to the next morning to make alternative seating arrangements for the remainder of the cruise.
I’ve heard it said that ninety percent of the things people worry about never happen. That’s how it turned out to be with that night’s dinner. All my advance concerns proved to be groundless. After a somewhat awkward start, the whole affair — dinner, right on through the show and dancing afterwards — wound up being a rousing success.
Marc Alley and I were the first to arrive. He was dressed in one of those stylish double-breasted tuxes favored by the younger set. He seemed to be in much better spirits than he had been earlier in the day. “I take it you’re over the shock of being deemed unworthy to be counted among the honorable Dr. Harrison Featherman’s lucky patients?”
“I guess,” he replied with a wry grin. “Maybe it’s the same way a trout feels when the fly fisherman throws him back in the water. Lucky, but still wondering why I wasn’t good enough to keep.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m sure there are plenty of other doctors in Seattle who’ll be only too happy to take you and your money.”
The women — two of them, anyway — arrived about then. Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz, dressed in long gowns that did them proud, had evidently stopped in the bar long enough to be in a party mood. And now that word was out that I wasn’t a “dance host,” Virginia was noticeably less hostile. When she and Sharon took seats on either side of
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