Chapter 1
October 25th
Ethel Papadopoulos Lorenzo Birnbaum steered her Go-Go Electric X5 mobility scooter down the ship’s passageway, bumping into door frames along the way. Her sequined beret glinted in the overhead lights and, with red lips pursed, she tried to focus on the task at hand ... but failed miserably. Giggling, she throttled back but not before wedging herself into a corner.
“Oopsie Daisy!” she hooted and collapsed over the handlebars in laughter. After some herky-jerky movements of forward and reverse, she extracted herself and motored on. Her ship’s ID card opened the door to cabin #10007. With a practiced movement, she whipped out her cane from the scooter’s basket and propped the door open. She rolled inside. The door closed behind her with a muted thud.
Ethel took a deep breath. Too much wine. And more tired than usual. Besides a headache coming on, her chest felt constricted and her legs ached too. She felt her age, all eighty plus years of it. But in spite of her ever-growing list of maladies, she giggled again.
Dinner tonight had been a formal affair (a Roaring 20s theme) and guests arrived bedazzled in their finery. Men sported black tuxedos and white ties, while women festooned themselves in sparkles and feathers. Pretending to be someone else, if only for a few hours, indulged their escapist fantasies. Costumes helped. Ladies laughed freely, holding champagne flutes while their husbands kissed them more often. Photographers snapped away to commemorate the events. Live music added to the low-grade hum of excitement. Ethel smiled. She had attended dozens of parties. Hundreds. Familiar, even routine, but it still never got old ... the feeling of being young again.
She inspected her cabin, her home. It was tidied, as usual, with her bed turned down, and a breakfast menu perched on her pillow.
So silly. Ramie knew her usual order, which never deviated in the past few weeks: two eggs sunny-side up, two strips of bacon, and a pot of coffee. Yet, high service criteria dictated the card be placed there nightly. Cunard required exacting standards and uncompromising quality. Ethel loved it.
It was after midnight. Ethel quickly readied herself for bed; she soaked teeth, removed makeup and brushed hair, and placed her jewelry into a chipped
I Love Rome ash tray. She pulled the covers up to her chin and glanced at the bedside table. A small silver frame held a photo of two young women, each the mirror opposite of the other. One, tall with golden hair and blue eyes, the other short with dark brown and hazel. With their arms squeezed tight around each other, the girls’ wide smiles beamed at her. Ethel smiled back, whispered a little prayer, and sank immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
#
Cabin steward Ramie announced himself promptly at eight o’clock the next morning by knocking on the cabin door. Without waiting, he carried the breakfast tray inside, careful not to spill on his crisp, white uniform.
“Madame Birnbaum? Time for breakfast.” He placed the tray on the coffee table while surprised to see her still in bed. “Madame Birnbaum?” Ramie sat down next to her on the bed and reached for her hand. It was cold. He sighed, “Oh, madam.”
After a few minutes, he got up and went to the safe inside her closet. He punched in the combination. It clicked open. He pushed aside jewelry cases, stacks of cash, and found a thick envelope. Ramie read the address. A lawyer in New York City. He stared at the envelope until tears blurred his vision.
Chapter 2
“Uh-huh.” Beth held the phone in the crook of her neck while dangling a glittery pompom from a string in front of her white cat. Grendel batted it half-heartedly with his one remaining front paw. If asked, he’d rather lounge undisturbed in the sunspot on her desk. “Uh-huh,” Beth repeated. “Governor Sharp, I was going to submit it. Now we’ll miss the deadline.” She made the cat toy bob and dance, just out of Grendel’s reach. “Yes, I know how important your story is ... yes ... yes, I understand.”
She groaned silently
. The all-important timeline was now doomed with another last-minute change. Her publisher had strategically scheduled Sharp’s book for the winter holidays, just in time to support her election campaign the following year. At this rate, it would be next spring before it would see the light of day. The publication date (and Beth’s enthusiasm) was getting pushed further and further away with each of the Governor’s panicked phone calls and her selective memory of past events.
“What
exactly do you want to add?” Beth reluctantly put down the cat toy. She took notes. After thirty minutes listening to a new angle of a tired old campaign story, she said, “Okay. I’ll need to check with Frank. Can I call you back Monday?” She hung up and put her head down on the desk, defeated. Grendel gently tapped her hand with his paw.
This project just wouldn’t end.
This book was her third politician this year and Governor Laina Sharp’s autobiography had dogged Beth for almost six months. She didn’t know how much of Sharp’s story was true, embellished, or fictionalized. Beth was a ghostwriter and, thankfully, not a fact-checker. If she got paid by the eye roll, her publisher would owe her a fortune. A typical assignment was exasperating, but Governor Sharp took maddening to a whole new level. Late night phone calls, excessive handholding, the Governor’s tedious stories beginning with “I” and ending with “me” were routine. Beth was tired of Sharp’s ego. Plus, all the revisions.
Beth sat pouting in the squeaky chair in her office, which was really a corner in the living room in front of the only window. She leaned forward and pressed her nose against the cold glass. The lone tree in the small garden on Fulton Street below had changed from luxe velvety green to brittle gold and brown. By next week, its remaining leaves would be on the ground. Fall had arrived. Another season and she still wrote other people’s stories.
She called her editor, Frank, and left the message, “You owe me!” on his voice mail. Then she released a loud, frustrated sigh sounding like a fog horn. Annoyed, Grendel blinked his green eyes and trotted to the kitchen for the comfort of his food bowl.
While she waited for a return call, Beth cleaned up her desk to help temper the unresolved issue. She tucked her hair behind her ears and organized old notes, interviews, and previous drafts of Sharp’s manuscript. She shuddered as she backed-up computer files and wondered how politicians ever got elected in the first place. Although premature (and wishful thinking), she shoved Sharp’s paperwork into a file drawer labeled COMPLETED.
On one wall hung framed prints of her bestseller book jackets, her name nowhere to be found on the covers. On another wall, hung her college degree. Bachelor of Arts in English, University of Pennsylvania, 2007. Four years of blissful reading and writing. Ghostwriting was not exactly the career Beth expected. But she was good—hell, great—at it, even though she
was currently losing patience with inane clients.
She ambled to the kitchen, about six steps. The recycling container overflowed with crusty Marie Callender pot pie boxes. The inside of her microwave looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. But her oven was spotless. Next to an empty Wonder Bread bag, she found a rogue twist tie on the counter. She secured it around a messy braid on the left side of her temple. That was better. Her hair now out of her eyes, and she could see. Kind of. Her broken glasses sat crooked on her nose.
I really need to get them fixed, she reminded herself again for the forty-eighth time today. Instead, she got herself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
She leaned against a door frame and slurped her cereal. Her free weekend was now possibly shot. Thank goodness her small one-bedroom apartment was relatively clean. An antique Folger’s coffee can with extra chopsticks from Wong Fu’s, a couch upholstered in worn purple velvet, and a heavy glass mason jar filled with spare change helped ornament the small room. Her knick-knacks were definitely
not tchotchke, but rather pleasing objects rescued from flea markets and second-hand stores. One would think from her decorating skills Beth lived from paycheck to paycheck, but most of her well-earned six-figure salary went directly into the bank and retirement accounts. Beth believed her apartment had a warm, lived-in feel. Eclectic.
Yeah, that’s the word.
And don’t forget the books! Towers of books stacked from floor to ceiling provided much needed architectural details to her shoebox-shaped place. The hundreds of paperbacks and hard covers were an extravagance she didn’t mind paying full-price for. They provided excitement, comfort, and intrigue depending on her mood. Bored? A romp with
Murder on the Orient Express. Stressed? Soothing
Little House on the Prairie. Lonely? A used Danielle Steele paperback with the page corners turned down at the good parts. Like a trusted friend, books could ease any troubles with a few familiar words. Plus, they were safe. Re-read a thousand times, she knew all their endings ... no surprises. And no cause for alarm.
She took a habitual favorite, a dog-eared copy of
The Hobbit, from the top of a stack to read later. Beth dumped her cereal bowl in the sink and shuffled back to the office. She checked her phone ... still no message from Frank. With her procrastination dance over, she had no other option except to adjust her broken glasses and revise Governor Sharp’s manuscript. Again.
#
When the sunshine disappeared and dark skies precipitated turning on a floor lamp, Beth pried herself from the office chair and stared at her big toe that had wormed its way out of a hole in her sock. She considered fixing it. Grendel yawned from the back of the couch (his perch) and stretched like a Halloween cat. Beth stretched too while her tummy grumbled.
“Grendel,” she said. “Need. Food. Now!”
He blinked at her.
Her fridge offered little inspiration for dinner: a single piece of bologna, a container of suspect yogurt, and some wilted lettuce. An expired Lean Cuisine lay encased in ice in the freezer. Too much work. She considered ordering in (again), but remembered a promise made to herself earlier. Plus, she needed some exercise. Beth blamed Governor Sharp for the extra ten pounds she’d recently accumulated.
Here we go! Going out. Outside. Big doin’s. Beth took a deep breath. She inhaled and exhaled for three counts each. In for one … two … three. Out for one … two … three. Just like Dr. Joan advised her.
“Calm the heart, calm the mind,” Beth whispered as a mantra. She repeated her breathing cycle.
Good? Yes. Let’s go! At the last moment, she looked critically at her grubby sweatshirt, but decided all she really needed was a bra. She announced to Grendel, “I’m putting on a bra. I’m going out. I will be fine,” in a loud, authoritative voice. The cat flattened his ears in response to such unexpected hullabaloo. Beth put on the required undergarment, grabbed her wallet, and opened her apartment door. She stepped over a pile of take-out menus, flyers, and last Sunday’s
New York Times which had accumulated in front of her doorstep.
“Here I go! I’m really fine!” she said to no one. She stepped out and the crisp air kissed the inside of her nostrils.
NYC. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. But for Beth, it was the City of Fabulous Food. Italian, French, Pakistani ... all available with the press of a few buttons on her phone. Thank God for delivery. The world outside her apartment could be quite unpredictable. But on the rare occasions she ventured out, her local eating establishments never disappointed. Tonight, she selected
Athena for souvlaki and home-made baklava. In anticipation, she overcame any fear of the unknown and quickened her steps. This would be worth it.
After a few short blocks, the family-owned restaurant appeared. Blue and white Greek flags decorated the neighborhood standby. The door’s bells announced Beth’s entrance with unwanted fanfare. She seated herself at a blue pleather booth, glanced momentarily at the sticky menu, and ordered from memory. While waiting for her food, she played with her braid and realized it still had the twist tie. Then, as she usually did when she was nervous (Dr. Joan had said it was a great calming mechanism), she made up a fantastical story about the chef. She didn’t want to use up
all her creativity on politicians.
Konstantinos was a woebegone man. He never smiled and his habitually sad eyes made customers (both men and women) want to grab him in a warm embrace, while whispering, “There, there.” Long ago a beautiful woman jilted Konstantinos at the altar. An authentic Greek tragedy. Left bereft and heartbroken, he poured what remained of his fractured soul into cooking. All his raw emotion and unrequited love transferred into the best spanakopita in the city. Customers felt terrible witnessing his watery eyes but it didn’t stop them from ordering his award-winning food. Athena thrived, but alas, now in his forties, Konstantinos still lived with his mother in her basement. He found out through an unfortunate social media post his ex-fiancée had married a plumber. And had six kids. One named Konstantinos. At least that’s the tale Beth came up with.
Her food arrived and it smelled delicious. She attacked the chicken souvlaki and debated whether to order more pita and hummus.
She didn’t mind eating alone. The promising high-energy lifestyle that originally attracted her to the big city had never developed. Her social circle remained small and Beth accepted the writing life as a lonely one. Now she embraced it. Fewer friends meant fewer expectations. Her shyness translated into awkwardness, which meant aloof to most people. And whenever a little insecurity got thrown onto the fire, she usually wound up with a big ol’ three-alarm anxiety attack. In retrospect, alone was just fine. Plus, her apartment had everything she needed, so why leave?
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She quickly swallowed a mouthful of pita and answered.
“Hi, Frank. You really owe me.” She wiped tzatziki sauce off her chin and wondered if there were any Tums left in her medicine cabinet.
A full, soothing bass replied back, “Yeah, I know Sharp’s a pain. You’re taking one for the team. I wish I had ten more like ya, Pussycat.” Speaking of cats, Frank’s voice could calm a herd of kittens high on catnip. Sometimes Beth would call his voicemail just to feel instantaneous peace. Once she dozed off while he outlined a new book project to her.
“But this is it, right? The last change?”
“I promise. If she asks for more, send her my way. And maybe we should dial back on politicians for a while. Besides, the market’s getting saturated. When are you going to write me a
real book? Something with heart?” Frank had pushed her for years to do something on her own. His recently acquired middle-aged outlook of
it’s-never-too-late sometimes got on her nerves.
“I’ll write one when I have something interesting to write about,” she said. “Besides, these politicians are taking up all my time … thanks to
your assignments.” Beth could give him a little sass, since he wasn’t just her editor but also a trusted friend.
“Ha ha. Anyway, I have the lovely job of collecting R.S.V.P.’s for the holiday party. Are you coming or not? Apparently, we need to know how many shrimp cocktails to order.” The phone practically buzzed from the timbre of his voice. She stalled for time and rubbed hummus off her sweatshirt with a paper napkin, making the stain even worse.
“First, sing to me.”
“C’mon, Beth.”
“Please? Sing me something.”
Frank cleared his throat, then launched into Beth’s favorite Barry White song, “You’re the First, The Last, My Everything.”
Beth giggled.
“Okay? Please come to the party. Paul will be there ... he hasn’t seen you in forever.”
She sighed. Her publisher’s annual party scared the bejeezus out of her. Besides Frank and his husband, who would she talk to? And about what? It took a whole year to buck up the courage to attend. And each time her hands would sweat buckets while she tried to be funny and engaging. Plus, on a practical matter, she usually spilled something down her front. Parties equaled dry cleaning which meant she’d have to leave the house
again. Definitely
not worth the emotional aftermath.
“Uh ... I’ll think about it.”
“I’m putting your name down. You can do it, trust me.” Frank hung up before she could squirm out of it.
Great. There was nothing unstained in her closet to wear. Deflated, she decided against ordering the extra pitas. She sulked while looking at her dirty plate streaked with dried hummus. Parties weren’t fun. Particularly, since small talk was on The List.
Ah ... The List. The List was all-important, even critical, since the items listed on The List were her fears which precipitated anxieties and Beth tried very hard to not place herself in situations listed on The List. She hated The List, but respected it. Dr. Joan said Beth needed to start rem
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