Hearts Ahoy Read online

  He’s a widower, Julia typed, and he’s 81.

  OMG MOM WTF. Stop. No! Julia could picture her daughter’s horrified face and she laughed out loud.

  Honey, we’re just having dinner. I wanted to pull your leg a little. He’s very sweet though.

  Okay…just…don’t get drunk and let him take advantage of you. Christina added a winking emoji to her words.

  Christina Elizabeth—you have never once seen me drunk! Julia typed back in mock-outrage. But the other men I’ve met so far on this trip make me want to drink.

  Dang it—Mom, I’m late for my next class. Can you call me tonight? Like after dinner?

  Will do. Love U. xoxoxo.

  LU2, Christina sent back, using the shorthand for “love you too” that she’d always used in notes or texts to her mom.

  Julia locked her phone and zipped it back inside her purse. She’d never taken a vacation and this felt weird to her—weird, yet liberating. There was no daughter to slather in sunscreen and admonish to be careful about running around the pool; no cranky, sunburned husband to soothe when he got tired of sightseeing and living out of a suitcase; no friends to appease as they tried to settle on a mutually satisfying activity. For the very first time, Julia could come and go and do exactly as she pleased, and while it felt like so much freedom that it nearly overwhelmed her, it also felt…peaceful. The opportunities were endless.

  She stood and walked away from the center of the boat, passing through another set of sliding doors. Inside was a huge marble-covered hallway full of shops. She passed a store with expensive handbags in the window and another with displays of black pearls and glistening stones set in gold. There was a shop filled with every brand of perfume she could imagine, and a clothing store offering luxurious-looking resort attire. Julia passed by them all and took the elevator down three floors.

  When she exited, she was in the middle of a huge piazza; all of the balconies on the higher floors looked out onto an open area, and the whole thing was made of shiny marble and decorated with expensive-looking sconces and hardware. In the center of the piazza was a small group of women in grass skirts and tightly-knotted bikini-style tops. Their long, dark hair fell in waves to their waists, and their tanned legs and feet were bare. They conversed briefly in a huddle and Julia noticed that people were milling around, as if waiting for a show. She took a spot along the wall near a group of older people in shorts and t-shirts.

  Within minutes, the sound of drumming filled the piazza and the girls in grass skirts began dancing. They smiled widely as they moved fluidly through their routine, swiveling and shaking their hips, which sent the dried grass of their skirts into a shimmer of sound that echoed the drums.

  “Pineapple daiquiri?” a man in a white shirt said into Julia’s ear. She hadn’t even noticed his approach, but when she glanced at him, she was taken aback at how good-looking he was—at how sparkly and friendly his eyes were.

  “Oh, no thank you,” she said, trying to turn the waiter down politely, as he’d seemingly singled her out for a refill. “I’d better hold off for now.”

  He laughed. “I wasn’t trying to sell you on another, I was just wondering if that’s what you were drinking.” He nodded at the glass in her hand.

  “Oh.” Julia frowned slightly and realized at once that his white shirt was just a plain polo, tucked into navy blue shorts flecked with little turquoise anchors all over the fabric. He wasn’t a waiter after all. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. Her blonde hair swished around her shoulders. “I just thought—“

  “It’s totally fine,” he said, giving her a winning smile. “I shouldn’t have crept up on you like that. Good drink though?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he put his hands into the pockets of his shorts disarmingly.

  “Excellent drink,” Julia said, turning her attention back to the dancers, but letting her gaze flicker in his direction one more time.

  They watched the performance together for a moment before he turned to face her. “I’m Martin,” he said, pulling one hand from his pocket and offering it to her.

  “Julia,” she said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “So who roped you into coming on this cruise? A well-meaning group of friends? A single cousin who promised to join you and then bailed at the last minute?” Martin’s eyes scanned the ceiling several floors up.

  Julia’s lips turned up in a smile as she realized that perhaps these exact same reasons were the ones that pushed him to sign up for this cruise. “No one forced me. I called into a radio station and answered a question correctly about Wham!, and then…well, wham, here I am.”

  Martin’s laugh turned the heads of the people around them. He held up a hand in apology and lowered his voice, leaning in closer to Julia. “Are we talking George Michael here?”

  “We are—we definitely are,” Julia assured him. “I’m kind of an 80s music fan.”

  “I find a passionate love of 80s pop culture very appealing in a woman,” Martin said. “Go on.” He stood right next to her and faced the dancers, as if he were both watching the show and listening to what she had to say.

  “Oh, okay,” Julia said, feeling an involuntary chill at the way his shoulder was brushing hers. “So I won this cruise and found a substitute teacher to cover my classes, and my daughter insisted that I go through with it even though I had many moments of hesitation.”

  “I’m so glad she did,” Martin said. “And you’re a teacher?”

  Julia smiled at his compliment. “Thank you. And I am—freshman English.”

  Martin made a face and sucked in a sympathetic breath. “Challenging age.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “True, true.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Hey, my sister is a teacher. Maybe you know her—Ally Estrada. She teachers third grade in Coconut Creek. That’s in Florida, but,” he shrugged, “you never know.”

  It was Julia’s turn to laugh loudly. “Not all teachers know each other,” she said, turning her head to look at him. “But I can tell you’re just being silly.”

  “I am. It’s one of my most desirable qualities.”

  As she got lost in the depths of his rich brown eyes, Julia wanted to lob something mildly suggestive back at him about his other desirable qualities, but the words wouldn’t quite formulate in her brain in time to cross her lips. It had been decades since she’d said anything even mildly flirtatious to a man who wasn’t Will, and something about it just didn’t come naturally to her. At least not yet.

  “I think it’s a very charming quality,” she finally said, giving him a real smile as she flushed lightly. “And I have no idea where Coconut Creek is—“

  “South Florida,” Martin interjected.

  “Oh,” she said, nodding along with him as his smile widened. “Well, I’m from Portland, but I’m sure Ally is a wonderful third grade teacher. I’ve never been to Florida,” she added as an aside.

  “You should come down sometime. We have lots of oranges.”

  “You live there, too?”

  “I do,” Martin said. “In Tampa. Hey,” he said, leaning close again and using a stage whisper, “you all aren’t still holding that 2000 Al Gore/George Bush election stuff against us, are you?”

  Julia couldn’t help herself—just a few minutes into this conversation and she was already thoroughly charmed. “No, we’re getting over that. It’s taken twenty years, but I think we’re almost there.”

  “That’s good news for me!” Martin gave her a wink and another shoulder bump. “Have I convinced you to reconsider having another pineapple daiquiri yet?”

  Julia looked into her empty glass like she had no idea where the drink had gone. “Are you asking me if you’ve already driven me to drink after only knowing you for five minutes?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I made a woman want to drink, is all I’m saying.” He held out his elbow so that she could slip a hand through it. “But let me walk you to the bar and try to convince you that I
’m worth a mild drinking problem.”

  “I know you have to be kidding,” Julia laughed, taking his arm. They wound their way through the crowd, trying to duck slightly and not block the view of the dancers for the other people around them.

  “I have a few references who might disagree with you,” Martin said over his shoulder, walking quickly as they rushed toward the elevator and stepped onto it just before the doors closed. He pushed the button for the pool deck, where there were no fewer than four bars. “But if you give me another hour or two, you won’t even need my references.”

  Julia felt her stomach do a flip as the elevator started moving, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the motion, or because of Martin.

  4

  It was with some regret that Julia had told Martin she already had dinner plans, but the smart part of her knew that turning him down for the first night was actually better; in no way was she ready to lock herself into something with the first handsome and funny man who’d approached her on this cruise.

  She was busy congratulating herself for her coyness as she leaned into the bathroom mirror and swept a light lavender shadow over her eyelids when it occurred to her that not saying yes to dinner with Martin left him wide open to the advances of other women. And they were on a cruise where—ostensibly—most of the people were open to and looking for love. Julia dropped her eyeshadow brush into her makeup bag and unscrewed the lid to her mascara.

  Was she being crazy? She thought about Martin’s dark hair and muscular forearms as she swiped her lashes with black liquid and batted her eyes a few times, turning her head back and forth for inspection. When they’d parted ways at the bar that afternoon, they’d definitely left things open to seeing one another again, but stupidly, she hadn’t given him her number or asked for his. And now she was going to dinner on the arm of a man who was not only not a romantic option, but who might very well nod off before dessert.

  The knock on the door came as Julia was spritzing her collarbone with Lancôme perfume. She set the bottle down and picked up her purse. “Coming!” she said, crossing the stateroom in her kitten heels. She’d changed into a deep purple wrap dress and chosen a pair of strappy heels to go with it.

  “Oy vey,” Arthur said when Julia opened the door. He looked her over and gave a low whistle. “If I didn’t manage to get the loveliest dinner date on the boat.”

  Julia blushed at the compliment and tucked her hair behind her ear nervously.

  “This is for you,” Arthur said, handing her a small white box. She opened it with curiosity, and a wave of nostalgia washed over her when she realized it was an orchid on a wristband. “It’s a corsage,” he explained unnecessarily. “In my day, a beautiful girl always got a corsage from the man lucky enough to take her out on the town.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” Julia said, feeling her eyes brim with tears unexpectedly. As she slipped the plastic band onto her left wrist and admired the purple orchid that matched her dress, it took her back to her senior prom, a dance she’d attended with her first real boyfriend. He’d always made her feel special and loved, and there was something so old-fashioned and nice about being treated like a lady. “Thank you, Arthur,” she said.

  He pretended not to see the tears in her eyes and instead offered her his elbow just as Martin had done that afternoon. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “We shall.” Julia closed her stateroom door behind her and tucked her purse under one arm.

  The dining room was hung with giant tapestries of abstract images of the ocean and the sun. Its walls were made of polished wood and the ceiling soared and dripped with sparkling crystal chandeliers. The tables were small and draped in starched and ironed white linen, and immaculate servers circulated the room in a way that seemed choreographed, swooping in and removing empty dinner plates, replacing them with rich-looking slices of chocolate cake, and topping off glasses of champagne or wine.

  “Table for two,” the maître d’ said, pulling out a chair for Julia. She sat down and waited as he unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap.

  “Thank you,” Julia said. She looked across the table at Arthur, who—quite frankly—was smiling like the cat that got the canary.

  “Did you see all those looks we got?” he crowed. “Everyone must’ve thought I was some sort of high roller, coming in here with a gorgeous woman on my arm like I did.”

  Julia smiled and glanced around. The room was beautiful, and the food that passed by in the hands of servers looked delicious. Of course, a part of her mind was drifting and wondering where Martin might be at six o’clock—certainly not at dinner—but she was actually famished, and she wanted to focus her attention on Arthur for the time being.

  “So, Arthur,” she said, leaning back as a woman in a black vest and a tight bun stopped to fill their heavy cobalt-blue water glasses from a silver pitcher. “Tell me what you did professionally.”

  “Me?” He smiled, looking pleased. “In my day, my fair Julia, I was an ad man.”

  “Really?” Julia set her small clutch on the edge of the table. “That sounds fascinating.”

  “It was,” he said, lifting his water glass with a slightly shaky hand. “It was the 60s and the 70s, and I wrote all the jingles.” Arthur pressed his lips together and looked off into the distance, remembering. “When the sun is far away, and you wanna go and play, you say Mah-lah-re!” he sang.

  “That was you?” Julia’s mouth nearly fell open. “My parents loved Mahlahre!” A memory of her parents sitting in the living room, sipping tall glasses of Mahlahre mixed with orange juice over ice came back to her then. In fact, it was the first alcohol she’d tasted herself, during a sleepover at her best friend Amy’s house in middle school. “Wow.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “What else did you do?”

  They put in their dinner orders and then Arthur folded his hands on the table and leveled his gaze at Julia. “I helped write the jingles that defined a generation, honey. It was magic—every time I walked into a store and heard a commercial on the radio that I’d written, or every time something came on the TV, I’d get that same thrill.”

  “I bet.”

  “Of course,” Arthur said modestly, “writing jingles to sell bubble gum or plastic wrap is nothing compared to teaching a child to read, or giving a kid hope for the future, but it sure paid the bills.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Arthur,” Julia said. “All I do is grade papers and have parent-teacher conferences.”

  “Young lady, you are the defining force in many a child’s day, and I can assure you that the little notes you write for them on their papers as you grade them have an impact that you cannot imagine. So don’t you sell yourself short.”

  They chatted about what it was like to write ads for big companies and to live in Los Angeles in the sunshine-drenched 1960s, and then their server was back with their plates, setting them gently on the table.

  “The luau pork for the gentleman, and the Kahlua duck for the lady,” he said.

  Julia oohed and aahed over the gorgeously presented food, and when the waiter dropped off their desserts, she nearly swooned at the grilled pineapple with strawberry compote.

  “A lady who loves her food,” Arthur said admiringly. “I find that refreshing in this day and age.”

  “I do love my food,” Julia agreed. “Always have.”

  She tucked into her grilled pineapple with a happy sigh. It had been an amazing first day on the ship, and to top it off, she’d go to bed full and content.

  “I’ve had a wonderful evening with you,” Arthur said as they reached the adjoining doors to their rooms. “Thank you ever so much for accompanying an old man to dinner.” He lifted her hand and bowed slightly, in the manner of a gentleman of a certain age.

  “Thank you, Arthur. You were a lovely dinner companion.”

  Julia waited until he was in his room before she put the key card into the door and waited for it to flash green. When it did, s
he opened the door and stood there for a moment, watching as the sunset played across the water in the distance beyond her balcony door. The room was dim in the evening light and for a moment she contemplated going in, washing off her makeup, and calling it a night. But it was only seven-thirty, and that seemed like the absolute antithesis of what this cruise was about.

  How would she ever meet anyone if she was turning in at the same time as her next door neighbor, a man born during the Great Depression? Without thinking about it too much, Julia backed out the door and closed it firmly behind her. The night was still young. And she was determined to step out of her comfort zone and make the most of this cruise.

  The sound of a ukulele and a man singing drifted out of a bar on the third floor. Julia had found a concierge on the main floor who’d showed her a list of offerings for that evening, and without wasting any time, she’d settled on a show by a man called Ukulele Dave.

  The bar had swinging saloon doors and a friendly feel. Julia stood there, purse tucked under one arm, still wearing her orchid wrist corsage. She felt entirely naked and entirely alone. Scattered around the bar were little round tables for two, and most of them were occupied by singletons just like her, sitting there with elbows on tables, eyes cast either at the flickering candles in front of them, focused on their own drinks, or watching a very large man in a Hawaiian shirt on a small stage, who Julia assumed was none other than Ukulele Dave.

  The song ended and Dave’s beautiful voice tapered off. He leaned in close to the microphone and put one hand to his forehead, as if he were trying to make out the faces beyond the spotlights.

  “I see a stunning woman in purple looking for a spot. Any of you men care to offer her a seat at your table?”

  Julia felt her skin burn with embarrassment and she nearly turned and ran when two men glanced at her and looked away, and a third raised a half-hearted hand at her, almost as if he were simply flagging down a bartender to order another round. She was taking her first step back toward the swinging doors when a man at the front of the bar—sitting right in front of Ukulele Dave—stood up and turned to face her. It was Martin.