Shut Up and Kiss Me Page 3

  A soft, melodic voice announced we’d arrived at deck fifteen. The doors opened silently, and I stepped out, turned left, and headed down the long corridor. My luggage might or might not have beaten me to my parents’ apartment, but I wasn’t worried. After the obligatory security search, I’m sure they’d be delivered first, due to the fact that my parents owned one of the largest, most expensive units on the ship.

  The plush carpet under my feet had an intricate pattern specifically designed to hide wear marks and spillage that might occur as the residents walked to and from their units. There were six units on this deck, three on either side of the corridor, with two at the bow, two at the stern, and two in the middle. Or, for those of us non-ship goers, the front, rear, and middle of the ship.

  I followed fresh vacuum tracks to my parents’ door. A bright, gleaming number four was displayed prominently in the center. I briefly considered swallowing one or two of the pills Charlotte had dropped in my hand at the airport. However tempted, I wasn’t much into drugs, preferring to power through instead. I took a couple of deep breaths and pushed the doorbell.

  “Lowe, sweetheart. It’s so good to see you again,” my mother said just after she opened the door. While she was taking a quick glance of me, I was doing the same of her. My mother believed a woman couldn’t be too rich or too thin, and she was both. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, most likely from one of the three beauty salons on board, her fingernails freshly manicured, and her makeup as impeccable as always. Her camel-colored slacks were the perfect length, her sweater the perfect contrasting color. Do you get the picture—perfect? She reached out and hugged me, and if she had hugged me like a mother should, I would have felt her hip bones poke into me. We exchanged the obligatory welcome kisses without lips actually touching cheeks before she turned me loose and closed the door behind me.

  “Come in,” she said calmly. “Victoria arrived yesterday and came aboard first thing this morning.” My mother’s tone clearly implied that I should have flown in last night, stayed at an outrageously expensive hotel, and waited for the Escape to dock this morning. My sister doesn’t work, and she can afford to fly anywhere, anytime. I, however, cannot. Even though I own my own business, I can’t just leave without a thought. Sure, I have staff, but unlike the rest of the occupants of unit number four, I have additional responsibilities.

  My parents’ unit consists of three bedrooms, three and a half baths, a kitchen stocked with the latest appliances, and a combination of living, dining, and sitting area that anyone on board, or dry land for that matter, would envy. As I stepped into the large room, Victoria and our father were seated in a pair of matching wingback chairs facing a wide expanse of windows overlooking Sydney Harbor.

  “Look who’s here,” my mother chirped, as if surprised I’d rung the bell.

  My father stood, out of gentlemanly politeness, and welcomed me with his standard “Hello, Lowe.” He was dressed in green golf pants with a monogrammed green-striped polo shirt. He didn’t move to give me a hug or the impersonal air kiss like my mother or anything else to acknowledge that he hadn’t seen me in over a year. My father wasn’t one for showing emotion about anything unless it was the balance of his bank account or the number of strokes on his golf scorecard. I could never picture him and my mother caught up in the throes of marital passion necessary to produce two children. As an adult who enjoyed the carnal pleasures in life, I certainly couldn’t see it now either.

  “You’re looking well, Father.” My father, at seventy-two, was tan from hours on the golf course or hitting golf balls off the sundeck. His shock of white hair was its normal length, with a razor-straight part on the left. In all the years since I started paying attention, my father’s hair has never changed. He had a standing appointment in the barber chair every four weeks whether he needed his hair cut or not.

  “Lowe, it’s about time you got here,” my sister said, tottering over to me on ridiculously high-heeled sandals. Victoria was wearing what she’d once described as lounging pants, which, to me, looked like over-priced sweat pants. Her matching zip-up jacket clinched it for me. She too didn’t bother with the physical aspects of greeting, preferring to look me over, but not nearly as clandestinely as our mother. I knew what was going through her head, and it sounded something like, “My god. When will she let her hair grow? She looks like a man. And I’ve told her countless times how to lose the extra weight she’s carrying. And those clothes. Her business must not be doing well, because obviously she can’t afford decent clothes for this trip.”

  Victoria smiled at me, the expression she practiced in the mirror and I’d seen her give dozens of people she really wasn’t interested in. How I would love to say to her, “I like my hair this way. I don’t need to spend hundreds of dollars every six weeks lightening it to hide the gray. I am perfectly comfortable with the way my body looks, whereas you, on the other hand, little sister, are so thin you look almost emaciated. And for my clothes, they are perfectly acceptable for this trip, or any other for that matter. And yes, Victoria, my business is doing very well. Thank you for inquiring.”

  But instead of saying what was on my mind, I returned the perfunctory greeting, inquiring about her husband and her various charities that kept her days occupied and her evenings in the spotlight. When the obligatory conversation died, we were all relieved by a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it. It’s probably my luggage.” I grabbed at a reason to leave the awkward silence. After the porter deposited my suitcase in my suite, I tipped him generously, then took my time settling in. The room I always stay in, also known as Suite A, is just past the main foyer to the left. Through a small entry area is the bathroom, complete with an oversized Jacuzzi tub and shower big enough for at least five of my most intimate friends. Dual rain-shower heads and a bench along one side provide plenty of space to sit comfortably or shave my legs.

  Tucked discreetly behind two wooden carved doors is a small washer and dryer. A large desk, complete with a ginormous Apple monitor and all the office supplies I could want, sits across from a huge walk-in closet almost as big as my entire bedroom at home.

  Farther in the suite is a king-size Tempur-Pedic bed topped with a large white headboard, dresser, two nightstands, and a small seating area. The entire wall beside the bed fully opens onto a private patio with two lounge chairs and a bistro table. Suite B is similar, but a pair of French doors opens onto the main veranda. Unable to delay any longer, I closed the door behind me.

  “Lowe, would you like a cocktail?” my mother asked sweetly.

  I glanced at my watch. It was only twelve thirty. My body wasn’t quite sure what time zone it was in, but I always tried to acclimate to local time as soon as I landed. “No, thank you. It’s a little early for me.” I’d long suspected my mother had a drinking problem, but I had never seen her drunk. She never slurred her words or became unsteady on her feet, but she always had a drink in her hand just after noon and one all evening. As I expected, my mother fixed herself one, having no problem drinking alone.

  I made a few comments about changes in the decor: some new artwork, a different couch, and new patio furniture. I inquired about my mother’s bridge club and my father’s golf game. Their responses were predictable, and I learned nothing I didn’t already know.

  My mother glanced at her watch before she spoke. “You need to get cleaned up, Lowe. We’ll be heading down to lunch shortly. We have reservations for one fifteen.”

  What my mother really meant was, “Change your clothes. I don’t want people to see my daughter dressed like that.”

  Begrudgingly, I stood, but not before saying, “I won’t be long.”

  And I wasn’t. It didn’t take more than three minutes to wash my face and hands, apply some lip gloss, and grab a light jacket. I stepped into the foyer where my family was waiting and was met with disapproving reactions. My mother’s lips were pursed, Victoria’s eyes were pinched, and my father was already safely in the corridor. I knew that with my
mother’s proper breeding and since Victoria had learned everything from her, they would never say a word. I don’t think either one of them would say shit if they had a mouthful, but their disapproval was crystal clear to me.

  My best friend Charlotte and I talked about my family and their quirks before and after every visit. The conversation always grew livelier as the beer bottles and shot glasses lined up on the bar. She thought I got a perverse joy in tormenting my mother and sister, and I’m not so sure she’s wrong. I don’t intentionally do things to irritate them or piss them off, but Victoria and my mother are two of the most ridiculous people I’ve ever seen. They pretend they live in nineteenth-century England, when I know they both have the latest iPhone, iPad, and i everything. They are all about appearances and position, whereas I look for substance and heart. They judge people by how much money they have and their station in life, I by their character.

  We were silent as we walked down the corridor to the restaurant. In the center of decks nine through fourteen were two restaurants and a casual lounge. I’d eaten in every restaurant on the ship more than once, my parents dining out at least once a day. I’ve never seen my mother consult a recipe, let alone pick up a pot. Our cook always took care of such things. My parents didn’t have a full-time cook on the Escape, just Margarete, who came in each afternoon to tidy up and prepare cocktails and light appetizers.

  “Good afternoon, Robert.” My mother greeted the host as we stepped inside the restaurant. The Remington was located two decks below my parents and was mid-sized and mid-priced, at least as it relates to other restaurants on the Escape. The lights were turned up, and the menu offered a variety of midday meals. In about four hours the lights would dim, the starched white tablecloths and linen napkins would appear, the wait staff would change, and the menu with no prices would replace the lunch one.

  “Mrs. Carter. Good to see you again.”

  “These are my daughters, Victoria and Lowe.” Even though my mother introduced us, she didn’t identify who was who. She also didn’t acknowledge the host’s greeting. “They’re staying with us for the next three weeks, so please put everything on our account.” It wasn’t a conversation. It was an order.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Carter. If you’ll follow me, your table is ready.”

  We walked through the dining room, and I took a quick glance at my fellow patrons, nodding at a few familiar faces, but not seeing the woman that had captured my attention when I boarded. We settled into our seats, my father sitting next to the window with my mother beside him, Victoria across from her, and I took the remaining chair. Our seating arrangement never changed. It enabled my mother and Victoria to talk about things they had in common, and the same with my father and me, without any cross-table confusion. Before we even had a chance to settle in, our server greeted us and asked for our drink orders. Not surprisingly, my mother asked for a gin and tonic, my sister a Manhattan, and my father a dry martini. When I looked up from my menu to give my order of a simple iced tea, my mind went blank.

  Standing at the end of our table in a pristine-white, long-sleeve shirt, colorful blue-patterned tie, and a spotless black apron was the woman from downstairs. I’m sure I sat there with my mouth gaping open, and she was more put together than I was. She smiled politely, waiting for me to reply. She wasn’t holding a pad or pencil. The wait staff in every restaurant had to be able to convey orders to the kitchen without the slightest error, regardless of the number of people seated around the table. We’d hardly exchanged a dozen words so far, but I was amazed at how much I was drawn to her.

  “Lowe, she’s waiting,” Victoria said, clearly annoyed.

  “Oh yes, sorry,” I stammered. “Um…hello. I’ll have an iced tea, please,” I added.

  “Would you like lemon and sweetener with it?”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you, Faith,” I responded, reading the name embroidered on her starched shirt, just above her left breast. I had to drag my eyes away so as not to be impolite. Something in her eyes flared for a moment and then was instantly gone. It was so fast I wasn’t sure it was ever even there. No one else at the table would’ve seen it, since they all had their faces buried in their menus. They had never looked up at Faith when she arrived.

  I watched her stop at an adjacent table to check on a large, boisterous group finishing their dessert. I don’t mean to sound like a pig, but Faith looked just as good walking away as she did from the front.

  “Lowe, what are you staring at?” My mother’s voice was harsh.

  “What?”

  “I asked you what you are staring at so rudely.”

  “Nothing. Just looking around and recognizing a few familiar faces.” It was a lie. However, the disapproval on my mother face told me it wasn’t a very good one.

  I eagerly waited for Faith to return, and my heart kicked up when I saw her round the corner carrying a tray with our drinks.

  As she approached our table, she looked at everyone except me. She named off the drinks and set them down in front of each one of us, saving mine for last. My family didn’t look up or even acknowledge her, which irritated the hell out of me. But it always had. They had a way of keeping the hired help in their place simply by ignoring them. I wasn’t like that, and when Faith finally looked at me, I thanked her. Her eyebrows rose slightly, just enough to show that my greeting had surprised her.

  “Have you decided on your choice for lunch today?” Her voice was smooth and melodious, her accent captivating. My mother rattled off her order, changing just about everything. My sister followed suit, and my father simply ordered a filet, rare, and a baked potato. When Faith turned her attention to me, the little wobble in my stomach teetered again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so physically affected by someone I’d just met. And technically we hadn’t even done that.

  I placed my order, thanked Faith again, and watched her disappear around the corner after handing our menus to the host as he passed.

  “How are your stores doing, Lowe?” my father asked, barely glancing at me.

  In his mind, my pack-and-ship franchises were nothing compared to Victoria’s husband’s family, who owned one hundred and eighty-two auto dealerships across the country.

  “Really well,” I answered, tamping down my pride in my success. He wouldn’t notice or care. “Sales are up four hundred and twenty percent year over year. I’ve expanded into a few adjacent spaces, which increased my PO boxes by sixty percent, giving me more long-term cash flow.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “What are your margin and your earnings?”

  I recited the figures that represented the very positive financial picture of my business. Again, the only language that really mattered in his world.

  He nodded his approval and asked, “And your plans for expansion?”

  Not “are you going to expand?” It was all about growth and quantity with him.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, my response guarded. My father had a way of making me feel like I had to defend my lack of empire building.

  “I’m looking for additional opportunities, but nothing has been right.” That was partially true. He didn’t need to know I didn’t spend every spare minute trying to become the largest franchisee in the country. I worked hard, but I did have a life—one that I enjoyed immensely. Adding more stores would seriously cut into my spare time. I made a good living with what I had. It paid my bills, I could buy almost anything I wanted, and I was building my retirement.

  “Charles informed me you haven’t touched your trust fund. You need to use those funds for your future growth.”

  My maternal grandmother had left me a large amount of money when she died a decade earlier. I hadn’t spent a penny of it and wasn’t going to. I’d left it where it was and now regretted it. It was time to move it to my financial planner and out from under the roots of the family tree, so to speak.

  “Charles has no business talking to you about my account.” It had been solely in my name for over ten years. />
  “Charles has been handling our finances for more than forty years. He’s almost like family,” my father replied, his tone indignant.

  “I don’t care if he’s my long-lost brother,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to keep the anger from my voice. “He has a duty of confidentiality, and he’s breaching that if he’s talking to you.”

  “That is too much money to act so flippant about,” he said as if scolding me.

  “I’m not flippant about it. I take it very seriously. But what I do, or don’t do with it, is my business,” I said again.

  A tall thin man in his forties stopped at our table, saving me from my father’s additional opinion and lecture regarding what he obviously thought was my fiscal irresponsibility.

  After introductions and several minutes of polite, neighborly chitchat, he returned to his table. My mother informed us that he was a new resident on their deck. With obvious distaste, she told me that he’d sold his start-up company to Google for $735 million. New money wasn’t the same as old in her book.

  I’d heard of the man’s company and used one of his applications in my store. Of course, I didn’t dare mention that I’d invested in his little start-up and had reaped a significant financial benefit from the sale.

  “Landon, I wish you wouldn’t talk business at the table,” my mother complained, implying that we were discussing an unmentionable bodily function.

  “When else am I going to do it? We don’t see her any other time.”

  Here we go again, I thought. I was wondering how long it would be before one or both of them pulled the visiting guilt card out of the drawer.

  “How long has it been, Lowe?” Victoria asked, piling on in her squeaky voice.

  I didn’t answer. She knew damn good and well the date of my last visit.