“Good grief,” I said. “The men really have to wear grass skirts and bra tops?”
“It was the bra that did Ben in,” Steve said with a chuckle. “He apparently hasn’t enough experience removing them,” he said.
Ben smiled.
“How did you fare, Steve?” I asked.
“I completed the mission,” he said.
“You won the TV?”
He shook his head. “The people with the four best times compete in the finals,” he said.
“They run four races at the same time with four separate timers,” Sherri told me.
“Too bad you took that fall or you could compete,” Courtney said.
“I’m pretty well healed—except for the memory glitch, that is,” I explained. “And it sounds like pretty harmless fun. Not much damage water can do,” I added. “Have you ladies tried your luck?”
Courtney’s head snapped up and I hoped she didn’t mistake my words for a gambling reference.
“I did,” Courtney said. “But Sherri didn’t want to. Monique’s round should be coming up. Why don’t you see how much longer it will be, Monique? Sherri, you should go with Tressa and sign up. It’ll be fun,” she said.
“Yes, do, Sherri,” I said. “Please.”
She looked at me and at her husband.
“Go for it, Tare,” he said.
“Why not?” she said.
Monique, Sherri and I headed to the registration table. Once Sherri and I filled our cards out, I steered the women to a vacant table.
“Why don’t we just wait here?” I said. “Monique will be competing any time. It’ll give us a chance to visit. So, what do you and Tariq do again?” I asked.
“We’re actors,” Monique said.
“That’s exciting. Would I have seen anything you were in?” I asked.
Monique shook her head. “You wouldn’t remember if you did, but no, probably not. We’re typecast. Need a porker? Call Tariq or Monique,” she said.
“You’re very pretty,” I said.
“I do some modeling,” Monique admitted. “Plus-size, of course. That’s where I make most of my money.”
“Do you live in L.A.?” I asked. She nodded. “Wow, it must be hard trying to make ends meet there.”
“We do okay,” she said. “More than okay, actually. It’s just that we’re not happy with the roles we get. We’re both talented. We could get some substantive roles if we weren’t so heavy. That’s what this cruise is about. Less really is more,” she said. “Especially in the entertainment industry.”
I nodded. “I can understand you wanting the meatier roles,” I said, and Sherri and Monique looked at each other. “Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I apologized, “I just meant that I get that you want to beef up your acting resume.”
I tried to reel in the words before they got to my tongue and past my mouth and were cast out onto waiting ears, but, once fully engaged, my motormouth is nigh impossible to reel back in. Sometimes I was such a ditz.
“Are you for real?” Monique said.
I nodded. “I’m afraid so. And it looks like I’m an open-mouth-insert-big-fat-humongous-foot kind of gal,” I said, realizing as I said it that I’d done it again. “Sorry,” I squeaked.
She nodded. “I played a character a lot like you in a cable series,” she said. “Nice girl. Good intentions. But she always seemed to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing even though she meant well.”
“What happened to the character?” I asked.
“She got killed off at the end of season one,” Monique said.
I managed a weak smile. “So…how long have you been married, Monique?” I asked. Her gaze slid away. “Monique?”
“This is … awkward,” she said, biting her lip.
“What is?” I asked.
Monique looked at Sherri.
“Tariq and I are not exactly married,” she said.
“Engaged?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“We actually won the cruise,” she admitted. “We were entered when we paid for a membership to a local fitness club. If you were newly married or planning to be married, you were entered into this contest to win this cruise. We never in a million years thought we would win. When we did and saw what the cruise offered, we couldn’t pass it up. So, you see, we kind of won it under false pretenses,” she said.
“You’re not married?”
She shook her head.
“Not engaged?”
“Nope.”
“Planning to become engaged?”
“Not in a million years. At least not to Tariq.”
I looked at Sherri. She seemed as lost as I was.
“I’m not getting the big picture here,” I said, and Monique winced.
“Tariq and I? We’re brother and sister,” Monique said.
I sat back in my chair. “Brother and sister?” I repeated. “You and Tariq are brother and sister?”
She nodded. “There was a special membership price for couples,” she said, “so we pretended we were married. Like I said, we never for a minute thought we’d win the cruise, but once we did we thought somehow it was meant to be.”
There was a lot of that meant-to-be stuff going around.
“You aren’t gonna out us, are you?” she asked Sherri and me.
I shook my head. “Not a chance,” I said. “Sherri?”
“Mum’s the word,” she agreed.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” Monique said.
Her race was called over the loudspeaker and she rose. “So, no objections if I compete for the TV?” she asked and smiled.
“Go for it,” I said. “But I reserve the right to hate you if your time is better than mine,” I told her.
Monique’s eyes twinkled. “Fair enough,” she said.
“Good luck!” Sherri called as Monique left.
So. Tariq and Monique were siblings. That meant I was down to three possible couples. Coral and David. Courtney and Steve. And Ben and Sherri. I mean, Sherri and Ben.
“So, Sherri, tell me a little bit about you and Ben,” I said, thinking I might be able to narrow the field even more. “Where do you live? What do you both do for a living? How long have you been married? What brought you on this cruise?”
Sherri seemed overwhelmed by my battery of questions.
Hey, give me a break here. I’m a reporter, remember? I ask questions. That’s what I do.
“We live in western Kansas in a little town called Farley. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Farley’s the kind of town where you celebrate a losing sports season just because you had enough people go out. Farley’s the kind of community where someone buys a winning lottery ticket and loses it. Farley’s the kind of community that holds a Fourth of July celebration and nobody comes.”
I grimaced. In others words, Armpit, USA.
“You don’t sound as if you like it much there,” I said.
“I don’t. I want to move back to Wichita but Ben is…resistant. We’ve been married almost five years,” she said. “We both worked at a grocery store back home. Ben worked in the meat department. I was a checker working my way through community college. We started dating. Fell in love. Got married. We did everything together. Including, unfortunately, gaining weight.”
Something about the way Sherri spoke struck me as strange. Maybe it was the short, clipped sentences. Maybe it was because she spoke in past tense. Maybe it was the monotone delivery. Whatever it was, it disturbed me.
“Sherri? Is everything okay?” I asked. “For being on a fun-filled cruise, you seem really sad,” I observed.
She didn’t respond.
“Are things okay with you and Ben?” I asked.
She smiled.
“That depends on the day,” she said. “And sometimes, the hour,” she added. “It’s just been different lately,” she said.
“How so?”
“I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things. I know I don’t look like it, but I have a pretty active imagination,” she said. “Because most of the time things are okay. And since we’ve been on this cruise, Ben has been incredible. Really incredible, so I have hope. But there are times when…”
“Yes?”
She seemed to search for the right words.
“There are times when Ben almost seems like a stranger,” she admitted.
I reached over and patted her hand. “Haven’t you heard? Men are from Mars, women are from Venus,” I told her. “Most of the time I’m convinced they’re an alien species introduced here to drive the rightful inhabitants of this planet whacko,” I told Sherri.
She smiled.
“I understand why you say that. News has it you’ve got a little shipboard intrigue going on,” she said, and I gasped.
“You know?” I said.
She nodded.
“Everyone does. Why? Was it a secret?”
“Uh, I was under the impression only a very few people knew,” I told her. “How’d it get out?” I asked.
“Get out? You and Manny told us you were engaged that night at the Stardust. But, of course, you’d have forgotten that. Then Steve told us about that guy named Rick singing to you last night. How romantic it must be to have two men competing for your hand,” she said. “It’s like something you read in a book or see in a movie.”
Duh. I did a mental head-slap of myself She was talking about Tressa’s Bermuda Love Triangle, not Tressa’s Shipboard Sleuth Fest. Man, talk about your scarifying double features.
“And with you not remembering either one of them, it makes for a powerful story,” Sherri continued.
As many works of fiction were.
“It’s a bit surreal,” I admitted.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I’d be freaking out if two hotties were after me. How do you remain so calm?”
“Wine,” I mumbled.
The loudspeaker blared. It appeared our time to compete for the plasma had arrived.
“Where is the TV we win?” I asked a cute sailor as I passed the registration table. I kind of wanted to see what I was making a fool of myself over.
He handed me a postcard-sized sheet of paper. It showed a 52-inch high-def TV.
“This is it?” I turned the card over.
“You don’t actually get the TV,” he said. “It’s a certificate for a TV You redeem it at Electronics Central,” he said. “They have outlets all over the country.”
“Sweet,” I said.
We were ushered to our respective starting places. Sherri was on the plank to my right. I decided to strip down to my swimsuit, figuring it would be easier to pull on a grass skirt and swimsuit top that way. I always wear a black one-piece. I’ve heard black slenderizes.
I looked to my left and was suddenly blinded. I almost fell in the pool, disqualifying myself in the process. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Standing in the next lane, wearing baggy neon-green swim trunks, ear plugs, and a black and white Hawkeyes visor was Joltin’ Joe Townsend. My eyes crinkled from the light reflecting off all that white skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, putting a hand to my eyes to block the glare.
“Same as you, I expect,” Joe said, hitching up his trunks.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going to pull on a grass skirt and wiggle into a bra in front of all these people?” I asked.
He nodded. “And do it in the best time,” he predicted.
“You’re going to walk across a three-inch-wide wet bridge in a grass skirt and Reeboks?” I said. “You won’t make it two yards.”
“Who said I was walking?” he asked, and I looked at him.
“Whaddya mean? Of course you have to walk.”
“Who said? All they said was you had to get from one end to the other without falling in.”
“Yes. So?”
“So I plan to scoot across,” he said.
My forehead did one of those crinkly numbers plastic surgeons make a fortune off erasing the creases from. “Scoot?”
“Scoot.”
I tried to get a mental picture of how that might look. It wasn’t pretty.
“You mean to scoot along the bar with it between your legs? Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“Isn’t that sort of thing hard on your…on your…on the…prostate?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry about my prostate, girl. Worry about how you’re going to keep those thighs from slip-sliding away,” he said.
I frowned. “That’s not very nice,” I observed. “You don’t normally talk to me like that, do you?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “That’s mild. I’m taking pity on you. You with your memory issues and all,” he said, a glint in his eye telling me I wasn’t fooling him. My bizarre request that had Joe delivering room service trays no doubt had fanned the fires of skepticism. And there was no telling what I’d divulged over that bottle of vino.
“Oh? And how would I respond?” I asked. “Would I reply in kind with something like ‘Well, it’s only fair you be required to wear a shirt since the light bouncing off your torso will blind the rest of the contestants and give you an unfair advantage’? Would I normally say something like that?”
“Fast learner,” he snapped.
“Don’t you like already have a TV?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” I said, playing the game.
“You do. In fact, you already have a widescreen high-def TV,” the old salt lied to my face. “So why don’t you step aside and let someone else have a chance to win this prize?”
“One can never have too many TVs. Besides, there’s always the chance if I did win it, I might give it away as a gift—you know, seeing as how you said I already had one and all.”
“Won’t matter. You aren’t going to win,” he said.
Okay, so there it was. The slap on the face with the glove. The challenge. I looked at my opponent. He was wiry, yes. But I had the advantage in age. And cunning? Well, that one was up for grabs.
We lined up on our marks. We would be required to grab a grass skirt and swim top from a common pile, don the grass skirt, secure it at the waist so it wouldn’t end up around our ankles, put a bra top on and fasten it, and secure the oversized sunglasses on our noses. Then, we would make our way across the planks, grab a drink in one hand and a rice cake in the other and while we made our way back across the “pirate planks” we had to eat the rice cake and drink our beverage without spilling a drop or falling off the plank. Once we reached the other side of the pool, we had to shuck the grass skirt and swimsuit bra top and hit the buzzer to stop our time.
I looked over at Joe. He cracked his knuckles. I did one of those neck-popping numbers. Let the games begin! May the best plank-walker win.
The starter gun sent us scrambling toward the pile of clothing. Besides Joe and Sherri, I was shocked to see red-headed party pooper, Lou, thundering toward the garment heap. I snatched a grass skirt from the pile and wrapped it around me, securing it with the drawstring. I snagged a hot pink bra top (naturally) by a strap and yanked…only to discover Lou had hold of the other.
“Let go!” I hissed.
“You let go!” he hissed right back.
“I can’t. Hot pink’s my trademark color,” I said, pulling harder on the bra.
“Take the orange one!” he snapped, increasing his hold on the elastic.
“Orange! Orange makes me look sallow!” I yelled, pulling back on the bra so hard its size probably stretched from a 34C to a 36D. “Besides, it’s not your size!” Mine, either, but how was he to know? I gave the item of apparel one more tug and it came loose, the elastic snapping back to bite my arm.
I stuck my arms through the loops, fasteners in front as I ran back to my plank, hooking the bra as I ran. I decided to leave it backwards, figuring it would save me time when I disrobed. I stuck a pair of big red plastic sunglasses on my nose and hurried toward my plank, stunned to find Joe Townsend had not only gotten himself garbed, but was already straddling his plank looking like something out of a cross-dressing spoof gone way bad. And he’d partnered a green grass skirt with a pink-polka-dotted purple swim top. Ugh. How gaudy.
“How’d you get dressed so fast?” I asked, stepping up on my beam.
“I didn’t take time to quibble over colors like some people,” he stated, beginning his awkward trek across the board.
I felt confident in my balancing act abilities. While I’d left the dance and gymnastic lessons to Taylor—I was kicked out of tumbling for harassing Dallas Boston, not only because of his name but because he was the only he in tumbling class—I’d played enough high school sports to compensate for missing out on the finer arts of dance tutelage.
I decided to use what I called the side-to-side method, being more familiar with this from my basketball guarding drills. I eased out onto the plank, curling my toes under just so to grip the plank as I made my way across, thinking I was sunk for sure if I got a toe cramp. I kept my concentration focused on the task at hand—or rather at feet—knowing I was competing against the clock rather than for a win, yet realizing if I was beaten here, I was out of contention.
“Hey, look at blondie there with the backwards boobs!” I heard, and my head snapped up. I swayed forward and almost fell in the drink. I regained my balance and frowned. That voice sounded familiar. Too familiar. The other motor-mouth in my family. My brother, Craig.
A long, hot-mama whistle sounded.
“That’s a pretty impressive rack,” another voice commented, and I felt my chest puff up with pride. That is, until the next observation.
“I always did have a thing for hot pink.”
That, if I wasn’t mistaken, was courtesy of my brother’s cohort in adolescent comedy, Fish Bowl heartthrob, Ranger Rick. The duddly duo. They were torpedoing my chance at a high-def telly.
I blocked out the catcalls, guffaws and giggles, as well as the distracting grunts coming from the old guy next to me. We were still in a dead heat, with the first half of the race nearing its end. I had it all planned out. I’d stuff the rice cake into my mouth—one of the few benefits of having a mouth that can accommodate a Whopper—and chase it down with my drink, then haul my uni-breasted self across that plank and to the finish line.
I made it to the other side first, reaching out to take a rice cake the size of a saucer and a plastic cup full of a pink beverage with a hot pink umbrella sticking out of it. My favorite colors. A good sign. I decided to get a modest lead on my opponents, who were all nearing the end of the first leg—or, in Joe’s case, already accepting the rice cake and beverage. His drink, I noticed, was orange.
I took three side steps back toward the other end.
“Don’t choke to death trying to get that rice cake down,” I called back to Joe. “I don’t suppose you’ve had occasion to eat very many prior to this.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Joe said. “I’ve probably put more of these away than you have.”
I would have shaken my head but couldn’t risk it. Instead, I continued my sidestep mode of movement. I went a few more yards when I decided it was time to consume the rice cake. I shoved it in my mouth, took a jumbo bite and started chomping, breaking off more and jamming it into my mouth.
“Wow! Look at ‘Hot Pink Hooters’ take a run at that rice cake,” I heard. “She’s got a set of jaws on her! Reminds me of a wood chipper the way she’s cramming that cake in. Hope she doesn’t chomp a finger off while she’s at it.”
I wanted to rip the speaker a new one, but my mouth was full of dry, crackly sawdusty rice cake. A piece of the cake protruding from the front of my mouth began to fall and I had to reach up to shove it back in. I started to sway forward and backward. Forward and backward.
“Oooh! She’s gonna fall!”
I struggled to chew and swallow and regain my balance, the weight of the full glass screwing up the weight distribution. I finally got enough of a handle on the swaying to start moving again. I had no idea how close anyone except Joe was—and he was breathing down my neck.
I kicked it into gear, thinking now that I had recovered my balance, I’d simply move to the end of the plank, down my drink there, jump down, strip and enjoy the sweet taste of victory.
I sidestepped my way to the very edge of the board, gaining a modest lead over Joe who had paused to finish off his drink. I lifted my own glass and prepared to make short order of the pink lemonade. I raised the glass to my lips, took a long gulp—and my taste buds rebelled. I started to cough. My eyes watered. Ye gods! Grapefruit juice! Again! What were the friggin’ odds?
Hold! I commanded the contents of my mouth that were headed for the escape hatch. Hold! I forced myself to swallow the tasty treat that rivaled a bologna-and-orange-juice combo for flavor and texture, and saw movement to my right. Joe, the straddler, was making up the distance between us in good time.
I looked at the half-f glass of grapefruit guts. (Regardless of what you hear, I really am a “glass-half-f” kind of gal.) “You’ve discovered dead bodies,” I told myself. “You’ve exposed murderers and arsonists. You’ve faced kidnappers, evil clowns and campus kooks. You can do this!”
I put my free hand out and carefully brought it to my nose, reaching out to pinch both nostrils together tightly. I was losing valuable time, but I’d end up retching or gagging up the foul brew if I didn’t pinch myself shut. I raised the glass to my lips, tipped my head back and poured it in. The juice burned the back of my throat when it hit but I kept chugalugging until I managed to drain the glass.
I slowly brought my hands away from my face. My nostrils were stuck closed but I didn’t care. I raised my hands above my head in impending victory, only to discover Gilligan had dismounted from his beam and was yanking at the drawstring of his grass skirt.
I leaped from my plank, tearing at my own skirt’s waistline, untying the bow I’d made. I let my skirt drop amid cheers and some jeers. All that was left was to remove the swimsuit bra top.
Piece of cake. I wore bras all the time. And due to my clever but somewhat humiliating wardrobe reversal, guess who would be laughing now! A quick flip of the hooks and…
I frowned.
A quick flip of the hooks and…
Dang! The hooks weren’t cooperating. I fumbled around and finally got one unhooked, but it was taking too much time—time enough for Joe to have dropped his own grass skirt and set to work on his Purple People-eater bra. He whipped it around, cups facing backwards, and started to work.
Whatever happened to old guys and arthritic fingers? I asked as I gave up on the hooks and eyes and began to yank the thing over my head. I had one arm out and was freeing the other when I heard a buzzer.
I looked up.
Joe was still struggling to free himself But Party Pooper Lou? He stood by his buzzer beaming from ear to ear.
I yanked my remaining hand free and pulled the bra up over my head and tossed it back. I raced to my own buzzer and was about to pound it when another buzzer sounded. I looked over and saw Sherri smile in my direction. I grimaced, knowing my chance of cinching a place in the final round was gone, baby, gone. All that was left was to elevate myself from abject humiliation by besting Gilligan.
I saw Joe move toward his buzzer. I slammed my palm down on mine milliseconds before Joe did the same.
“Woo hoo! I win! I win!” I said, dancing a little jig. “I beat you!”
“No, you didn’t,” Joe said. “I beat you.”
I stopped my happy dance.
“What do you mean, you beat me? I clearly hit the buzzer first,” I pointed out.
“That’s right, but you didn’t undress first.”
I stared at him. “Are you going dirty-old-man on me?” I asked, and he shook his head in disgust.
“You’re still wearing the swim top,” he said.
I stared some more. “What are you talking about?” I said. “I shucked that puppy already.”
He put a hand toward me, reaching around to the back of my head. I felt a slight tug on my hair as he brought his hand back. I looked down to find the hot pink swim top hanging over my shoulder, a hook caught on my hair.
“Disqualified!” I heard over the loudspeaker as the gathered crowd roared.
I freed the hot pink swim accessory from my hair and flung it at Party Pooper Lou.
“You liked it so much. Be my guest,” I said, making my way back to the table where I’d left my bag, silently vowing never again to touch a drop of grapefruit juice.
“Tough break, sis.” My brother, Craig, handed me my bag. “But I enjoyed the show.”
I grabbed my bag from him. “I might’ve done better had I not had to listen to sophomoric bilge-rat reprobates and their adolescent jokes,” I told him. “It’s sad how some people care nothing for the feelings of others.” I patted his arm. “I’m so glad you’re my brother because I know you wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that. Would you…Greg?”
Craig’s amused grin went bye-bye.
“Uh, it’s Craig,” he said. “And me? No, I would never heckle someone like that. In fact, I wanted to punch their lights out.”
“What a good brother I have,” I said. “One who looks after me when I’m scared and vulnerable. Who’s there to champion me when I’m down. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.”
“Right,” Craig said, his expression priceless. “Right.”
Kimmie joined us and I smiled at her. “Well, it’s been real,” I said, “but as I was about to tell brother Greg here, my job is done.” I was thinking what I needed most was a nice quiet corner to collect my thoughts. Since my chat with Monique and Sherri, the landscape of this lethal-lover cruise had altered significantly, with three men left vying for the role of cold-blooded killer.
“Aren’t you going to hang around for the final round?” Craig asked.
“Why should I?”
“You might get a kick out of it,” he said.
“I don’t think I’m up for seeing any more pasty wrinkled men frolic around in grass skirts and Wonderbras,” I told him.
“What about a lean mean fighting machine ranger-type?”
The query came in the form of a whisper accompanied by a hot blast of moist heat on the back of my neck.
I shivered. “What are you talking about?” I turned and saw Rick. “You don’t mean…”
“I smoked the clock during my round,” Townsend said. “Burned it.”
“You? You’re in the final?” I asked.
He nodded.
“You put on a grass skirt?”
He nodded.
“You wore a bikini top?”
He nodded.
“You’re still in the running to win the high-def TV?” I said.
“Aye-aye,” he said.
“Congratulations,” I said, thinking this was so-not-fair.
“You gonna cheer me on?” he asked.
After last night? I ought to run far, far away.
“Maybe,” I said.
“And you’re gonna root for me?” he asked.
I frowned. “Who else would I root for?”
A not-so-subtle cough from my sister-in-law got my attention. Her eyes shifted to the right three or four times.
I followed the direction of her peepers. There he was. Six-feet-three, shirtless and ripped, Manny DeMarco stood across the deck staring right at me. My tongue got heavy and thick in my mouth. Oh. My. God. The guy was a mountain. A chiseled mountain. A sculpted rock. A hand-carved masterpiece.
“Tressa? Are you all right?” Rick asked.
Was I?
Pressure on my toes from Kimmie’s foot pierced my stupor.
The loudspeaker chirped and Kimmie grabbed my arm. “That’s your cue, Rick,” she said. “Get out there and leave him in the dust. Just rip him up, annihilate him, humiliate him, destroy him!” she said. “Take no prisoners!”
I looked at Kimmie. She really didn’t want to wear that diaper at the wedding.
“Down, girl,” Craig told Kimmie, giving her a puzzled look. “It’s just a friendly competition,” he added.
“There’s nothing remotely friendly about this competition. Nothing at all…Greg!” she added, giving Craig a look that made him take a step back.
“Kimmie! What’s gotten into you?” he asked.
“What’s gotten into me?” Kimmie’s voice sounded shrill and fragmented. “What’s gotten into me? Thanks to you, nothing! That’s what’s gotten into me. Nothing! I’m an empty vessel! Do you hear me! An empty vessel!” She let go of my arm and dashed at her eyes. “And I’m tired of waiting, Craig Turner,” she said and turned and left.
“Kim? Kimmie? Kimberly!” Craig took off after her, and I stood there looking after them.
“And men think women are clueless,” I commented.
“Not all the time,” Rick replied.
“Shouldn’t you be getting lined up?”
He nodded. “I’m going. Wish me luck?”
“Sure. Why not,” I said.
“I think you can do better than that,” Rick said.
“I’m not sure—” I’d started to say when he scooped me up in his arms, clutched me to his chest and covered my shocked lips with his, kissing me long, hard and well.