The Jetsetters Page 7

  “Lamb chops,” agreed Cord. The man lumbered off, through the passageway and out of sight.

  “Lamb chops?” said Regan. “We’re going to eat lamb chops?”

  “When in Athens…” said Cord, trying to be light. Regan shrugged.

  “So,” said Cord, making his tone suitably grave, “how are you?” He hoped this opening would allow her to tell him about the private investigator. Cord leaned forward, trying to look encouraging.

  “I’m fine,” said Regan.

  “Are you sure?” asked Cord. He raised his eyebrows, willing her to confide in him. Oh, how he wanted to be someone’s savior!

  “Yes,” said Regan, folding and refolding her napkin. “I’m sure.”

  The man returned with dishes piled high. Food had always helped ease Cord’s anxiety: he lifted a hot chunk of bread (it seemed to have been grilled) and took a bite. It was delicious and dense, tasting of olive oil. He served himself salad. Every flavor burst in his mouth as if he’d never before tasted a real tomato or an inch-and-a-half-thick mouthful of feta. Cord thought for a moment of the pathetic “feta crumbles” he sometimes shook over his deli salad and felt mournful.

  “So everything’s…?” he said.

  “Fine,” said Regan, who seemed to be concentrating on the vines encircling a trellis overhead. Cord realized this was going to be harder than he’d thought.

  “I was wondering…how you and Matt were doing,” said Cord.

  “Why?” said Regan.

  “No reason,” said Cord. This was a lie. The truth was that Zoë had told Cord a private investigator had been tailing Matt, and had uncovered some shocking and sordid news.

  “I sent the report to Regan,” Zoë had said, “but she hasn’t even responded. I keep calling her! She won’t answer!” Zoë begged Cord to make sure Regan was okay.

  “We’re good,” said Regan, spearing a piece of feta with her fork. “You know—it’s marriage. Or I guess you don’t know.”

  Cord watched her. She seemed subdued, but maybe this was just her personality now. Younger Regan had always been bubbly, so delighted by everything—birds, French fries, the moon. “Did you…um, get an email from Zoë?” he said.

  “Zoë? Email?” said Regan. “No. Definitely not.”

  The man dropped off a platter of meat, then two plates of dips—one white yogurt and one pale green. “For bread,” said the man, pointing to the basket. Cord nodded his thanks. He squeezed a lemon quarter over the meat, then lifted a chop. It seemed smaller than the steroid-fattened American chop, delicate. He took a bite, and almost moaned with pleasure as he tasted oregano and salt—yes! Salt!—combined with the better-than-American-lemon lemon and the rich, slightly gamy, melty, fat-studded lamb.

  Cord looked at his baby sister, reached for her hand across the table. “Did you look at the report?” he said. “We can look at it together, Ray Ray.”

  She yanked her hand away and stood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice steely and kind of mean. “Do you understand? I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want to hear about whatever you’re talking about ever again.”

  Cord sighed. He was trying to move away from lies and subterfuge. He wanted this conversation to be different. He yearned to open up to Regan, to tell her about Giovanni, to strategize about how they’d break the news, together, to Charlotte. He wanted to help Regan make a new life without Matt.

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” said Regan.

  “Regan! Okay. Okay, if that’s what you want. We don’t have to talk about this. But…I can help you, Regan. Don’t you want me to help you?” She slid on her rhinestone sunglasses. The set of her mouth—and her desire to deny the truth about her marriage—made Cord sad and then furious. “What the hell, Regan?” he said. “This isn’t you!”

  “You don’t even know me,” said Regan. “You don’t have any idea who I am anymore.”

  “Of course I do,” said Cord. “Stop being dramatic.”

  He wanted her to smile, to shake her head. But Regan leaned close and said, “Back off. I mean it. You don’t want anything to do with this, I promise you.”

  Cord was stunned. Were they in some sort of crime drama? What on earth had happened to sweet baby Ray Ray? As she turned and strode off, he quickly grabbed a pork chop in each hand. To hell with his sister! He took one bite and then another. To hell with the Perkins drama! He was going to book a flight home to his Giovanni.

  But first he was going to enjoy his delectable Athenian feast.

  SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Zoë had forwarded an email: the private investigator’s report on Matt. The email had been titled CALL ME IT’S BAD. Regan had stared at the title for a moment, but she had not clicked.

  Zoë had since called Regan twice, and Cord as well, it seemed. Regan felt panicked as her taxi pulled in front of the Acropolis Select Hotel. Matt was waiting for her, wearing new sunglasses. When had he bought new sunglasses? Regan rolled down the window and waved, trying to smile. Matt climbed into the car and they headed to the Port of Piraeus. Matt smelled like Old Spice deodorant. He greeted the driver, saying, “Yassus.” Regan was surprised.

  “What?” said Matt. “The least I could do was learn ‘hello.’ ” He held up his phone, showing her a language app. “I’ve never been anywhere,” he said. “This is a big deal for me.”

  It was true: they’d barely left Georgia in their years together. They had gone to Tybee Island for their honeymoon, to Atlanta once in a while for conventions. Before they’d had children, Regan had visited Cord in New York, but Matt had never had time to come along.

  Now he seemed like his old self—kind, happy—and Regan’s stomach ached with indecision. Her phone kept buzzing with missed calls from Zoë. Could she still change her mind and mend her relationship with Matt?

  Regan was, and had been since childhood, a fixer. She was the mom you called when you needed someone to do car pool last minute. She could (and had) put together a kindergarten rodeo when the mother who was supposed to call Pony Rides of Coastal Georgia had run off with a Norwegian pilot she’d met online.

  Regan could remember being woken by her father and mother fighting. She’d crept downstairs in her nightgown and made a platter of cheese and crackers. When she delivered it to the den, they turned to her with mottled, teary faces.

  “Cheese and crackers!” she’d said. My God: she must have been seven years old.

  Cheese and fucking crackers. But they had stopped fighting.

  * * *

  —

  REGAN GAZED OUT THE window as they passed the massive Acropolis. As the myth went, Athena and Poseidon were battling for control of Athens when Poseidon struck the ground next to the Acropolis with his trident and created a salty spring. Athena knelt and planted an olive tree. King Cecrops declared Athena the winner, as her gift would provide food and oil for Athenians.

  Regan, she decided, was an olive tree, rooted in the soil, flourishing despite the ravages of time and marital disappointment. She would rise above the fracas, protecting her girls from pain. She was strong enough to bear whatever attacks might come at her! She was like the goddamn giving tree!

  One night, when Regan had brought The Giving Tree from the bookshelf, Flora had said she didn’t want to hear that one anymore.

  “Why not?” Regan asked.

  “Because, Mommy,” said Flora. “It’s the saddest story in the world.”

  LEE FOLLOWED THE SIGNS to her Marveloso cabin, her footsteps silent on the blue and green, wave-patterned carpet. As she walked along the hallway, which was lit with pleasant sconces, a popcorn smell faded and was replaced with a floral scent, though there were no actual flowers to be seen.

  At last, she reached her room and dipped her card in the door lock, which flashed green and opened. Her cabin was the cutest 185
square feet in the world: there was a couch along one side opposite a sweet little desk, and a double bed by the window. The curtains were shut.

  Across the bed was a large plastic cloth reading:

  LUGGAGE MAT IS MY NAME

  PROTECTING THE COMFY

  BED IS MY GAME

  Lee had her very own balcony, with two metal chairs and a view of the water and the Port of Piraeus. She felt sticky from the Athenian heat and decided to take a shower in the miniature bathroom.

  With the water on her body, she tried to focus on her breathing, the way she’d once done as a competitive swimmer. Lee had hated swim team at first, the chlorine in her eyes, the boring laps and strict coach, the overheated chemical air of the indoor pool. But as she grew stronger, she started to look forward to her nightly exercise.

  Lee and her father would leave the house earlier than they needed to for weekend swim meets, stop for egg sandwiches, and eat them on a bench in Forsyth Park. Winston would buy the Savannah Morning News, and during the interminable competitions, he’d read in the bleachers, peering over his newspaper periodically to wink at Lee, sitting in her bathing suit and sweatpants below.

  Lee’s brain shut off as she concentrated on propulsion. When she began to study Transcendental Meditation in L.A. because a lot of big directors studied TM and she figured it couldn’t hurt, Lee realized that swimming had already taught her how to meditate.

  Focusing on her breath rather than her brain’s messy and subjective thoughts seemed to be the key. Lee learned to pretend she was swimming even when she was on land. She’d slow her brain down, look around, stop time. This bled into feeling thankful, and gratitude helped ease the sadness she’d been born with—or maybe she’d been born blank, but for as long as she could remember, she’d been singed by a hopeless feeling. After Winston hung himself, Lee understood that she’d inherited his despair. She clung desperately to the belief that if she became famous, her glory would somehow fix what was broken inside her. She would rise above the blackness that had swallowed her father.

  When she stepped out of the shower, Lee forgot to avert her eyes from the mirror. There she was: thirty-eight years old. Her calm disappeared. It wasn’t the lines around her eyes—those could be addressed—and it wasn’t the crepey texture of her neck.

  No, it was the expression on her face. She looked grim, hunted. As if something was after her and she was losing ground. Wrapping a towel around herself, Lee sat down on her bed. She thought of Jason, who had made it, who was getting everything they’d talked about, all of it and more. Why hadn’t she been able to say yes to a life with him—stability, a family?

  Before he had dumped her, Jason had taken online quizzes on her behalf, telling Lee her racing brain and sense of hopelessness were symptoms of depression, probably manic depression. But who wouldn’t be depressed in her position? Jason bought her books, told her about podcasts, and ordered nutritional supplements to treat her brain. But magnesium drinks weren’t going to get her a job. Saint-John’s-wort pills weren’t going to change her dawning knowledge that nothing—not even fame—would bring her peace.

  Without that hope, life seemed unbearable. And yet holding on to that hope was beginning to be unbearable as well. Lee sank down on her bed, and felt the sad fog envelop her. She needed to make herself get up. She closed her eyes.

  ALONE IN HER STATEROOM, Charlotte opened her suitcase, took out her erotic essay, found a safe in her closet, and locked the printout, her traveler’s checks, and her passport inside. (Code 1960: the year she met the painter.)

  She’d been shapeless that summer, a ghost to herself, but after the first night in Le Zinc, she understood what she wanted. It wasn’t Winston, not by a long shot, but the cheap-red-wine world he was a part of: angry, attractive people who stayed up late and seemed to disdain her parents’ bourgeois lifestyle. What a thrill it was to trade her desperation for disdain!

  Within days, Charlotte felt as if the crew at the café were her family: Winston; his brother, Paul; three girls who’d hitchhiked from London for the summer; and assorted burgeoning writers, artists, and bohemian types. Charlotte was the youngest by a few years, but it hardly seemed to matter. She had money to pay their tabs, which was appreciated.

  Paul (who died in a drunk-driving accident soon after Winston and Charlotte’s wedding) was a poet. He wore a black flat-brimmed hat and smoked cigarillos, invited Charlotte to come along on a picnic where they shared baguettes and wine and Paul wrote as the London girls stripped naked and danced. Even three sheets to the wind, Charlotte was shocked. (Winston brought her home early, walking her to the front door of the embassy like the buttoned-up man he was.)

  It was a summer of burned dinners in cramped apartments, endless cigarettes, long hair parted in the middle and fastened at the nape of her neck, ballet flats, black dresses. Winston told her what to read and she read it: Sartre, Hemingway, Paul and Jane Bowles. Charlotte knew Winston was in love with her and didn’t mind. She perfected the art of changing the subject.

  One early evening, the waitress at Le Zinc approached their table with a bottle of absinthe on a silver tray. She placed a sugar cube on a slotted spoon and poured the green liqueur. She raised her eyebrows, setting the glass in front of Charlotte. In Charlotte’s memory (though this could not be true), the room went dark, and a spotlight shone upon her.

  “It’s from him,” said the waitress in a reverent voice, tilting her head. They all turned. In the corner of the café, a balding, gnarled man (he was almost eighty!) sat surrounded by an entourage.

  The old man was bright-eyed, wearing a green scarf, staring straight at Charlotte. She encircled the absinthe with her fingers.

  “For the love of God,” said Winston. “Charlotte, do you know who that is?”

  Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to meet the man’s gaze. She shook her head.

  Winston spoke the man’s name, looking concerned, impressed, scared.

  “Oh,” said Charlotte. “I believe I’ve heard of him.” She raised the absinthe, met the stranger’s gaze, and drank.

  “Be careful, Charlotte,” said Winston, putting his arm around her possessively.

  “Who, me?” said Charlotte, breaking free.

  A DUTIFUL CATHOLIC SINCE childhood, Charlotte attended mass every morning and had been worried about missing mass while cruising. Some cruise lines gave a free room to a Catholic priest who could perform services, but Charlotte had heard from her Bible Study group that these “rent-a-priests” were not always in good standing. Charlotte had consulted Father Thomas, who agreed that missing mass because of winning the Become a Jetsetter contest was a reasonable exception. She could enjoy the cruise, return home, go to confession, and Father Thomas would give her penance. She would be absolved and could receive Holy Communion again.

  Still, Charlotte took a framed photo of Jesus and set it on top of the television in her stateroom. She unpacked her toiletries in the bathroom, which was no better or worse than the one at home. One of her church friends had sent Charlotte a link to an article called “After You Flush—Waste Disposal at Sea Is a Complicated Business,” but Charlotte had declined to click on the link. Some things didn’t need to be known and how cruise ships disposed of human effluvium was one of them.

  There were plenty of clean (if thin) towels, and a cord could be stretched from one side of the bathroom to the other if one chose to wash their unmentionables in the sink. Charlotte hoped that her prize package included laundry, for Pete’s sake.

  A radio next to her bed was already switched on, and Frank Sinatra sang, “Fly me to the moon! Let me play among the stars.”

  Charlotte hummed as she unpacked. Although the absolutely first thing Charlotte’s mother always did was empty her suitcases (or have them emptied: Louisa had never folded a cardigan in her life), Charlotte could feel her energy as a limited resource, and she wanted to sip so
me champagne. She quickly changed into a Talbots shift dress (Kelly green) and matching shoes; clipped on faux-gold, Ralph Lauren lion earrings; and applied lipstick, smoke-colored eye shadow, and a bit of mascara. A brush through her hair and a few pumps of hairspray (how she missed her clouds of Aqua Net, but one had to do what was right for the planet, not to mention those poor Australian children with a hole in their ozone layer) and Charlotte was ready to go.

  She opened her cabin door and found herself face-to-face with a handsome man in uniform. “Oh!” said Charlotte, her hand flying to her chest.

  “Good evening, madame,” said the man. He was about Charlotte’s age, with thick gray hair and a big smile. “I am Paros, your porter. I’m sorry to frighten you.”

  Charlotte wasn’t the least bit frightened. She could smell Paros’s manly, soapy smell. A longing welled inside her. She wanted to touch this man, to be touched.

  “Please let me know if I can be of assistance,” said Paros, sweeping his arm up, as if presenting her with the narrow hallway.

  “Oh, my,” said Charlotte.

  Paros looked at her, not past her, not above her head. His smile was kind and a bit sad. His face was leathered by years in the sun. His teeth were not the best. Still, Charlotte felt her heart quickening. Had she met this person before? She felt as if she should know him, as if she did know him.

  “The night is yours, madame,” said Paros.

  “DON’T GET ON THE SHIP,” said Cord’s sponsor, Handy.

  “I know,” said Cord, clutching his phone to his ear and staring at the gargantuan Splendido Marveloso moored in the Aegean Sea. He’d meant to go to the airport—he had! But something had made him tell the Uber guy to drive him away from Athens International and toward his inescapable, exhausting family. “What am I doing?” he said.

  “You need to protect your sobriety,” said Handy, his voice strong and certain, even bullying. “Get on a plane and come home. You’re allowed to walk away. You don’t have to take care of anyone but yourself. You’re not alone, man. I’m here. Talk to me.”