Full of Grace by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

not possibly be a happy woman. I wondered for the second time in a week what there was to be done about it. Looking back quickly over the Fourth of July holiday, I could hardly remember a kind word that my father or my grandmother had had for her. It had to stop. What had she ever done to deserve such a lack of respect and affection? Nothing. I knew that for a fact.
    I looked at my watch and realized I had better hurry if I was to take this group out on the boats we had reserved. I was late and I thought to myself that they were probably all waiting on the docks, rolling their eyes, tapping the dial of their diamond-encrusted wristwatches with their acrylic fingernail tips.
    Sure enough, they were.
    “Hi! Sorry! I had to make a phone call.”
    Some of the people looked extremely annoyed and I thought, Oh, screw you. I don’t make enough money to take your grief . You have to understand that although I lived a vicarious existence through my clients, I wasn’t in a perfect mood every minute of every day. And these were not long-term relationships; this group would be replaced by another within days. Let’s face the facts. Doing what I did made you jaded and I decided the tiniest guilt trip was in order—nothing that could rise to the level of unprofessional. Just a small dart. I jumped on board the first boat and offered one of the older gals a hand to make the little leap.
    “My grandmother broke her hip,” I said. “I had to talk to my mother, who’s understandably hysterical.”
    “Oh!” she said, no longer irritated. “How dreadful! I’m so sorry!”
    Cluck, cluck, cluck . She told another lady, who told another wife, and suddenly the Pucci, Louis and Hooey bitches of the Smeralda Coast were the souls of compassion. And as they put their attitudes ofentitlement aside, I thought, That’s more like it, girls, and began to relax again.
    The captain of our boat opened a bottle of champagne and poured out eight plastic glasses.
    “Salute!” he said.
    In minutes we were tearing up the Mediterranean and the guests were back at work on building their afternoon buzz. The good thing about the ride was that the boat was so noisy I couldn’t hear their chatter. They gathered on the stern, lounging on the huge white leather cushions, and I checked out the picnic the hotel had packed for us. There were small sandwiches of ham, salmon and some kind of cheese spread. There was a large bag of pretzels, a small box of cookies, fruit—grapes and apples. The cooler had bottled water and sodas that would surely go untouched. Because there were four bottles of champagne and four bottles of white wine. For six guests, the captain and me. Stunning. What could you say? The chef knew his audience.
    This bunch drank wine with lunch, cocktails around the pool, champagne on the boat and vast quantities of wine with dinner. The amount of alcohol they consumed was unbelievable. It was a wonder they didn’t drop dead, fall into the sea or pass out in their macaroni. They didn’t. Obviously I knew they were on vacation, no one was driving a car anywhere, and they were old enough to do as they pleased, but let me tell you, every group didn’t drink like these characters. They were a gang of Judy Garlands and Dean Martins on the express train to liver-transplant hell. But in a first-class cabin, of course.
    Later that afternoon, right before the cocktail hour that was so highly anticipated by my group, I ran into Geri Post at the outside bar. She had an open notebook on the table along with Michelin guides and maps.
    “You’re sunburned,” she said with her typical aplomb. “That’s gonna hurt like the devil.”
    “I’ll take an aspirin. Move over and I’ll buy you a Coke. Hey, two of the guests want to do a ‘go-see’ at some of the ancient sites,” I said. “What does tomorrow morning look like?”
    “Sounds like a road trip to me. I was thinking about touring the interior, but that’s a whole day’s trip. I’ll call