desiccated stalk of straw next to a glorious gardenia.
Harriet threw out her hand and a friendly smile. "So nice to meet you. Errall, I just love your name.
Mine makes me sound as if I'm a ninety-year-old schoolmarm. Please call me Harry."
"And this is Harry's father, Jackson Delmonico." Flora was referring to a slightly stooped-over black man who could have been any age between forty-five and seventy. His weary, bleary face, yellowed eyes and ruined voice told me that this was a man accustomed to long, hard nights of overindulging. Even so, he was spiffily turned out that evening, wearing a purple dress jacket with black lapels, a black shirt with ruffled front, billowing black pants and shiny black dress shoes. Everything about the outfit was a little worn and out of date, but certainly attention-grabbing. He had an easy, wide smile that showed off large, tobacco-stained teeth and closely shorn greying hair, beard and moustache. I noticed when Flora introduced Harry, Jackson looked about as proud as if she'd just been awarded a Nobel prize.
The man next to Jackson was also stooped, but that’s where the similarity ended. He was thinner, shorter, and looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to have his food and get out of there. He was in his early sixties, with a small, oval face blanched white as Wonder Bread. His dull eyes met ours for less than a second as we shook hands when Flora introduced him as Harry's grandfather, Patrick Halburton.
"And this," Flora said indicating the last man, "is Harry's greatgrandfather."
"James McNichol," he declared sprightly, barely noticing me but paying Errall an inordinate amount of attention.
Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James. Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James.
H-J-P-J, H-J-P-J, I repeated to myself to help keep the names and faces and relationships straight.
At eighty-two, even though James outdistanced Jackson and Patrick in age by decades, he appeared substantially heartier and healthier and, I must say, was the most attractive of the three. He was tall, with an almost full head of wavy hair dyed a rusty shade of blond, and his large chest, forty-four inches at least, seemed even larger due to an inspiringly small waist for a man of his years. "What an absolute delight to have you at our table, young lady," he said to Errall as he raised her hand to his lips for a lingering smooch. I've never gotten that: hand-kissing. What's that all about? Why the hand and not the palm or left knee? "Does your mother know you're out this late without a chaperone?" he chided.
Errall gave him one of her rare Crest-commercial smiles. "I guess old Russell here is my chaperone."
He regretfully pulled his eyes from Errall's bosom and regarded me pleasantly. "Well, well, Mr. Quant.
The legal advisor." For a burning second I felt a sensation of being named the victim in a game of seafaring Clue: The GreatGrandfather Killed The Legal Advisor in The Galley with The Anchor. "Good to meet you. You best keep a close eye on your young lady here." He bestowed a salacious leer on Errall.
"Who knows what type of trouble a fair maiden such as she could get into on this ship? I've noticed a lot of randy-looking young men aboard who I'm sure would like nothing better than to get to know her better." He gave me one of those manly winks that says, "If you know what I mean?"
I exchanged a bemused grin with Errall and nodded thanks for the warning. Didn't James McNichol know what kind of cruise this was? The only thing any of the randy men on this boat might want from Errall would be the sequins off her dress.
Flora made off for her own table leaving us to take our seats just as the wine steward and menus came around. The selection was awe-inspiring and I finally settled on a lamb dish. The steward suggested a Marques de Caceres Reserva 1995, from Rioja, Spain, which apparently was a very agreeable wine enhanced by a menthol note on the finale. The combo sounded so good that two others at the table ordered the
Harriet threw out her hand and a friendly smile. "So nice to meet you. Errall, I just love your name.
Mine makes me sound as if I'm a ninety-year-old schoolmarm. Please call me Harry."
"And this is Harry's father, Jackson Delmonico." Flora was referring to a slightly stooped-over black man who could have been any age between forty-five and seventy. His weary, bleary face, yellowed eyes and ruined voice told me that this was a man accustomed to long, hard nights of overindulging. Even so, he was spiffily turned out that evening, wearing a purple dress jacket with black lapels, a black shirt with ruffled front, billowing black pants and shiny black dress shoes. Everything about the outfit was a little worn and out of date, but certainly attention-grabbing. He had an easy, wide smile that showed off large, tobacco-stained teeth and closely shorn greying hair, beard and moustache. I noticed when Flora introduced Harry, Jackson looked about as proud as if she'd just been awarded a Nobel prize.
The man next to Jackson was also stooped, but that’s where the similarity ended. He was thinner, shorter, and looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to have his food and get out of there. He was in his early sixties, with a small, oval face blanched white as Wonder Bread. His dull eyes met ours for less than a second as we shook hands when Flora introduced him as Harry's grandfather, Patrick Halburton.
"And this," Flora said indicating the last man, "is Harry's greatgrandfather."
"James McNichol," he declared sprightly, barely noticing me but paying Errall an inordinate amount of attention.
Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James. Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James.
H-J-P-J, H-J-P-J, I repeated to myself to help keep the names and faces and relationships straight.
At eighty-two, even though James outdistanced Jackson and Patrick in age by decades, he appeared substantially heartier and healthier and, I must say, was the most attractive of the three. He was tall, with an almost full head of wavy hair dyed a rusty shade of blond, and his large chest, forty-four inches at least, seemed even larger due to an inspiringly small waist for a man of his years. "What an absolute delight to have you at our table, young lady," he said to Errall as he raised her hand to his lips for a lingering smooch. I've never gotten that: hand-kissing. What's that all about? Why the hand and not the palm or left knee? "Does your mother know you're out this late without a chaperone?" he chided.
Errall gave him one of her rare Crest-commercial smiles. "I guess old Russell here is my chaperone."
He regretfully pulled his eyes from Errall's bosom and regarded me pleasantly. "Well, well, Mr. Quant.
The legal advisor." For a burning second I felt a sensation of being named the victim in a game of seafaring Clue: The GreatGrandfather Killed The Legal Advisor in The Galley with The Anchor. "Good to meet you. You best keep a close eye on your young lady here." He bestowed a salacious leer on Errall.
"Who knows what type of trouble a fair maiden such as she could get into on this ship? I've noticed a lot of randy-looking young men aboard who I'm sure would like nothing better than to get to know her better." He gave me one of those manly winks that says, "If you know what I mean?"
I exchanged a bemused grin with Errall and nodded thanks for the warning. Didn't James McNichol know what kind of cruise this was? The only thing any of the randy men on this boat might want from Errall would be the sequins off her dress.
Flora made off for her own table leaving us to take our seats just as the wine steward and menus came around. The selection was awe-inspiring and I finally settled on a lamb dish. The steward suggested a Marques de Caceres Reserva 1995, from Rioja, Spain, which apparently was a very agreeable wine enhanced by a menthol note on the finale. The combo sounded so good that two others at the table ordered the
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