The Unsinkable Greta James(70)

After a few minutes, she takes a step back, then another, then turns and heads out into the hallway, the music still pulsing through her. Ben follows her down the dimly lit corridor with a dreamy smile.

“I don’t know why I never go see live music,” he says. “It’s so exhilarating. Is that what it’s like when you play? Because I’d love to see you sometime.”

He sounds so earnest, so unassuming, that Greta’s not really thinking when she says, “All you have to do is buy a ticket.”

“I think I will,” he says, and she stops walking and spins to face him. He’s not smiling anymore. In fact, he looks surprisingly serious. “I’ve always wanted to go to Gov Ball.”

She stares at him. “Seriously?”

“No,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even know what it was until tonight. But I would like to be there. If it’s not too—”

“No,” she says quickly. “It’s not too…” But her heart is beating fast, and she addresses this next part to the floor: “Actually, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“It’s just—there’s a lot at stake.”

“And I make you nervous?”

This is clearly meant to be a joke. It’s meant to sound preposterous. But Greta nods. “Sort of,” she says, though when she tries to imagine what it would be like to see his face in the crowd, she feels more reassured than anything. It’s the rest of it that makes her nervous.

Ben looks amused now, maybe even a little pleased. “Another time then, maybe.”

“Another time,” she agrees.

He takes her hand, and they continue down the hall, winding along the edge of the ship. Outside, it’s fully dark now, and all she can see in the windows is their reflection, Ben in his sports coat and Greta in her dress. She pauses for a second to look at the blurry image, but then Ben steps forward and cups his hands against the glass.

“Wow,” he says, and Greta does the same, peering out at the wash of stars, glinting above the darkened water. He turns to her, just slightly, and puts a hand on her hip, and she takes a handful of his shirt and pulls him closer. When they kiss, it’s long and slow and hungry, the two of them leaning there against the cool of the window, pressed up against the world, and it isn’t until someone lets out a whistle that they break apart again.

“Steamy,” says the old lady with a mischievous grin, and when Greta glances back at the glass, sure enough it is.

Eventually, they end up at the ship’s only real nightclub, a black box of a bar that’s pulsing with pink and purple lights and playing mostly disco music. There are a few intrepid couples on the dance floor, none of them younger than sixty, including one duo that’s somehow managing to execute proper ballroom moves to “I Will Survive.” When the next song comes on, they’re joined by two men she recognizes from the other night’s ill-fated musical; they gaze deeply into each other’s eyes as they sway, arms around each other.

Ben’s shoulder is pressed against Greta’s on the velvet banquette, and his breath smells like cherries from the cocktail he ordered. She’s busy studying his profile, the way his head bobs to the beat of the music, when he turns to her.

“What?” he asks with a little frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking that my mom would’ve loved you.”

“I’ve always been extremely popular with moms,” he jokes, but she can tell he’s happy.

“She read your book, you know.”

His face brightens. “She did?”

“Mary told me at your lecture. They were in a book club together.”

“Did she like it?”

Greta smiles. “Apparently, she did.”

“Isn’t it funny, the way you make a thing and put it out into the world and then it drifts so much farther than you ever could’ve imagined?” he says. “Like a lost balloon.”

“Or a message in a bottle,” Greta says. “Since the whole point is to let it go.”

Ben leans away, just slightly, but enough so that there’s now a space between their shoulders. “I’ve never been very good at that part,” he admits, his face troubled beneath the speckled light of the disco ball.

“It gets easier,” Greta says. “You’ll see when you finish your next book, and you start—”

“We’re supposed to have a talk when I get back.”

“Who?” she asks, though she already knows.

He downs the rest of his drink. “I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think it doesn’t matter whether or not I still love her. That there are more important reasons to stay. Not just the kids, but there’s so much history there. And it’s hard to close the book on that, you know? But other times…” He looks over at her, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know. It’s like I want to take this last week and bottle it up so I can remember how it feels in case I ever start to lose my nerve.”

When he looks at her, Greta isn’t sure what to say. What she’s thinking is: Of course he’ll go back. He has a wife and kids and a mortgage. She can picture his life at home: the yard full of plastic toys and the basement with pipes that burst in the winter. The PTA meetings at the elementary school and the group of friends they make plans with every month, promising themselves they’ll try that new place in the city but ultimately settling for their usual spot in the suburbs because one of the kids has a sore throat and it’s been a busy week and it’s easier that way. He probably has a lawnmower. And a grill. And a special voice he uses when reading bedtime stories. He has a whole world.