Page 41 of The Cruiser
They stop in unison, two startled faces framed in the bathroom doorway. I assume they’re husband and wife, because only married couples dress in similar outfits. Dorothy, tall and proud with flame-red hair, stares at us unashamed. Nebbish Frankie, all 5’8 of him, has the decency to blush.
“Oh dear,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Do you mind?” Morgan asks, tucking his shirt back in. A smear of my lip gloss stains his lips. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”
“Conversation?” Dorothy cackles, reading the situation for what it is. “I might look young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Besides,” she asks with challenge in her tone, “is this your boat?’
“It doesn’t matter whose boat it is,” Morgan snaps back.
Frankie’s quick to wave down potential friction. He has a kind face, a Charlie Chaplin moustache, and a well-practiced air of smoothing over differences. “Sorry. Wife’s on a mission these days. She gets a bit feisty.” He attempts to commandeer Dorothy out, but she’s having none of it.
“I have to look at everything, Bubs.That’s the whole point of being here.” In her assessing sweep of the bathroom, she wrinkles her nose in distaste.
I can tell Morgan thinks these two are party crashers, both of them in jeans, hoodies, and boat shoes. But their soft, well-fattened look is all American blueblood. And I recognize the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace draped on Dorothy’s sunbaked chest. If she has the matching earrings, that’s close to three million in diamonds.
“Are you two in the market for a yacht?” I ask on a hunch.
“Yes!” Dorothy says, spinning around to face me. “But we’re not looking to buy pre-owned,” she warns, as if I’m about to hard sell her. “We want something unusual. We want to make a statement.” Her arms fling skyward, indicating how grandiose she intends said statement to be. In my peripheral vision, Morgan rolls his eyes.
“You want to one-up Gladys and Melvin,” Frankie grumbles, his delivery suggesting a husband well versed with being dragged into boutiques or auction houses and leaving with a much lighter wallet.
“Are you familiar with Le Debut by chance?” I ask. “This is the man behind the masterpiece. Morgan de Rohan-Chabot.” I blaze my best PR smile and Dorothy scopes out Morgan with a fresh eye.
“You did Le Debut? I love that boat.” She elbows Frankie. “Remember the cover of Yacht World? Chuck’s boat.”
Frankie nods. “I remember. It was the talk of the town.”
“Give him your card, Bubs.”
Frankie digs out a faded nylon wallet, yanking hard on the stubborn Velcro closure. He riffles through business cards that look like they went through a washing machine. “The name’s Delmar. Frank Delmar.”
“Delmar.” Morgan takes the offered card, voice perking up. “Delmar Oil and Gas out of Texas.”
“You know us!” Dorothy beams, the way everyone who’s not famous in the classic sense is when recognized. But in this case, most of the civilized world knows who they are. A classic American success story, Delmar is one of the few indie companies taking on the big oil players. Privately held. Worth billions.
“What’s your schedule like tomorrow?” I ask, snapping open my evening bag to hand Dorothy one of Morgan’s cards. “One of Morgan’s boats is up for a design award. Catch Me. It’s in the harbor; we can meet there.”
“Chuck Parsons works with me on all his yachts.” Morgan steps in, now realizing these two may not be the poseurs he originally thought.
“I swear Chuck reached out on our behalf,” Dorothy says, brow furrowing with memory recall. “We’ve been looking for a designer, but he said you weren’t taking on new business?”
“Really?” Morgan looks genuinely mystified. “I always talk to new clients. If we can, we make it work.”
“Does tomorrow work for a meeting?” I’m not letting these two out of our sight until I nail them down. They’re low hanging fruit.
Frankie turns to his wife. “What time are we looking at that villa?”
“That’s in Nice on Sunday. Tomorrow we’re looking at the Ferraris.” Dorothy pats his arm. “I think someone had a bit toomuch wine today in Tuscany. Pardon our attire; we came straight from the vineyards.” Her very pointed glance lands right on Morgan. She felt the judgment.
“If you’re coming to Nice, we can meet in Monaco if that’s easier,” Morgan suggests. “We’re there all next week.”
“Can you believe this?” Dorothy marvels. “Here we are looking for a designer, and you of all people to fall right into—”
Before she can finish, a security detail wanders in and politely asks us to rejoin the party downstairs. After promises to connect and chirpy goodbyes, the Delmars get back to mingling. Morgan pulls me aside and suggests we call it a night. I know he feels eyes on us because I feel them too. Renan must have left after the fight and I’m happy not to see him a second time. We thank Dallas for the party, and he seems unconcerned we created a spectacle on his yacht. No doubt he’s been in boardroom battles that were bloodier. While we wait on the dock for a taxi to arrive, Morgan’s quiet, watching moonlight ripple on the water. I hope he isn’t second-guessing hiring a woman who inspires drag-down fights and blows his thumb like he’s the last man on earth. But it wasn’t one way up there. If Dorothy and Frankie hadn’t rolled in, that bathroom would be in serious shambles.
My own thoughts are scattershot and totally uneven. I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something. “Um … what just happened. Upstairs. It wasn’t very professional.”
“I agree,” he says, back to starched and formal. “Please accept my apologies.”
