Page 64 of Without a Clue

Jackie’s alarm goes off on her phone and she jumps up with the words, “Time for a break.”

My head pops up. By the time I get my feet planted on the ground, she’s already several yards ahead.

Arms tucked into her sides, legs briskly sweeping her away.

“Where are you going?” I call out.

“Ambulatory recess,” she says over her shoulder.

“What?”

She turns her head a little more sternly my way. “A walk, Pip,” she says, eyeing me like an unintelligent child who is proof that the education system of our government has let all of society down. “I’m taking my walk.”

“Now?”

“Every hour on the hour from dawn to dusk. A turn around the boat for circulatory health.”

“But we’re in the middle of an interview!” I call out.

Several heads turn.

“Circulatory health!” she repeats.

Amazing.

The woman can manage to hiss at you while yelling at the same time.

Now the heads bobbing in the pool turn their curious eyes on me, and I’m forced to put up a smile.

“For . . . a magazine,” I say. “A . . . very elite . . . League of Luxury Cruise Liners interview.”

I have no idea what I’m saying. I just threw out a bunch of random words. Nevertheless, attention drifts away from me.

And the watery swirl of the flamingo water dance continues.

Fine.

Jackie’s taking a recess from the interview halfway through for the sake of circulatory health. How long will it take her to circle back? Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely not twenty. The woman walks like she’s in Olympic training.

“A refreshment, ma’am?”

An older gentleman has glided over in his coattails and elegant peacock bow tie and is now standing over me poised for an order.

I realize how out of place I look in my fully clothed, mostly-in-black self—I’m probably the person they put on a poster during hospitality training as an example of being “a veritable cry for relaxation help.”

“Something more tasteful, perhaps?” he inquires, casting a subtle eye at my ensemble. Neena and the others have now picked up Hula Hoops in the water and are twirling. “Something a little more . . . elevated? A nice red blend from the esteemed Château Calon-Ségur?”

“No, thank you.”

“A cup of coffee?” he says, shifting quickly. “Some still water in a chilled glass?”

“I’m probably fine. Thanks—”

My words cut off at a curious sound and I jump-start to standing. To his ears, and to everyone else around no doubt, the sound is nothing more than the caw of a passing seagull. Swift. High-pitched. Not lasting more than a heartbeat.

But to me, having been sitting on the edge of a knife the past few days, eyes and ears on high alert, the sound was undeniable.

Jackie.