Chapter Three
WHENPaul arrived on the Lido deck after changing shirts, he found quite a few people already stretched out in the lounge chairs by the saltwater pool even though it was still early. Paul repressed a grimace when he saw the bronze statue of Triton rising out of the center of the pool. He knew about the statue, but this was the first time he’d seen it in person. The artist who’d created the statue had seen a photo of Paul in Andrew Mercer’s office and asked to use it as inspiration. Thus Triton resembled Paul as he’d looked as an undergraduate. Long hair, lean build from playing intramural sports. Two working legs.
He looked away quickly and went to the bar, scanning for Devin.
There was a crowd around the bar, despite the hour, though he noticed most of the people seemed to have chosen fruit juices or soda. Devin, however, was visible by virtue of his height, and he was smiling as he passed out drinks. After several minutes, there was finally a lull, and Devin’s smile widened as he noticed Paul. Raising his hand, he beckoned Paul over.
There wasn’t an empty stool, so Paul stood in a space at the end of the bar and watched Devin work. At the moment he was slicing limes into quarters, wielding the sharp knife with a deft hand.
“I like the shirt on you,” Devin said. “You look like a proper tourist now.”
Paul glanced down at the bold print of the Hawaiian shirt and shrugged. “Tourist chic isn’t really my style, but at least now I know how to blend in.”
A patron asked for a glass of orange juice, and Devin put down the knife with no sign of irritation at the interruption. After serving the drink, he came back to Paul’s end of the bar and resumed his task.
“You definitely don’t stand out now,” he said. “So let me tell you about bartending on thePearl. Technically, the bar isn’t open yet, and I’m not serving hard liquor until the official opening time. But Triton’s policy is that if a customer wants anything within reason, they get it. It can make things a little challenging at times, but that’s fine. Keeping the customers happy is what this job is all about.”
“So if I wanted a mimosa, I could have one?” Paul asked, taking mental notes on what Devin said to write in his report later since he couldn’t be conspicuous and whip out a notebook.
“Yes,” Devin replied. “Would you like one?”
Paul hesitated, then shook his head, reminding himself that he wasn’t on vacation. “I shouldn’t.”
Devin chuckled as he put down the knife again and wiped his hands on a towel before reaching for a glass. Within thirty seconds he’d poured orange juice, added champagne from a bottle chilling in a bucket of ice, garnished the glass with a perfect slice of orange, and passed the drink to Paul. “A mimosa is a part of breakfast when you’re on a cruise ship,” he said easily, before resuming his assault on the pile of limes. “If you want the whole cruise experience, you need to sample the wares.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Paul retrieved his guest card from his wallet and slid it across the bar. Then he sampled the mimosa, which was tart with a slight alcoholic bite from the champagne. “This is really good.”
“Thanks. The orange juice is squeezed here on the ship every day. We pick up fresh citrus in every port.” There was a note of pride in Devin’s voice, which spoke well of his commitment to his customers. Paul already knew about the policy of making certain fresh foods were always taken aboard, which in the Caribbean wasn’t a problem for things like citrus. This particular cruise, which would circle most of the Caribbean basin in the course of two weeks, included stops in luxury destinations like Grand Cayman, but also would touch smaller islands like Bonaire, Antigua, and St. Kitts, giving the guests a wide variety of experiences.
Devin sliced the last lime, then wiped his hands again before swiping Paul’s card and returning it. “The guests who sail on Triton ships pay a bit more than some of the bigger cruise lines, but they do it happily because the quality and service are so good. People who are paying thousands of dollars for a couple of weeks expect to be spoiled, and we do our best to make sure they get what they’ve paid for.”
“Do you think the staff feels compensated well enough for the level of service they’re expected to provide?” Paul asked.
“I believe so. I know I do,” Devin replied. He put the limes in one of the small refrigerators below the bar, then wiped down the bar area and picked up empty glasses. “Considering we don’t have to pay for rent, meals, or laundry, it’s a great deal. For someone who wants to travel, it’s just about perfect.”
“That makes sense.” Paul took another sip of the mimosa as he watched the other passengers for a minute. “Is there a lot of turnover? Or do people tend to stick around?”
Devin chuckled. “People stick. I’m a wannabe chef, remember? Or do I need to cook you a meal to prove I wasn’t kidding?”
“No, I believe you,” Paul said. A stool opened up, and he snagged it before anyone else could. “I was just curious if the constant travel and close quarters meant people burned out on the job quickly,” he said once he was settled on the stool with his mimosa in front of him.
Devin was busy with customers for a few minutes, but he came back to Paul as soon as he could. “I don’t think people burn out very fast,” he said, leaning against the bar. “People sign up for six- or eight-month tours, and they take however long a break they need in between hitches. I’m sure there are people who don’t come back for another, but I haven’t seen hardly anyone leave since I’ve been on thePearlexcept for a friend who got married and went ashore to help her husband run a hotel. I know there isn’t much that would get me to leave.”
“Really?” Paul raised one eyebrow, curious. “What would make you leave?”
“If I find the right man, and he isn’t interested in being on a ship,” Devin replied, his expression serious for once. “I think that’s the main one. Other than that, I would love to own my own restaurant one day, so eventually I’ll become a landlubber again.”
Paul was taken aback by the response. He hadn’t picked up on any clues that Devin was gay, but then again, he hadn’t looked for any. Besides, it didn’t matter. Even if Paul weren’t there under somewhat deceitful circumstances, Devin was technically his employee, and anyway, Paul’s experiences since the accident had taught him that he was better off focusing on work.
“Those sound like good reasons,” he said at last.
“Well, no one is beating down my door, and I have a long way to go to save up enough for a restaurant, so I’ll probably be here for a long time.” Devin’s normal smile returned. “Maybe you’ll take another cruise in a decade, and here I’ll be.”
After that, Devin got busier as more passengers arrived on the deck, and the lounge chairs started filling up. Paul remained on his stool and watched, paying close attention to the routine of the ship and the behavior of the passengers, who seemed to be having a good time.
After about an hour, another bartender—a short woman with dark hair and blue eyes—showed up and introduced herself as Jill. Between the two of them, Paul learned everything he needed to know and more about how the bar was run, the computer registers, and the guest card system. The tutorial ended when the cruise director, Mark Stein, arrived at the bar and signaled to Devin and Jill.
“Showtime for me,” Devin said. “If you want to watch me toss bottles, stick around. I haven’t had a drop in two months, but it’s been known to happen.”
