“Yes, exactly, the pirate forces him to be on his crew,” he heard Cassian say.
“Oh, my. That certainlydoessound like an interesting story,” Mr. Calbot replied. “And you said the pirate’s name is Frederick?”
“Yes, it is. Actually, I chose that name for him myself. I thought it would be fun.”
Mr. Calbot laughed. “Indeed, it is.” He brought his tumbler to his lips and took a sip of his Manhattan. “Well, I hope that you and Mr. Morrow can have it published somewhere. Ingrid and I both enjoy reading some of the short stories they have in a few of the magazines we purchase. It really would besomethingto see Mr. Morrow’s work in one someday and to be able to tell everyone that he was one of our stewards on theTitanic.”
Cassian laughed lightly. “I’ll see if I can convince him, but I think Mr. Morrow might not be so eager to publish his work.”
“Why ever not? Everyone likes adventure stories.”
Cassian merely shrugged and brought his snifter to his lips.
Meanwhile, James stayed frozen. His knees began to wobble, and it felt as though every ounce of blood had left his face. Had Cassian really told his friend about his story? Surely he hadn’t mentioned thekindsof adventures that the sailor would be having on the ship? Cassian mustn’t have beenthatintoxicated. Still,regardless of whether or not it made logical sense to be worried, James stood there unmoving, lightheaded and confused.
It was then that Cassian spotted him. At once, Cassian’s smile faltered, and worry lines rippled across his forehead as his eyes widened with what was probably concern. He shifted forward as though moving to stand but then stilled like he thought better of it.
“Mr. Morrow,” he said, “I was just relaying the basics of your latest story to Mr. Calbot here. Somehow, we found ourselves on the subject of literature, and I couldn’t help but bring up your relevant talents. Don’t worry, though, I haven’t spoiled the plot. I only told him about the initial kidnapping of our poor unnamed sailor friend.”
James let out a long breath. On his subsequent inhale, he started to feel a little less like passing out.
“Oh,” he said. “I, uhm, I hadn’t expected that you’d ever... I mean, I’m just a beginner. I’ve really only ever written for myself.” He winced. God only knew what someone like Cassian’s companion would think of that. “Sorry. I know how strange that must seem.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Morrow,” Mr. Calbot said with a cheery smile. “It’s not all that strange to me. I admire your interest in writing, as a matter of fact, not to mention your dedication to pursuing something that you love. Actually, I’m a little envious of it. If only the hobby I had as a boy had been suitable to carry with me into adulthood. But, oh, my father, he forbade me to continue with my scrapbooking once I was teetering on the cusp of manhood.”
“Scrapbooking?” Cassian asked with a confused, lopsided smile.
Mr. Calbot’s cheeks reddened, and he looked at his drink.
“Yes, scrapbooking. Initially, I was only imitating my mother since that was one of her favorite pastimes, but then I found little ways to make it mine.” He laughed to himself and shook his head before looking up from his glass. “I liked to press flowers in them. I... well, I really like flowers.” He shrugged. “Now,that’sa much stranger hobby than writing, isn’t it?”
James smiled at him.
“I think that’s really sweet, actually. I like flowers, too. Not enough to have ever considered keeping them, but that really does sound like a lovely hobby to me.”
“Not to my father it wasn’t,” Mr. Calbot said with a small sigh, though he smiled through it, possibly because he’d sufficiently buried the pain of having to abandon his hobby by now. “Alas, it’s not one I was able to continue.” He pointed his finger at James and then at Cassian in a playful manner. “I trust that neither of you will share this going forward. Ingrid knows, of course, but I haven’t talked about this with anyone else.” He shook his glass back and forth and let out a laugh. “On that note, did you add something funny to my cocktail, Mr. Morrow?”
James and Cassian laughed a little, too.
“Only the expected ingredients, I promise,” James said.
Cassian clapped Mr. Calbot on the shoulder.
“Mr. Morrow is easy to talk to, Jacob,” he said. “Which is exactly how he and I became friends. Or, well, friendly enough for him to tell me a bit about the story that he’s writing, anyway. He seems to have that sort of magnetism, perhaps. One that makes a person feel comfortable in his presence.”
James’s stomach fluttered madly, and he blushed. It was oddly thrilling to hear Cassian be so complimentary of him in public, not to mention alluding to them having become friends.
“Thank you, Cassian,” James said, letting the first name slip.
Worry shot through him for a brief moment as he waited for Cassian’s reaction, but Cassian only nodded, his smile broadening.
“You’re welcome, James,” he said.
James and Cassian stared at each other (lovingly, though hopefully not overly so, considering their location) for a few beats of James’s heart. Finally, James remembered himself.
“So,” he began, clasping his hands together, “may I pour you both another round?”
“I think I’m all right for now,” Mr. Calbot said. “I still have some of my Manhattan.”
