In her cabin, Lee took four Advil and called room service. After a half hour or so, the porter, Paros, brought her tray. He set it down on her miniature coffee table and Lee thanked him. He hesitated, then said, “Your mother was concerned. I can contact the Maltese guide, if you’d like.”
“Hmm?” said Lee, staring hungrily at her French toast.
“Your family has begun their tour of Malta,” said the porter.
“Malta?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the porter. “I can try to find your family’s whereabouts in Valetta, if you’d like.”
“Oh, no thank you,” said Lee.
Paros nodded, seeming disappointed in Lee. He stood before her, his hands behind his back, like a judgmental penguin. When would men stop evaluating her? When would she stop caring about what their assessment would reveal?
She sighed. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Maybe I will join them.”
“Wonderful!” said Paros. “I will call you in a moment.”
The porter seemed awfully solicitous, thought Lee, but she guessed that was the point of a porter. She ate her buttery French toast and crisp bacon, showered, and dressed for invisibility in her baggiest jogging shorts and a big Splendido T-shirt she’d gotten for free in her welcome basket.
The phone rang. “I have located your family,” said Paros. “I will be at your cabin momentarily, with a map showing you how to find them. Or I can accompany you, if you’d like.”
“That’s really nice of you,” said Lee.
“It’s my job, Miss Perkins,” said the porter.
“Actually, can I ask you something else?” said Lee.
“Of course.”
“I’d like you to bring me a pregnancy test.”
There was a pause, but the porter recovered. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Lee hung up the phone and felt teary. It was something about the porter’s fatherly concern. How she wished she could call her father, the version of Winston she had once believed existed, the one who would help her out of jams, who would always have her back. The father she deserved. But Lee understood that this man was a fantasy. Her real father had been a depressive alcoholic. He’d taught her that fighting the fog was a losing battle. Oh, how Lee wanted to prove him wrong, to show that she was stronger, that she would find joy.
Winston had been forty-seven when he fastened a necktie into a noose. She was thirty-eight now. Lee felt momentarily awed by her father: he had held on for nine more years.
Lee put her palm on her belly, looking at the magnificent Grand Harbour. There was a knock at the door, and she stood.
KIKO BROUGHT CHARLOTTE ANDher family to his farmhouse and welcomed them into his living room. It wassomethingto enter one of these buildings—a cavernous space with exposed limestone walls, piles of books by cozy chairs, and a couch with a blanket Kiko said had been crocheted by his mother. It felt like being inside a well-appointed grotto, a respite from the punishing heat.
He brought cold cans of something called Kinnie from the kitchen. It was a weird soda, brewed (said Kiko) from bitter oranges and wormwood. Charlotte tasted it but shook her head. Kiko offered honey or cactus liqueur instead, gesturing to a bar cart in the corner, underneath a wooden guitar that had been hung on the wall as if it were a painting.
“I’m fine with water,” said Charlotte. “Purified, please.”
“I’m loving the Kinnie,” said Cord amiably.
“Water for me, thank you,” said Regan.
“What are you having?” asked Lee, who had joined them by the harbor. Paros had brought her directly to them, having contacted Kiko himself. What a peach! Lee had arrived looking pale and ill, but handsome Kiko, it seemed, had roused her. When they’d met, Kiko had gazed at Lee as if she were the bodily manifestation of a lifetime of dreams. Sex was in the air in Malta, Charlotte thought, admiring Paros’s buns in his starched white pants as he strode back to the ship.
“I’ll have the cactus liqueur,” said Kiko, smiling. “Come, try. It’s called Zeppi’sbajtra. I have a fresh bottle in the kitchen. Follow me.”
“I’ll wait here, but thanks,” said Lee. It was refreshing to see her checking out the art on the walls instead of the man in attendance. Lee had always had an eye; she’d once told Charlotte that her couch would look better along the south wall of the living room, and to Charlotte’s surprise, Lee had been absolutely right.
“Is it too early for liquor?” said Regan.
“When in Malta,” said Cord, standing to look at Kiko’s bookshelf. “Love this one,” he said, pulling out a copy of some tome calledInfinite Jest.
