Page 75 of A Perfect Disaster

The cruise director steps onto the pool stage, microphone in hand, and raises his voice with contagious enthusiasm that booms through the speakers.

“Welcome to the crew’s charity dessert contest! A round of applause for our brave contestants!”

The passengers, settled in their lounge chairs and at the tables by the pool bar, clap and whistle enthusiastically.

“This afternoon, our pairs will compete to prepare the best Italian lemon sorbet in the Mediterranean. The jury is made up of our executive chef, the ship’s captain, and…” He pauses dramatically. “Members of the shipping company’s management who are on board inspecting the ship.”

I look toward the judges’ table, set up in the shade of the awning. Arturo Valdés and Julianne Ferguson raise their glasses with absolute composure, as if evaluating the crew’s desserts were part of their daily routine.

“This is starting to look like an Inquisition tribunal,” Helen murmurs, following my gaze.

“Right? Any minute now they’ll ask us for human sacrifices or, worse yet, to balance the safety reports in Excel at midnight.”

“The reports will come first, for sure,” she replies ironically.

“You’re so scary when you’re funny without even trying—I’m telling you.”

She completely ignores me and focuses on the utensils. The contest kicks off amid applause, shouts from the audience, and the sound of Caribbean music in the background. The pairs get to work while the passengers watch, enchanted, some standing and leaning on the railing of the upper deck.

And then I discover something fascinating: Helen cooks exactly the same way she works in the security department. Perfectly organized.

“Five more grams of sugar would completely throw off the sorbet’s acidity balance…” she informs me, tapping her lips with her index finger before weighing each ingredient on the scale.

“Are we making a dessert for the passengers or defusing a bomb?” I joke, resting my chin in my hand.

“Cooking is precision, Maika,” she says.

“Cooking requires faith, love, a good splash of alcohol, and a little improvisation, Helen.”

“That makes no scientific sense.”

“And yet I’m convinced I’m right. Remember, intuition is my superpower.”

She snorts, and I take advantage of her distraction to steal a bit of the liquid mixture with my finger. Helen looks at me in utter horror, as if I’d violated the maritime code.

“Maika!”

“It’s good. Really. A little tart, but it’s promising,” I say, licking my lips.

“You can’t stick your finger in there. We’re in front of the passengers and the bosses. Have a little hygiene, please.”

“Oops, well, I’ve already done it. Too late to write me up now,” I say, shrugging.

“We’re working in public,” Helen insists, though I can tell she’s holding back a smile and her eyes linger for a second on my mouth.

“Well, let the passengers learn some advanced tasting techniques.”

Helen closes her eyes for a moment, as if praying to Neptune for a little more patience.

“Please, try to behave like an adult for thirty minutes. That’s all.”

“That sounds incredibly boring and doesn’t fit with my role as an entertainer, but I’ll try…” I lean in close to her ear, lowering my voice over the pool music. “But only because you asked me to.”

I obey. Well, sort of. I zest the lemons vigorously while she prepares the sorbet base, and, surprisingly, we start to click. Just like whenever we stop fighting over who’s right. Helen organizes. I improvise. She adjusts the measurements. I taste the flavors. She thinks about the molecular structure of the ice. I focus on just making sure it cools everyone down. And in between, in that narrow space at the table, we brush against each other constantly. Little absurd touches of hips and arms that my body registers as full-blown wildfires.

“Pass me the steel bowl, please,” she asks.

“This one?”