It was just past dawn, she guessed, judging by the soft spangled light on the water. She was alone on the staircase, alone in the hallway. As she approached the open door to the breakfast room, she heard activity and saw two waiters in uniform taking dishes off rolling carts and arranging them on a long table. The room was bleached with light and filled with the sound of the waves, closer down here than on the upper decks, the morning light and salty air contrasting with the kitschy decor, synthetic burnt-orange drapes, sunburst wall-to-wall carpet studded with pink and ocher and magenta, and stackable mass-produced cushioned chairs and institutional tables.
At the other end of the room she recognized Sidney, the maître d’, wrestling with a large sliding window on a track. He stopped to rub his shoulder. Then he fished a flask out of his hip pants pocket, unscrewed it, and took a deep drink.
“Can I help you open it?” Christine asked, walking toward him. “It looks like a job for two people.”
Sidney shoved his flask back into his pocket. “No no, I can manage. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, I’m afraid.”
Christine looked around. Besides Sidney and the two other men, there was no one there. Usually the breakfast room was thronged with staff. She watched as Sidney pulled and pushed, straining against the sliding door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Here,” she said, dragging a chair over to the window. She stood on it, grasped the pane, putting her own hands on it above Sidney’s handholds, and tugged with him. The window opened smoothly on its tracks, letting warm sea air billow into the room.
Christine jumped down and returned the chair to its table.
“Thank you,” said Sidney. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Your name is Sidney, right? I know because I’ve met you every night at dinner.”
“And you’re Christine Thorne from Fryeburg, Maine.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she heard her name and that of the little town she called home. “What’s happening? Do you know?”
“Well, we’re in a bit of a pickle, to tell you the truth,” said Sidney. “Nothing you should worry about, though.”
“So the power’s really out,” said Christine. “Can they fix it?”
“Oh, I reckon we’ll be all right. That crew knows what they’re about down there.”
“Is there anything I can do in the meantime? I would love to help out if I can.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
He made “necessary” sound like a euphemism for “appropriate.” Christine pressed on. “I mean it. Really. I work hard. And I’m good at taking orders.”
Sidney hesitated. He was clearly unwilling to say no to a passenger’s request, no matter what it was. “Try the galley,” he said with dubious reluctance. “They’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. Little to-do last night. They might welcome an extra pair of hands.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He gave a slight bow from the waist and turned away, done with her. Christine hesitated, wondering where the hell the galley was, but she was too intimidated by his demeanor to ask for directions.
Mick woke up in blackness, rolled out of his bunk and stood up, opened the door to the hallway to let air and light in, and looked around for his clothes. His roommate was in the top bunk, his face turned to the wall. Mick stared at the back of his head. He couldn’t picture his face. What was his name? Silvio? Salvatore? He usually worked the night shift and didn’t come in until Mick had left. He should have been in the galley, not sleeping here.
Mick snapped awake remembering the walkout, Laurens, the fire. He stood still outside his room, listening for the familiar thrum of the engines below him. But there was nothing, only a stifling silence. He headed quickly down the hallway, almost running. The emergency track lights were still on, and the air was dense and smelled of smoke and God knew what chemicals they’d used to put out the fire. He assumed he’d lost most of his staff, and the power was still out. How would he cook with no electric stoves? Frozen and refrigerated food wouldn’t last more than a day. They were due to resupply in Hawaii, so there wasn’t much food left on the ship. He would have to make a full inventory of their stores, try to make them last until…
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, clear voice behind him. “Hello, good morning, can you tell me where the galley is?”
He stopped and turned. It was that woman from Long Beach, the friend of the journalist. She had an odd expression on her face as she also recognized him. “Oh. Hi.” She hesitated, and Mick waited for the other shoe to drop. “You’re the chef,” she said politely.
“That’s right,” said Mick. “How can I help you?”
“I want to help you, actually,” she said. “I just talked to Sidney up in the breakfast room. He said maybe you could use a hand down here. I’m Christine.”
He was tempted to tell Christine, brusquely, to go back up to the breakfast buffet and leave all this to the crew, but he wasn’t sure there was a crew, and she was staring at him with a bug-eyed determination that made him pause.
“All right,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her through the restaurant. Everything was still as it had been left the night before: tables set, shelves stocked for service, bar organized and gleaming. Ready for lunch. But with no crew to speak of and no power, lunch would most likely have to be basic, thrown-together sandwiches, which Mick suspected would not go over well with some of the passengers.
He stopped and turned to face her. He might as well tell this one before they all found out. “Here’s the thing, Christine. Most of the galley crew quit their jobs last night and walked out. Hard to do on a ship this size, but they’ve done it.”
She didn’t look entirely surprised. Maybe she’d already heard. “What happened?”
“They said they won’t do their jobs anymore unless management renews their contracts with better terms.”
“Wait. Why?” she asked. “Because of the fire?”
“Nothing to do with the fire. This is their last cruise. Their contracts are being canceled, and they’re pissed, so they decided to get their revenge.”
“How many?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure anyone will show up this morning.”
“Okay,” she said, clearly startled. “I’m happy to do whatever you need me to do. I’m a farmer, I used to be a waitress. I cook at a soup kitchen every week, anywhere from fifty to a hundred people. I know how to work.”
Mick made a frank assessment of her plain shorts and T-shirt, her earnest eagerness to help. Maybe she was okay, not the rich bitch he’d originally pegged her as. At any rate, he didn’t have the luxury of turning her down.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He led her through the doors and into the main galley, which was empty, silent, lit by the emergency track lighting, still smelling faintly of the harsh bleach-based cleanser he had used to mop up Laurens’s vomit, swabbing the floor and counters several times to try to wipe out whatever virus or bacteria he was harboring and had left behind. The dead stoves were shadowy through the gloom.
Christine looked around. “I could make coffee.”
Mick took a liter beaker from a shelf, filled it with tepid water, and took a long drink. “Can’t make coffee,” he told her, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “No electricity for the burners. Can’t boil water, can’t cook anything.”
“What about cold brew? I could start it now. You let it sit and then just strain it. I could make a huge batch.”