gauzy, white shirt billows around him in the salty breeze.
“Surprise!”
I look to the right of the table. Three people are standing there, two men and a woman, all dressed in crisp, white uniforms.
“Welcome aboard the Maltese Falcon , Ms. Sweeney. We’re delighted to have you here and are at your service,” says a distinguished older man, tipping his captain’s hat at me.
The realization that I’m on a super-sized, luxury sailing yacht takes a few minutes to sink in. I look around the huge expanse of deck and then up to the sky at the towering sail masts over our heads. Wait a minute; did he say THE Maltese Falcon? That was the name of the ship that my father told me about years ago. My dad had been guarding a certain head of state who was meeting with a sultan aboard the Maltese Falcon, which was moored in Monte Carlo at the time. My father was amazed at the wealth that would have been required to build a yacht of that size and opulence, and what it would cost just to operate it. His wistful voice echoed in my mind:
This ship is so luxurious that the owner can rent it out for hundreds of thousands of dollars for just one week’s use. That’s more than a lot of people make in their lifetime, Evie. There aren’t many people who will ever see the inside of that thing, because most people can’t afford to.
And yet, here we are, standing on its deck. Javier seems a bit anxious, obviously waiting for my response and hoping this surprise will be up to my liking. It takes me a few moments to get over my initial shock and gather my thoughts, when it finally hits me: How on earth did he afford this?
I start to open my mouth to voice the question, when Javier pulls a chair out from the table and motions toward it. “Come sit, Eva.”
I walk over to the table and take my seat. The young woman in the white uniform places a menu in front of me.
“Señor de la Cruz has taken the liberty of choosing your favorite foods for the lunch menu, Ms. Sweeney.”
The woman with the French accent isn’t much older than I am, maybe nineteen or twenty, but a thousand times more beautiful thanks to her exotic looks: mocha colored skin, long, wavy black hair, and caramel-colored eyes. The shiny, gold metal name tag on her uniform informs me that her name is Marie.
“Thank you, Marie. Please call me Evie, though.” I smile up at her.
The other uniformed man approaches the table and pours a glass of red wine for Javier. He tilts the bottle toward my glass, but I quickly place my hand over the cusp before he can pour.
“Water for me only, please.Solamente el agua, por favor.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” His French accent is even thicker than Marie’s. His name tag reads Jean-Luc, and he’s at least six-foot-five and dangerously thin for his height. His sandy-blond hair is cropped short, and I catch a glimpse of his striking, gray eyes as he lowers his head in a curt bow.
“Miss Sweeney, Marie will be happy to take you on a tour of the Falcon after lunch,” the captain says in a Northeastern American accent—is it Maine?—as he approaches the table. He’s a slight man with silver hair and piercing, blue eyes that turn down at the corners. The lines on his weathered face are deep and numerous, likely the result of decades of exposure to the harsh elements at sea.
“That won’t be necessary, Roman,” Javier interjects. “I can take her on a tour myself.”
The captain nods toward Javier. “Very well.”
“Leave us now, please,” Javier says in an authoritative tone. I watch as the three crew members disappear down a staircase to what I assume is the cabin below deck. I turn my attention back to Javier, who is beaming at me like he’s just pulled off the surprise of the century. I think I’d have to agree.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, my voice spiked with suspicion.
“What do you mean?” he says, defensively. “We’re spending the night on the Maltese Falcon .”
“Yes, I can see that,”
“Surprise!”
I look to the right of the table. Three people are standing there, two men and a woman, all dressed in crisp, white uniforms.
“Welcome aboard the Maltese Falcon , Ms. Sweeney. We’re delighted to have you here and are at your service,” says a distinguished older man, tipping his captain’s hat at me.
The realization that I’m on a super-sized, luxury sailing yacht takes a few minutes to sink in. I look around the huge expanse of deck and then up to the sky at the towering sail masts over our heads. Wait a minute; did he say THE Maltese Falcon? That was the name of the ship that my father told me about years ago. My dad had been guarding a certain head of state who was meeting with a sultan aboard the Maltese Falcon, which was moored in Monte Carlo at the time. My father was amazed at the wealth that would have been required to build a yacht of that size and opulence, and what it would cost just to operate it. His wistful voice echoed in my mind:
This ship is so luxurious that the owner can rent it out for hundreds of thousands of dollars for just one week’s use. That’s more than a lot of people make in their lifetime, Evie. There aren’t many people who will ever see the inside of that thing, because most people can’t afford to.
And yet, here we are, standing on its deck. Javier seems a bit anxious, obviously waiting for my response and hoping this surprise will be up to my liking. It takes me a few moments to get over my initial shock and gather my thoughts, when it finally hits me: How on earth did he afford this?
I start to open my mouth to voice the question, when Javier pulls a chair out from the table and motions toward it. “Come sit, Eva.”
I walk over to the table and take my seat. The young woman in the white uniform places a menu in front of me.
“Señor de la Cruz has taken the liberty of choosing your favorite foods for the lunch menu, Ms. Sweeney.”
The woman with the French accent isn’t much older than I am, maybe nineteen or twenty, but a thousand times more beautiful thanks to her exotic looks: mocha colored skin, long, wavy black hair, and caramel-colored eyes. The shiny, gold metal name tag on her uniform informs me that her name is Marie.
“Thank you, Marie. Please call me Evie, though.” I smile up at her.
The other uniformed man approaches the table and pours a glass of red wine for Javier. He tilts the bottle toward my glass, but I quickly place my hand over the cusp before he can pour.
“Water for me only, please.Solamente el agua, por favor.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” His French accent is even thicker than Marie’s. His name tag reads Jean-Luc, and he’s at least six-foot-five and dangerously thin for his height. His sandy-blond hair is cropped short, and I catch a glimpse of his striking, gray eyes as he lowers his head in a curt bow.
“Miss Sweeney, Marie will be happy to take you on a tour of the Falcon after lunch,” the captain says in a Northeastern American accent—is it Maine?—as he approaches the table. He’s a slight man with silver hair and piercing, blue eyes that turn down at the corners. The lines on his weathered face are deep and numerous, likely the result of decades of exposure to the harsh elements at sea.
“That won’t be necessary, Roman,” Javier interjects. “I can take her on a tour myself.”
The captain nods toward Javier. “Very well.”
“Leave us now, please,” Javier says in an authoritative tone. I watch as the three crew members disappear down a staircase to what I assume is the cabin below deck. I turn my attention back to Javier, who is beaming at me like he’s just pulled off the surprise of the century. I think I’d have to agree.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, my voice spiked with suspicion.
“What do you mean?” he says, defensively. “We’re spending the night on the Maltese Falcon .”
“Yes, I can see that,”
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