“Just what William said. Little bit of everything. It was nice,” he said, busy with oil and vinegar and his whisk.

Rosie leaned forward, her tone confidential. “He’s pose for calendar and now all the old womens calling him night and day.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said over his shoulder to her.

“What kind of calendar?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. The crew thought it’d be a good way to commemorate the trip. They do this all the time. It’s nothing. Just a joke.”

Rosie nodded, lifting one brown-penciled brow. “The ‘nothing’ I agree. Is what he’s wearing. Our Mr. February, Kings of Heart.”

“He wasn’t wearing nothing,” William said. “You make it sound like he was nude when he was no such thing.”

She reached in her tote and pulled out a glossy calendar filled with color photographs. “I heve right here. You take a look and see for yourself. The man’s got no clothes. Only underpents.” She flipped to the month of February and turned the page so I could see it. The candid shot showed Henry on the upper deck, leaning against the rail with his back to the ocean. A distant palm-dotted island was visible to his right. He wore red shorts, no shoes, a white dress shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned down the front. A captain’s hat was tilted forward at an angle. His grin was unaffected, showing a flash of white teeth against the tan of his face. The effect was rakish, the perfect combination of charisma and sex appeal. Henry, in the kitchen with us, blushed from ear to ear.

“Ooo, I love this. I have to have a copy of my own,” I said.

“Is yours. You keep. I heve more for ladies in the neighborhood.”

“Thanks.” I flipped through the pages, checking the other entrants. While some of the photographs showed moderately attractive men—all octogenarians, by the look—not one was as dashing as Henry. I laughed with pleasure. “I never knew you were so photogenic. No wonder the phone’s ringing. You look fabulous.”

“The phone’s not ringing,” he said.

At that moment, the phone did, in fact, ring.

“I get,” Rosie said, heaving herself to her feet.

“No, you won’t. That’s what machines are for.”

We waited out the three additional rings until Henry’s answering machine kicked in. From the other room, we heard the outgoing message, followed by the usual beep. “Henry? This is Bella, ‘ma petite belle.’ Remember me? I promised I’d call you so here I am. I just wanted to say how disappointed I was we didn’t have a chance to visit again before you left the ship. You bad boy. When you have a chance, you can reach me at . . .”

Dinner was punctuated by two additional calls, which Henry ignored. He kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his chicken with a concentration he rarely lavished on his food. The third time the phone rang, he left the table and went into the living room, where he turned off the ringer and lowered the volume on the answering machine. None of us said a word, but Rosie and William exchanged a look as she smirked at her plate. I could see her shoulders shake, though she pretended to cough, a napkin pressed to her lips.

“It’s not funny,” Henry snapped.

9

With Stacey back in the hospital for a second time in five days, I volunteered to take the Monday interview with Lorenzo Rickman. Dolan had offered to do it, but I knew he was eager to be on hand when the doctors talked to Stacey about this latest round of tests. As it turned out, my chat with Rickman was brief and unproductive. We stood in the service bay of an import repair shop that smelled of gasoline fumes, motor oil, and new tires. The floor, work benches, and all available countertops were littered with a jumble of tools and equipment, parts, manuals, blackened spark plugs, cracked cylinder heads, valves, fan belts, drive shafts, alternators, and exhaust manifolds.

Rickman was in his late thirties with an angular face and a neck that appeared too thin to hold his head upright. His dark hair was receding, a few feathers combed down on his forehead to form a fringe of sparse bangs. A beard, closely trimmed, ran along the line of his jaw, and he stroked it reflexively with fingers blackened by oil. His uniform probably wasn’t any different than the outfits he’d worn in prison, exceptfor the machine-embroidered name above his left shirt pocket. He made a show of being cooperative, but he had no memory of incarceration with Frankie Miracle.

He shook his head. “Can’t help. Name doesn’t ring a bell. I was only in jail the one night. First thing the next morning, a friend of mine bailed me out, but only after I promised to join AA. I’ve been on the wagon—well, more or less—ever since.” He smiled briefly while he smoothed his hair toward his forehead. “I still get in trouble with the law, but at least I’m clean and sober—condition of my parole. Right now, I do, you know, five, six meetings a week. Not that I like hanging out with dudes hyped up on coffee and cigarettes, but it sure beats incarceration.” He put his hands in his back pockets and then changed his mind and crossed his arms, fingers drifting back to his beard, which he stroked with his thumb.