If Chris arrived and I was smoking, he would have a hissy fit. But I would actually kind of welcome a hissy fit if it ended with an idea of how I was going to get into that yacht.
The caterers were continuing to come and go, each dipping into the back of the truck and emerging with an armload of boxes. They dutifully carried them down the dock, all the way to . . .
I bolted upright, dropping my cigarette. I barely glanced at it as it fell.
They were going into the yacht. The yacht. A woman in an old-timey apron—housekeeper?—was holding the door for them, stepping out of the way to let them pass. They disappeared, the housekeeper shouting instructions behind them.
This was almost too easy. It was a gift.
Without thinking, I darted up the ramp and into the truck. There were a few tubs left. I grabbed the first one I could get my hands on and hauled it down the ramp, grunting the whole way. I could hear clinking inside that sounded like wine or beer bottles. They were stocking up. For what? Were they leaving town? Had they figured out that I had found them and planned to skip out before I could do anything about it?
I could hear the voices of the two men approaching. Panicked, I opened my car door and jammed the box inside, then dove in behind it. I waited, listening for their thunking metal footsteps on the truck floor and their voices getting farther away again. When I was pretty sure they were gone, I crawled over the seat. They were at the top of the steps again. I started my car and moved it to a spot on the other side of the marina. I could still see the yacht, and the delivery truck. I watched as they emerged from the yacht with a clipboard, stared bewilderedly into the back of the truck, one of them gabbing into a cell phone, and then got back in the truck and drove away—undoubtedly to retrieve the box of booze they’d “forgotten” to bring.
As soon as the truck was out of sight, I raced back to my spot and got out. It was going to be a long walk heaving this box, and my knees already felt weak from nerves. But I would make it. Or I would die trying.
Bad choice of words, Nikki.
I was sweating and breathing hard by the time I got to the top of the stairs. I knocked on the door, bringing up one knee and balancing the box atop it. I heard a faint voice from inside and then the woman opened the door. She looked surprised, first taking in me and then the box and then me again.
“Are the guys gone?” I asked. “Sorry, I’m from Ambrosia Catering?” I lifted the box a little higher to show it to her. “Our delivery guys forgot a box. I think it’s alcohol. Can’t forget that.” I let out a breathy, conspiratorial laugh.
“Oh, yes,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to look over my shoulder. “They left to find it. You must have just missed them.”
“Darn it,” I said, following her eyes over my shoulder, as if I were looking for them, too. “I was hoping to catch them. Is it okay if I just bring it in myself? I’ll give them a call.”
“Of course.” She stepped out of the way.
And I was in.
30
GRANTED, I HAD never exactly been inside a yacht before, so I didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I had to physically force myself not to gasp when I walked inside.
It was huge. Way bigger than it looked from the outside. I was standing in a foyer, complete with chandelier, a luxurious living room to my right, a dance floor to my left. A grand staircase wound its way to an upper deck.
Someone—the housekeeper, I suspected—had sprinkled confetti across black, glass-topped tables. Balloons skittered aimlessly around the dance floor.
“A party,” I said, mostly to myself, but the housekeeper heard me.
“I’m sorry?” She looked at me quizzically. Duh, Nikki, why wouldn’t the caterer know there was going to be a party?
I gave a stupid-me eye roll. “I mean, I know there’s a party. I meant to ask, what are they celebrating?”
“The movie is finished!” she said excitedly, as if their success was hers. “Miss Celeste is exhausted and sick, but she demanded a party to celebrate. She is proud of Mr. Fairchild’s success. Come, the kitchen is downstairs.”
I followed her through a set of doors into what looked like a captain’s quarters, everything white linen and sleek lines. Near the captain’s chair was a staircase. Another spiral, this one disappearing into the bowels of the boat.
“You’ll forgive me for asking,” I said as I tried not to tumble under the weight of the box. “But is this ship Celeste Day’s ship?” She gave me another perplexed look. “I’ve never met an actual celebrity before,” I said sheepishly. Not adding, of course, that until I started looking for Luna and her dad, I’d never heard of Celeste Day at all. “It belongs to Mr. Fairchild,” she said. Her voice had taken on an icy tone. Clearly I had overstepped my bounds. “He is quite fond of Miss Celeste. I’m certain that’s why he named the ship after her.”
“Ah.” That was weird, though, wasn’t it? Was he sleeping with his teen star? “Does he always name his ships after his leading ladies?” I attempted a laugh, but it sounded forced even to me.
“This is his first big film,” she said, bustling to a door. It opened into a walk-in refrigerator, which was stuffed with booze, including three more Ambrosia Catering boxes. She invited me to place my box inside with a sweep of her arm. “And his first ship. It’s quite the perfect marriage, don’t you think?” I was still holding my box. “You can set that in here for now,” she said, prompting me. “We’ll let the bartender decide what to bring up to the bar later.”
“Oh.” I had to keep her talking. I had to look around. I had to answer the most important question: Was Luna on this ship, too? “Can I go ahead and unpack while I wait for the guys to come back? I don’t want us to get behind schedule.”
She gave a curt nod but didn’t move from her position, holding the refrigerator door open with her butt.
“I’ve kind of followed Mr. Fairchild’s career,” I said, opening the box and taking out two wine bottles. “I’m curious—does his daughter live here with him?”
This time the woman frowned. “Mr. Fairchild’s daughter is . . . away,” she said.
“Vacation, huh?” I plowed on, acting clueless, even though my heart had dropped with disappointment. Luna wasn’t on this ship. Maybe Chris was right. She was in Dubai, living the life with her parents’ money. She was nice enough to set up her doting daddy before she left, so he could keep house with a hot young starlet. How kind of her.
The housekeeper mashed her lips together, then leaned in. She whispered, “She’s getting some rehabilitation.” She said the last word with great gravity.
“Drugs?” I whispered, playing along.
The housekeeper shrugged. “She’s had some difficulties in her past,” she said. “Could be drugs, I suppose. My impression is it was much worse.”
“I heard she was in jail,” I ventured, my spine tingling. If she figured out who I was—that I was the much worse she herself was referencing—I was toast.
The housekeeper twisted her hands in her old-timey apron. “I can’t say,” she finally said. “Mr. Fairchild has been very good to me. His family problems are none of my concern. I only know that he does not believe he will see her again.”
“Ever?” I asked.
“That’s how I understand it. He said it would be best for everyone if we just forget she exists. Can you imagine a father saying that about his own daughter?”
Shit. That proved it. Luna was gone. She’d run away and was never coming back. That should have made me happy. So why was I so enraged I wanted to start throwing these wine bottles against the walls of his posh little boat?
“No, I can’t,” I said absently.
There was a faraway knock. The housekeeper peered up the spiral stairs anxiously. “It’s probably the caterers coming back,” she said.