5

They had been 12 days at sea, and the rain had not let up. The ship had left port in a torrential downpour, the rain slashing at the decks so savagely that the crew had to scramble about in shifts to save the deck chairs and loungers from being flung mercilessly into the roiling, pitch black ocean. By the next morning, the storm had settled comfortably into its present state, a faceless, ever-present drizzle.

 In the dining room - which doubled as the grand ballroom, the mood was dour. The sea stretched out endlessly beyond the panoramic windows like a fuzzy grey blanket. It was cocktail hour, and the beverage carts creaked and groaned as the ship rolled and fought against the steady procession of storm-swollen waves.

 Mrs. Tyler Jacobs frowned into the crystal of her Toronto. The heaving of the ship had already spilled the first sips onto the ebony bartop, and she dabbed at it with the corner of a cocktail napkin. Booking passage on the Domino had been John’s idea, “a palace on the seas, fit for my queen” he had blustered in that damned tweed suit jacket, a martini clutched in one yellowed hand, leather patches at the elbows. She hated tweed. It was all so typical.

 Yet, she had eaten it up despite her misgivings. In the far corner of the room, a string quartet was tuning up for the masquerade ball at 7. The waitstaff were streaming in and out of the kitchen with trays heaped with hors d’oeuvres.

 This entire afternoon, no, this entire situation, she thought, was an exercise in undue extravagance.