Expecting to be led to his room and unpack his belongings, Will couldn’t have been more surprised when his luggage was whisked away by a fast-talking, ugly little maid and he was ordered to head immediately to the piano in the bar upstairs.

Located on the promenade deck, Dickon’s was a darkened space lit by the rusty, old-fashioned sailor’s lanterns hanging over each table. Upon entering, a powerfully foggy and stifling scent entered the nose, a mixture of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and pipe tobacco, and one had to squint in order to adjust his or her eyes to the room’s sudden dimness. Round tables were set up throughout, many resting below portholes whose light peppered inwards with faint reluctance, while a large, rounded bar sat in the center of the establishment. Although the ship was only just being boarded, several guests were already sitting around with drinks in their hands. There was a bickering couple beneath a porthole, too busy with their words to bother with their cocktails; a group of three elderly and rather portly men telling their orders to a young, bumbling waiter whilst discussing the stock market; an elegant woman sitting at the bar with her legs crossed, her pointed chin held high, and a ribbon of smoke curling up from her cigarette; and finally, two young redhead brothers, obviously underage, trying to convince the laughing bartender that they were old enough to order whiskeys.

As he’d been instructed, Will headed immediately to the old piano in the corner and sat down upon the stool, a plush black velvet that had been worn over the years to faded charcoal.

Just as he did with any new piano he encountered, Will first ran his hand over the top of the instrument but then frowned as he removed dust-ridden fingers. Swiping them on the leg of his trousers, he then proceeded to lift the cover off the keys and run his fingertips across them so softly that not a sound was made. Then, he flipped through the music book on the ledge, found a suitable song, and began to play.

Will was not, rest assured, one of those moving, passionate piano players. When playing, he kept himself in the simple, customary position with his back straight, his shoulders relaxed, and his fingers upon the keys. He did not close his eyes as though enamored with the music. He did not lean back very far or tilt his head up to the ceiling. And he did not sway back and forth like a dandy. He sat and he played the music. That was all.

Not that he didn’t enjoy himself. Because he did.

He adored music, adored the piano, adored the magical songs it could create. But he was not an artist. Music didn’t, would never, move him or inspire him as it did other pianists. Lacking any apparent creativity, he never attempted to write his own melodies or compose a masterpiece like Bach and Beethoven. Upon his mother’s request, he’d taken piano lessons as a boy and a talent was instantly apparent. But, as any other little boy you might know, he’d preferred athletics and the outdoors to music. It took years for him to become as good as he was today, but now that he possessed such a gift it could not leave him. Although he hadn’t played in years, the talent easily returned to his gliding fingers.

As his fingers danced across the keys, he glanced around the room curiously to see if anyone was listening. The woman bickering with her husband was tapping her foot against the floor spastically, unconsciously aware of the music, and one of the red-headed brothers was trying to hit on the elegant woman at the bar by asking her to dance. Naturally, unable to compromise her unspoken superiority, the woman refused him. The bartender was leaning on his counter with hunched shoulders, watching Will with a keen eye.

He was the ruler of the bar, Will realized. The King. Admiring his customers with a relaxed familiarity, mixing up drinks so quickly he didn’t even have to think about it, calling to his waiter with a bright smile. But he was unaccustomed to this new pianist. Will wondered if he should have introduced himself before beginning to play, considering that this man was now his peer and they would be working near one another for the remainder of the trip. But the moment had passed. And besides, Will thought, the bartender didn’t really look angry. He just seemed a little surprised to see that his coworker had already arrived without his notice. Yet as he continued to watch, examining Will’s posture and the way his fingers flew across the keys and listening carefully to the melody, Will realized he was being scrutinized as well. As he finished up the song and continued with several more in the thick, yellowing songbook, he could always feel the bartender’s eyes upon him. But it wasn’t until more than an hour and a half later, once Will’s hands were beginning to tire, that they would finally meet.

Dickon’s more crowded now, Will had to push his way through invisible faces and wispy smoke before he reached the bar. Sighing, he took a seat at the end of the counter upon a black leather stool and rested his elbows on the table. His head bowed down for a moment, eyes closed, as he took a moment to rest his sleepy eyes. It seemed as though he’d been up for days because of the sudden change of scenery. And the realization that the city now laid beyond miles and miles of deep, choppy water didn’t help. He sighed again.

A sudden boom beside his head sounded so abruptly that Will nearly fell off his chair. It was the palm of the bartender slapping against the counter. A rowdy, boyish greeting.

“Hey there, Chopin,” said a bright, scratchy voice, “Glad you finally decided to say hello.”

Will raised his head to face the young bartender, who was dressed in the standard uniform for bartenders on the SS St. Lucien. Black pants, black vest, black bowtie, and white shirt. The wispy red hair atop his head was oddly shaped, perhaps the result of a bad haircut, and his pale cheeks were covered in tiny brown freckles. Although his face was very boyish, blue jay eyes adding to this thought, his raspy voice and fit body quickly countered the assumption. He hunched over the counter with a familiar ease, accustomed to the sounds and nature of his bar.

“I’m Lane Tierney,” the man stuck out his hand, “Bartender here at Dickon’s. Sometimes I work mornings in The Lazy Lark too. On the vista deck. You’re the new pianist, I’m guessing?”

Will nodded, shaking the offered hand, “Will Carraway. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. Believe me. The last guy was so old he could barely walk. Half the time he played I just sat there waiting for him to die. Nice to see someone younger in here for once.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“So can I get you anything, Carraway?”

“Er . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m in the mood for.”

“We’ve got everything you could want, my friend. Take your pick. Martini. Merlot. Sherry. Cognac. Bourbon whiskey. Irish whiskey. Scotch whiskey. Brandy. And . . . Er . . .” he drummed his knuckles against the wood paneling, “Beer- Budweiser. Guinness. Michelob. Coors,” he took a breath, shrugging as his mind continued to run, and continued, “Manhattan. Sidecar. Bloody Mary. Gin and tonic. Wine. Claret. Vodka on the rocks. Port wine . . . Hard cider . . . Chardonnay . . .” Lane took another breath, faintly amused now, “Any of this sounding good, Carraway? I think I’m running out of ideas here . . .”

“I don’t know. I, er . . . What do you recommend?”

“I don’t recommend anything.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“But isn’t that a part of the job, being a bartender and all?”

“Most people coming in here don’t need recommendation. They know what they want.”

“Well if you had to give me your favorite drink, what would it be? I’m curious to know. I’ve never really talked to a bartender before. You must know the best of the best.”

“Sorry, Carraway. I really don’t. I know less than you do.”

“But you’re a bartender! This is your job!” Will laughed, “How could you know less than I do?”

“I don’t drink.”

Will’s eyebrows slanted inward, his face scrunching up, “You what?”

“I don’t drink.”

“But you’re a bartender!”

“I know.”

“So you’ve been working in front of alcohol for . . .”

“For five years.”

“Five years! Five years, and yet you don’t drink?”

Lane Tierney nodded, “Not a drop.”

“Ever?” asked Will, eyes wide.

“Once. Champagne at my sister’s wedding. But I only had one glass.”

“My God!” Will chuckled, “I never thought I’d see the day. A bartender who doesn’t drink.”

“If only you were a deaf pianist, Carraway. Then we’d really be a pair.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the moans of a young man sitting several stools down from Will with his head lying on the counter. Only the back of his short, light-brown hair was visible, but because of his clothing Will was able to identify him as the bumbling waiter he’d seen earlier that evening. His black pants and shirt were pressed to perfection, his tie neatly knotted, and his hair combed to the side. The white suit jacket he wore was beneath his cheek, acting like a pillow against the cool bar counter.

Excusing himself from Will, Lane the bartender sidled over to the waiter and said something that Will wasn’t able to hear over the bar’s chaos. The waiter shook his head slowly and Lane returned to Will.

“So what can I get for you, Carraway? Decided yet?”

“Who is that?”

“Who?”

“That waiter.”

“Oh that’s no one. Ignore him. He’s having a bad night. What can I get you?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Gin and tonic,” repeated Lane, “Nice choice.”

Will laughed, “As if you’d know.”

As Lane quickly mixed up the drink, Will took another opportunity to observe the waiter. He’d lifted his head from the counter and was now holding the white jacket out in front of him, dutifully brushing it clean and straightening out the wrinkles. Then, like a quaint little mother, he folded it to perfection and set it back down on the counter, sighing. Beneath the hazy lights, his hair was darkened a bit, for if one sat closer the short, tidy locks appeared to be more of a very dark blond than a brown. The waiter buried his head in his hands for a moment, moaning once more, before looking up. As he glanced around himself blankly, his eyes never quite focusing, he pressed his fingers against his hair to be sure it hadn’t gotten rumpled. His gaze was steady. Intelligent. Oddly placed in a bar like Dickon’s. He looked like a young, handsome scholar belonging to Princeton or Yale or Oxford. The debutante’s dream boy. The innocent, sweet-faced boy-next-door. Will wondered if he’d been thrown into the foggy bar by accident.

“Gin and tonic for our new pianist,” Lane set the drink before Will and hunched over the counter again, “How is it?”

Will took a swallow of the drink and nodded, “Very nice, Tierney. Very nice. What do I owe ya?”

“Nothing. You get a free drink here whenever you’re working. It’s on the house. Hey, I’ll er . . . I’ll be right back.”

Lane strolled back down to the miserable waiter and although Will couldn’t hear him, the movement of the bartender’s lips indicted that he was speaking. Growing even more curious now, Will shifted down two seats until their voices were audible. Then, inconspicuously, he leaned sideways a bit and listened.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” Lane asked, “You don’t have to pay if you don’t want to.”

“That’s alright.”

“Sure? Maybe you should have a water or something.”

“Water?” croaked the waiter.

“Yeah, yeah. That’ll help,” Lane turned around and quickly filled a glass, pushing it towards the waiter’s limp hand, “Here ya go. Drink up.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I know, I know. But you had a bit too much whiskey earlier and if you don’t drink some water before going to bed . . .”

“I drank whiskey?”

“Yes, you did.”

“But I never drink whiskey.”

“I know. But you did tonight.”

“When?”

“All evening.”

“All evening?”

“Yes, sir,” sang Lane.

“Oh.”

“Have you thought about heading up to bed?”

“But it’s only seven o’clock. I’ve still gotta work.”

“I can have Fenwick cover for you. Or Fleming. One of them should be back from the dining room pretty soon, I’ll bet. They won’t mind.”

“I think I’ll stay a while longer. I can’t sleep yet. I’m not tired at all.”

“You’ve had a long day, pal.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No, no . . . How could I have?”

“I thought maybe she’d come.”

“She’s working. She doesn’t have time.”

“If she did have time, do you think she would have come?”

“I don’t know, pal. I can’t answer that. Only she can.”

“I said I’d help her with the laundry.”

“Why’d you do that?” Lane laughed, “You’ve got work to do to. You don’t have time.”

“I don’t know,” the waiter shrugged his shoulders weakly, “She just looked like she needed some help.”

“This trip’s only just begun. Why’d you have to go see her so soon?”

“I missed her. I hadn’t seen her since the ship docked.”

“She doesn’t like it when you go see her so often. You know that!”

The waiter dropped his head into his hands again, “I couldn’t help it.”

“Well you just rest here a minute, pal,” said Lane, pushing back off the counter, “If you need anything else, I’ll be right over there, alright?”

With a bounce of his heel, he headed back over to Will and, realizing he’d moved, smiled.

“That stool wasn’t good enough for ya, Carraway?”

“Who is he?”

“Who?”

“That waiter.”

“How do you know he’s a waiter?”

“I saw him working earlier. Who is he?”

“That’s just Hayden,” Lane smiled wryly, “He probably would be embarrassed to know that this is the first impression you’re going to get of him. He’s not usually like this.”

“How is he usually?”

Lane shrugged, “I don’t know . . . He’s, er . . . er . . .” he laughed, the right thought finally coming to him, “He’s like a proper, pretty, obedient little English schoolboy.”

Will chuckled.

“His father’s some big-shot politician. He used to be the US Ambassador to France but I don’t know what he’s doing now. Might be in the Senate or something. I’m not sure.”

“Then why’s he a waiter?”

“He doesn’t like to be pitied,” Lane laughed, “Which is funny, considering our relationship . . . But anyway, he went to school at Yale. Although his father’s money helped, he’s damned smart too. Damned smart. Right after school, he was drafted. Served in the Navy. Our ol’ sailor boy. His father wanted him to work in the government as a lobbyist or a campaign manager or a representative, but Hayden didn’t want to. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. So he thought it might be fun to work a cruise ship for a while. Got a job as a waiter. ‘S been here ever since. Never left. He works most evenings in the formal dining room, but his days and nights are spent here at Dickon’s. He should have been in the dining room tonight, actually, but he’s not. I don’t know why. But he’s had a real bad night. S’probably best he’s here rather than there.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Well that’s a complicated matter, my friend.”

Will took another swallow of his drink, “Are you . . .”

“Come on over and meet’m,” Lane interrupted, “You’ll be seein’ a lot of him on this trip, I’ll bet, spending your nights in Dickon’s. Might as well meet’m now. It’ll embarrass the hell out of him. Come on.”

Lane, with one easy sway of the hand, glided Will’s gin and tonic down the bar counter toward the man now known as Hayden. The drink’s owner soon followed, seating himself beside the downtrodden waiter.

“How ya doin’, pal?” Lane grinned, his elbows and shoulders leaning over the counter. His silly black bowtie had twisted partially to the side. “How’s that water?”

“Fine. Thank you,” the waiter said softly, rubbing his eyes, “She hasn’t come looking for me yet, has she? I wouldn’t want her to get lost. I’m not sure if she’ll be coming. Have you seen her?”

“It’s only been a few minutes, old sport. Not yet. Terribly sorry. But I wouldn’t be expecting her anyway,” Lane slapped the man’s shoulder roughly, smiling, “But that’s not the point right now. Forget about her. I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Our new piano man’s arrived,” he motioned to Will, “This is Will Carraway.”

The waiter raised his head quickly from his palms and politely held out a small, paled hand. His eyes, though very handsome and dark, were slightly reddened and his fingers were a bit shaky. Trying to ignore his apparent condition, he gave a clumsy smile and shook Will’s hand. He nodded towards his new acquaintance shortly and then, glancing towards the counter, picked his neatly folded jacket off the table and pulled it on, as though he’d just been caught naked. Talking to his old friend Lane without his uniform on was one thing. Meeting the new pianist without his uniform on was another. His face was sort of pink when he looked up to meet Will’s eyes again. He nodded.

“Nice to meet you, Will. I’m Michael Hayden.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Lane grinned, as though he’d just completed a fantastic business deal, “Well I’ve already told Carraway your life story, Hayden,” he said, “So there’s really no need for any more explanations. You can just bang your head back down onto that counter again, if you please.”

Michael turned to Will, “So you’re the new pianist, right? I heard you playing earlier. You’re very good.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been playing long?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“And will you only be working in here?”

“No, they’ve got some sort of work schedule that I’m supposed to follow. Most evenings and nights I’m in here, though they occasionally have me playing in the dining room. And I’ve got some mornings and afternoons in different little tea rooms and parlors and such.”

“Well that ought to be fun. I’ve been working on this ship for about two years now. It’s always a good time. I’m sure you’ll like it a lot.”

Lane grinned again, “It’s hell on water, Carraway. I swear.”

“The rooms are a bit small, but . . .”

“They’re like rabbit holes,” said Lane.

“But you get used to it after a while. And besides, we don’t usually spend much time down there anyway.”

“He’s lying. We’re always down in the cabins. We have no lives,” Lane laughed.

“And the food’s delicious. They always let the workers have the extra food so it doesn’t go bad.”

“They feed us like we’re slaves. We practically starve to death.”

Here, Will interrupted, “I’m supposed to eat in the dining room most nights, I think. I doubt I’ll starve.”

Lane’s eyes widened, “The dining room? Sheesh, they’re treating you like a goddam prince, aren’t they?”

“Did you go tonight?”

“No, I’ll be able to go tomorrow though, I think.”

“Steal us some bread rolls while you’re at it,” Lane chuckled, “Or one of those chocolate-covered strawberries dressed in a tuxedo.”

“Maybe I’ll be your waiter,” said Michael, smiling now.

“Your accomplice,” added Lane. He turned to Will and leaned far over the bar’s counter, “Hayden’s a marvelous drunk, isn’t he? You can’t even tell.”

Will didn’t respond, watching as Michael took a large gulp of his water. He sputtered a bit. Several drops landed on his jacket, which he promptly tried to clean with a napkin. Lane smiled again and patted Michael’s head.

“Sorry, pal. Did I make you nervous? You just don’t mind us. Go on and drink your water if you want to. I told you it’d make you feel better.”

Michael said nothing.

“You alright?” asked Will, “I saw you were pretty upset earlier. Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, I’m fine,” Michael said quickly.

“Might as well tell’m now, Hayden,” Lane rapped his knuckles against the wood and then turned to Will, very seriously. His hair burned red beneath the hazy lights. With unstoppable swiftness, before Michael could interrupt, he said, “Our friend Hayden here is in love,” he paused, still unquenchably solemn, “Deep . . . Desperate . . . All-consuming . . .” Lane shook his head, acting like he was Michael’s psychiatrist, “Mind-numbing . . . Ridiculous . . . Unable-to-imagine-life-without-her love.”

“Don’t tell him this, Lane. We’ve only just met, after all,” said Michael.

Lane held up a hand, “If you don’t tell him now, he’ll just find out tomorrow. Or the day after that. And besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Love is a beautiful thing, my friend. A beautiful thing,” he turned back to Will, “Hayden is in love with one of the maids aboard the ship.”

Michael’s head dropped back into his hands, miserable.

“She’s a, er . . . She’s a nice girl . . . At times,” he shrugged, “She’s rather pretty too. And boy, she can mop a floor like no other.”

“She’s really very wonderful,” Michael intervened.

“Like so many of the maids on board, she’s a foreign girl too. Beautiful accent. Comes from the city of love . . . Paris.” He said it as the French do, with a long E sound at the end, and then smiled again, “She’s very friendly. Her name’s Jacqueline.”

“Jahk-leen,” murmured Michael in a beautiful French accent, his voice muffled in his arms. He’d dropped his head back onto the table, cradled by the sleeves of his jacket.

“Do you speak French?” Will asked.

“A little,” came Michael’s mumbling.

“Does she speak English?”

“A little.”

“You’ll have to meet her sometime, Carraway,” said Lane, “She loves meeting new people.”

The crooked smile of Lane Tierney and the huff of Michael Hayden’s shoulders were a blatant indication, at the smallest, that something was awry with this French maid Jacqueline. At that thought, Will’s mouth twisted upward. He laughed.

“She’s a French maid?”

(A/N) Sorry I don’t update this story very often, but I’m still going to finish it at some point. I just like to write the chapters in short bursts, between other stuff. And I know that not much is happening so far. I just want to introduce everyone first before I start getting to any of the action. Although there’s really not going to be a main storyline or anything. Just a lot of fun, mini stories about various characters Will encounters. Lane Tierney and Michael Hayden will be seen a lot more, along with a bunch of other ship workers, Michael’s beloved maid Jacqueline, the strange guests who sit with Will at his dinner table, and an odd young woman named Becky Keltner who’s another guest aboard the ship. So, anyway, I hope you’re enjoying this so far! Please, please review! Your reading has been wasted otherwise!

-S. Renee