"So, how are you two getting along?" he said, the smile returning. "It isn't often I get to play the yenta."

I looked to Maddy, whose expression was unreadable.

"Not that I'm complaining, Harlan, but you've never been so inclined in the past, certainly not when we were at Harvard together. Why now? And how do you two know each other, anyway?"

He laughed, and turned to Maddy. "Now, you see why I invited him. He's going to write a h.e.l.l of a book. Knows just the right questions to ask."

"So, how about answering them?" I said.

"Which one?"

He was toying with me, evading the questions, perhaps because of a prior relationship with Maddy. And even as the anger rose within me, I knew it was c.r.a.p. I'd known Maddy for mere hours, and yet I knew-with an instinctive certainty-she wasn't the type who'd let an old boyfriend fix her up with a new one. Unless, of course, it was all part of some sick joke. I shoved that ugly thought from my mind. It was unworthy of both of them. Still, the doubts lingered.

I was about to restate my questions when Harlan laughed. "I'm sorry, kiddo, too much wine tonight. I've only known Maddy since the news broke about the ship. She was one of many applicants I personally interviewed, and she impressed me with her joie de vivre, and her artistic nature. I thought the two of you would hit it off. Nothing mysterious."

Now, it was my turn to laugh.

"What are you talking about? Your whole method for peopling this ship is mysterious."

Harlan shrugged, and I chalked it up to another one of his rich-man's idiosyncracies. Lord knew he had plenty; I was standing on one.

I sensed Maddy's impatience growing, and so I bid him goodnight. We resumed our stroll, this time along the port side, and it was a long time before we spoke.

"What are you thinking?" she said, finally breaking the silence.

I halted in my tracks, turning her to face me. "I'm thinking that I must be losing my mind. First, I let Harlan sweep me off my feet with his improbable dream to rebuild the t.i.tanic, then I rushed through the revisions of my new novel, so I could write a book about it, a book I'm now having doubts about, and now I find myself falling in love with a woman I've just met, who won't even tell me the least bit about herself. So, what do you think? Am I nuts?"

Her eyes went wide as saucers.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I think I'm falling in love-"

She lunged into my arms, pressing her lips against mine with a desperate frenzy. I responded in kind, pulling her to my body, eliciting a sharp moan from deep within her throat. She clutched my back, nails digging into the fabric of my evening clothes. I grew dizzy, drunk with a pa.s.sion that left me trembling, and the world spinning around me. Aroused beyond any moment I'd ever known, I reacted with instinct and reached for her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"NO!" she screamed, pulling away from me, her arms wrapping around herself protectively. She moved toward the railing, her breath coming in short gasps.

I was both alarmed at her reaction and ashamed that I'd caused it, wondering if perhaps she was the victim of an a.s.sault. But she didn't fit the psychological profile, at least not according to the one Julia often quoted: that a.s.sault victims inevitably withdraw into themselves.

If anything Maddy was too outgoing. Could that be the sign of a different paradigm? As a writer it sounded plausible, but as a man on the verge of hopeless love, it was an idea my heart had to reject.

Another moment pa.s.sed and I saw her steady herself. I moved to the railing.

"Maddy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I got carried away. Can you forgive me?"

She shook her head, and when she spoke, it was as if she hadn't heard me, caught up in some distant fugue within herself. "This was a bad idea, a very bad idea. G.o.d, what was I thinking!" She turned to me, her emerald eyes piercing the dark with an intensity that rocked me. "Trevor, I want you to know that you're a sweet, wonderful man, and any woman would be lucky to have you.... But this can't work. I'm sorry...."

She burst into tears and ran off down the promenade, disappearing through the door leading to the forward Grand Staircase. I stood rooted to the spot, stunned into immobility, my heart on the verge of shattering. To have come so close to that which so many aspire and so few attain, only to have it s.n.a.t.c.hed away, was unbearable.

I fought back my emotions and the urge to run after her, knowing it would be a fool's errand. Whatever it was that haunted her, I knew it was a demon she would never subdue alone. I only hoped she would come to see that we could destroy it together. If not...?

I had no answer for that question, at least not one I wished to confront alone on that dark cold night in the North Atlantic. And while I knew the coming of the dawn would find my feelings for her stronger than ever, I could only pray Maddy would feel the same way.

9.

I awoke before dawn broke and tried to write an opening to the new book. I sat in my silk dressing gown, the light emanating from my MacBook the only illumination in the room. I was having little success.

Aside from the fact that nothing I wrote inspired me, I was haunted by what had happened with Maddy on the Boat deck. She'd even invaded my dreams, my waking time disturbed by vague feelings and images I could no longer clearly recall.

Outside, the sky turned gray, the stars winking out one by one, signaling the inevitability of the new day. I had to find a hook for the narrative, or I was afraid the project would never come together. Oh, the public would love the back story: how Harlan had announced his intentions to rebuild the t.i.tanic with such flair and drama. And I fully intended to infuse the story of the ship's construction with as much of that as possible.

But the story still lacked a heart, and I needed to find it. The captain's interview, while affecting, was only one such story. There were others on board, equally moving, and I needed to hear them, to find out why they were here. Even as I typed, one thought kept running around in my head: I love Maddy.

As crazy as that sounded, I was as sure of it as I could be of anything; and I wanted her to feel that way about me-needed it, in fact. But as my agent always so eloquently put it, "it was time to screw the muse." I had to stop moping around and get to work. Maybe then, I could deal with Maddy without losing myself in the process.

The sun had just crept over the distant horizon when a soft, insistent knock came at the door.

"Come in, Henry," I said, without looking up from the screen.

He bustled in pushing a cart laden with an enormous breakfast, consisting of Eggs Benedict smothered in Hollandaise sauce, a rasher of bacon that looked as if it were half the pig, kippers, toast with marmalade, milk, orange juice, and a silver pot filled with steaming coffee.

"I hope you're joining me, Henry," I said, enjoying his nonplused reaction.

"Sir?"

"Surely you don't expect me to eat all of this myself?"

"It wouldn't be seemly, sir."

"Seemly? For Christ's sake, this isn't 1912, or did Harlan instruct you to behave as if it were?"

"Nothing of the kind, sir. Mr. Astor never mentioned any acting as part of my job."

I poured myself a cup of the coffee and grabbed a piece of toast, slathering some marmalade on it. "You could have fooled me, Henry. You're playing the part to the hilt. Probably get an Oscar, or whatever it is they hand out to menservants."

The arching of his eyebrows was the only comment on my lame attempt at wit. He then turned his attention to my MacBook, now displaying my custom screen saver. It showed a miniature t.i.tanic sailing back and forth across the screen.

"I see you've begun, sir. Bravo."

"Maybe you'd better save your bravos, for the moment."

He bent over the cart and began preparing a plate. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, while he piled on the food, curious to see if it was for him or me.

"Going badly, sir?"

"The muse is a fickle lady. Sometimes she's not so cooperative. Right now, she's downright ornery, I'd say."

"What is it you're trying to say, sir?"

I turned and looked at him. This had gone well beyond the idle banter between servant and (I hated to use the word) master. He seemed genuinely interested. So, I told him about what I had in mind: combining interviews with my own perspective. And I had to hand it to him, he listened, unlike most people. When I was finished, he handed me the plate and offered his opinion in a straightforward, no-nonsense manner.

"If I were you, sir, I would stay the course you're on. It's a sound idea. After the voyage is over, I'm sure the public will be clamoring to know more...." He replaced the covers on the platters of food. "What are you calling the book, if I may be so bold?"

I hesitated a moment, unsure if I wanted to voice it at this point. Call me superst.i.tious, or whatever, but I liked to keep the t.i.tles of my books secret until the last possible moment. However, for some unfathomable reason, I decided to reveal it. Perhaps it was Henry's unflappable nature that prompted me, or maybe I just plain trusted him.

"t.i.tanic 2012," I replied, a little self-conscious.

The older man nodded, rolling it around in his mind. "Very good, sir. Quite commercial."

"Thank you, Henry, I'm glad you think so. And you've been a great help, by the way."

"You're quite welcome, sir," he said.

All of a sudden, my stomach growled and I realized I was ravenous. I attacked the plate of food with gusto, relishing every bite. By drawing me out, Henry had known I would be hungry and had gone about fixing up my plate all the while he was a.s.suaging my doubts. Julia could learn a thing or two from such a man.

And then another thought hit me. "Henry? What about you? I'll bet you have a lot of interesting stories to tell."

He'd been making my bed and straightened up when I proposed making him a part of the book.

"That would be quite impossible, sir. One never speaks of one's employers."

"Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant your life in general."

"Exactly, sir," he said with a bow.

Chastened, I resumed eating, not knowing quite what to make of what he'd just said. To have immersed oneself so totally into one's profession that one became it was an astounding concept. And perhaps a little sad in Henry's case.

Then again, all I had to do was look in the mirror. What was I, if not a writer? It was not simply what I did; it was a vital part of me. As much as I might want to see further into this elegant, enigmatic man, he'd erected an impenetrable barrier, one I had to respect.

Henry tidied up the stateroom and left with the breakfast dishes twenty minutes later, at least I thought it was twenty minutes. His insightful advice had given me back my confidence, and I a.s.saulted the keyboard with abandon. An hour later, I had the first drafts of both the introduction and the first chapter completed.

Feeling a sense of satisfaction I hadn't felt since coming aboard t.i.tanic, I closed up my laptop, grabbed my iPod touch, camera gla.s.ses, and my windbreaker and left the suite. It was time to find another subject to interview.

The day was mild for the Irish Sea at that time of year, the warmth of the sun bringing out throngs of my fellow travelers, who strolled the deck or lounged on the wooden deck chairs, their noses buried in the latest best sellers. I even noticed one fellow reading a paperback edition of my last Conrad Holm novel.

Seeing them raised my spirits, even as I noticed yet one more odd thing about the voyage: there were no children aboard. Ages ranged from the elderly to those in their mid-teens. And the lack of couples I'd observed earlier still seemed to be the case. Oh, there were those who looked as if they were paired off, but they exuded none of the intense vibrations one got from those pa.s.sionately in love.

These thoughts compelled me to search for Maddy, but the crowds were too thick. On impulse, I tried the bow in the hopes she would again be there, spreading her arms to the sun; however, this time, my intuition failed me.

Instead, I spotted a teenaged girl and boy acting out that famous scene. I smiled, a deep longing filling me. Perhaps I was wrong about there being no couples on board, at least I hoped I was. Not only for them, but for me, as well.

I found my next subject standing on the Boat deck gazing out over the ocean, her expression serene. She appeared to be in her early forties, dressed in an expensive pant suit, with dark brown hair and a pleasant girl-next-door face. She looked exceedingly average, which is what attracted me to her.

"Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

She turned to me, her brows furrowed in puzzlement. "Oh, I'm sorry, what did you say? I was daydreaming. I do far too much of that these days." She smiled, and I found myself liking her at once.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions for a book I'm doing about the voyage."

"Really? I guess that would be okay. But you're going to be bored, I a.s.sure you, Mr...."

"Forgive me," I said, pulling out my iPod touch. "I'm Trevor Hughes."

She stuck out her hand. "Jenny Powell. Do you want to do it here, or do we need to go somewhere else?"

I pointed to one of the wood-and-cast-iron benches a few feet away. "How about over there?"

"That's fine. I can still see the ocean that way. I never get tired of looking at it. Do you, Mr. Hughes?"

I took a seat on the bench and placed the recorder between us.

"Call me, Trevor," I said. "And, no, I never do...."

10.

Interview with Jenny Powell Location: Boat Deck "What should I say?"

"Anything you want; mostly I'd like to know why you wanted to sail on the t.i.tanic."

She nodded, looking down at her hands for a long moment then she raised her eyes to me. "My name's Jenny, I'm forty-two years old, I was married once for five months, was truly in love only once, and I work in the main branch of a major bank in New York.

"I guess you could say my life was pretty boring- didn't I say that before? Anyway, I was raised in the Midwest, had four brothers and three sisters, who were always fighting with each other, and parents more concerned with being righteous than with loving us.

"They were Jehovah's Witnesses, and half our lives were spent on the road handing out tracts printed on cheap paper with ink that rubbed off on your hands. That's the thing I remember the most about my childhood. Hands with black fingers...and slamming doors.

"As soon as I was old enough, I moved away. I even changed my name, did it legal and proper, because I wanted nothing from them, not even their name. I wanted a fresh start."

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Eighteen. And as wet behind the ears as one could be at that age. But I'd saved enough money over the years from summer jobs to rent a cheap studio apartment in San Francisco. I had aspirations. I wanted to be an artist. The problem was I had more romantic notions than talent, and ended up squandering what cash I had. And because I didn't finish school no one would hire me."

"What did you do?"

She shook her head sadly. "What a lot of girls do: I got married as fast as I could. Paulo was a young art student whose rich father subsidized him. He was dark and handsome, and somewhat charming when he wasn't drinking White Russians. He thought that was an artist's drink.

"We met in a little coffee house in the Haight where they hung his canva.s.ses and read bad poetry out loud. One thing I had to admit, though, he could really paint."