Destination Love. Gwynne Forster

gown?”

      His mother had counseled forgiveness and had insisted that getting the degree was more important than how it was handed to him. Still, it was one of the most bitter pills he’d ever had to swallow. He picked up the shopping bag and made his way up the gangplank. With luck, he wouldn’t see her again until the boat returned to Manchester. How could a woman who looked so soft and innocent be so cruel?

      Back in his stateroom, Dalton showered, shaved and took a nap, after which he headed to the third-floor lounge. “I hope you haven’t waited long,” he said to Tyson Clark, a retired record producer he met during the trip.

      “Not at all. People watching is a sport that I’ve come to enjoy.” They took their drinks and sat on the sofa in a far corner from the bar. “You can imagine why I’m on a cruise,” Tyson said, “but you’re a young man. I’ve been trying to figure out why you’re on this boat this time of the year.”

      Dalton allowed himself a moment to reflect. “Point taken,” he said and gave the man the gist of his life story.

      “Did you ever get the degree?”

      “Oh, yes. I received it near the end of July, and for the past three years, I’ve worked night and day to make up for lost time. I’ve had a number of articles published, and I’m becoming a kind of economics guru. I got a great book deal, and I’m working on that while I’m on this trip. To answer the question, I’m older than you think. These days, thirty-five makes you ancient. I’m here because I needed the rest, and this was a sure way to get it.”

      After the meal, which he ate at the late seating, he told Tyson good-night, stood on deck gazing at the night for a while and then went to his room to work on his novel. He wasn’t lonely, but he thought that a cruise was a perfect way for him to become more sociable.

      The following night after dinner, he passed the gaming room with its sounds of the one-armed bandits gobbling up hard-earned money and headed to the entertainment level. He loved to dance and, during his undergraduate days, he had enjoyed great popularity because of it. He stood on the sideline watching the dancers move to “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” He hadn’t learned that one, but he liked it.

      Suddenly, the sound of the Village People singing “Y.M.C.A.” came over the loudspeaker and like practically everyone else, he headed for the dance floor to do the Electric Slide. It was his favorite line dance, and he gave his whole body over to it. He swung his left foot behind his right one and leaned his right shoulder forward just as the person dancing beside him tripped and was about to fall. He automatically grabbed the person, looked down and saw that it was Sheri Stephens. He’d been so lost in the music and the dance that he hadn’t bothered to notice who was on either side of him.

      “Thank you,” she said. “I’m just learning this dance. I tried it for the first time a couple of nights ago. It’s fun, and if you make mistakes, no one really cares.”

      So she didn’t recognize him. True, his close-cut hair made him look considerably different from his appearance during graduate school when he’d worn it long. Hmm. Was Sheri Stephens more human because she was out of her element, away from the hallowed halls of academia where she called the shots?

      Dalton smiled. “You’re dancing like a pro. Everyone trips occasionally. I’m Wright. How are you, Miss—”

      “Sheri. Sheri Stephens. I’m glad to meet you, Wright. I was beginning to think that taking this cruise was the dumbest thing I could have done.”

      As they walked off the dance floor, he draped an arm casually across her shoulders. “I’m new at this cruise business, too. It takes a while to learn how to maneuver on this boat and among these strangers, but I’m getting the hang of it.”

      “I sure hope I do. Three weeks is a long time to flounder like a fish out of water.”

      “I’m with you there,” he said. “Say, do you know that guy over there in the yellow T-shirt?”

      She looked in the direction to which he pointed, frowned and shook her head. “No. I saw him right after the boat left Manchester, but I don’t know him, nor do I care to.”

      Hmm. Best to change the subject. “So this is your first cruise,” he said, trying to make small talk, something that he despised.

      “Yes, and I’ve never seen so much food 24/7. Are the passengers expected to eat nonstop?”

      Evidently, she hadn’t had much experience with small talk, either. “I do my best to ignore it,” he said truthfully. “But when I get off the escalator and a frozen-yogurt dispenser is facing me, I do what I’m supposed to do. I fill up on banana-flavored frozen yogurt.”

      “With me, it’s the cherry cream cake over there at the ice-cream bar. I’ve eaten six of them since I boarded in Manchester.”

      He raised an eyebrow at that. He would have expected her to be a bit more disciplined. “I think I’ll turn in now,” he said, having become a little uneasy with his charade, “but maybe we’ll meet at breakfast tomorrow morning. What level are you on?”

      “Four.”

      “So am I. I’ll meet you at breakfast. Is eight-thirty too early?”

      “That’s fine. I’m an early riser.”

      Her smile enveloped her whole face. He leaned down, kissed her cheek, ignored her wide-eyed expression, winked and left her. His conscience, however, nagged at him. He wasn’t proud of his ulterior motive in being gracious to Sheri Stephens. He had not forgiven her for the resentment he felt towards her for not approving his dissertation and for the blow that had been to his family. Even if he could forget that, she certainly deserved to pay for his having lost a job with the Brookings Institute. He’d often wondered if she felt proud of herself for having the power to do that to another person or if, indeed, she ever thought of the consequences that her action had on him. He struggled with thoughts of retribution until he fell asleep.

      Sheri took the escalator down to the lounge on the next deck, found a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine—the first one she’d ever picked up—sat down and opened it to avoid looking as if she wanted company. She hadn’t sat there more than five minutes before her downcast gaze took in a pair of white saddle oxfords on what were obviously male feet. She let her gaze slowly drift up until it met the eyes of a man wearing a yellow T-shirt—the man she had discouraged her first night on board.

      He raised his left hand as if to ward off discouraging words. “I don’t know why I’m letting myself in for another of your rebuffs,” he said, “but I want to get to know you, and I owe it to myself to try. My name is Brian King, I’m from Atlanta and I teach journalism at Clark. I’m off this semester, but I’ll be back at the university after the Christmas recess. Who are you?”

      After a long drought, a plant is thirsty for water. But she’d had so little male attention that when she got it she didn’t know what to do with it. She’d spent her youth achieving excellence in order to get the crumbs of appreciation that her father occasional bestowed upon her. The first three days on this cruise had taught her that she lacked people skills and that, away from her academic world, she was nearly as green as a freshman.

      Sheri took a deep breath and told the man, “I’m Professor Sheri Stephens.” Immediately, she wished she hadn’t said she was a professor, because he had omitted a title when introducing himself.

      Brian sat in the chair beside her. “Go ahead and tell me you teach nuclear physics. I can handle that.”

      “I teach advanced statistics,” she said, miffed and not bothering to hide it.

      “Oh, come on,” he said. “Tell me why you should dislike me on sight.”

      “I never said I dislike you.”

      “Not with words, but your entire demeanor says, ‘Beat it, buster.’”

      She had to laugh at that. No woman in