“No whinging, girls. We handed you your arses,” Mum says.
“I believe I saw beginner lessons offered with the pro on the activities schedule,” I say to my sisters. “Maybe a refresher course on the fundamentals will help you beat our elderly parents?”
“No time,” Pear says, her demeanor transforming from sullen to puckish. “We’re taking our brother to cha-cha lessons, remember?”
“I remember informing you that won’t be happening.”
I, emphatically, do not dance.
“Let’s all go!” my mother exclaims. “Cha-cha! How fun. When’s the class?”
“Two o’clock,” Pear says. “Just enough time for us to have lunch first.”
Pear leads us to Picante, the “Latin fusion” bistro. It has surprisingly authentic tapas.
“Don’t eat too much,” Prue says as I reach for a third ham croquette. “You’ll be too bloated to move and embarrass yourself in front of the gentlemen ambassadors.”
“Gentlemen ambassadors?” I ask.
“You know! The men they pay to entertain single ladies on the cruise.”
“Saucy,” my father observes. “Behave yourself, Mary.”
“Don’t worry about me, darling,” Mum says mildly. “You’re the only man I want to fraternize with.”
My sisters and I exchange long-suffering looks. Our parents love to traumatize us by alluding to their sexual chemistry.
“Anyway, let’s get going or we’ll be late for our lessons,” Prue says.
“Fine,” I concede. “I want to see the moment you decide to leave Matty for a gentleman cruise ambassador.”
“I would only leave Matty for the captain. Did you see him at the welcome reception? So handsome in his epaulets.”
“You do love seamen,” I say, because the joke writes itself.
“Yes, Felix, I do,” she says. “Would you like me to tell you just how much—”
“No, I rescind the comment. Let’s go.”
We take the lift to an expansive lounge with a panoramic view of the sea. In the middle of the room is a grand piano and a gleaming parquet dance floor. Two of the glossy, impossibly fit dancers from last night’s musical performance are standing at the center, in salsa outfits, chatting with a group of mostly older women, with a few men mixed in. Another group, a passel of attractive elderly gentlemen in blazers with name tags, stands by the piano.
“Those must be the ambassadors,” Prue whispers to me. “Go see if one of them will be your date.”
“Hello, everyone!” the female dancer says into a wireless microphone. “I am Svetlana, and this is my colleague, Sergio. Please, gather round.”
We walk to the dance floor and listen attentively as Svetlana and Sergio explain the origins of the dance and the basic steps.
“It’s a Cuban dance similar to salsa, so if you already know salsa, you’re in luck,” Svetlana says.
I guess I’m not in luck.
“The dance gets its name from the sound of our steps—cha cha cha—when we do the core triple step,” Sergio says. He and Svetlana demonstrate a back-and-forth shuffle.
“Just like this,” Svetlana says, doing it again. “Easy!”
It does not look easy. My mother forced us all to take dance lessons as kids. As with most structured education, I failed miserably and dropped out.
I’m about to leave when a familiar Texas drawl calls, “Oh no, are we too late?” I look away from the dancers to see Lauren and Hope rushing in.
