All the World Can Hold

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Let the Great World Spin meets My Name Is Lucy Barton in this novel set aboard an aging cruise ship bound for Bermuda, where growing tensions lead three strangers to confront their past regrets and imagine different futures.

It's Sunday, September 16, 2001. Franny and her husband have traded in their elegant Park Avenue co-op for a suite on board the Sonata, a once-glittering cruise ship with a complicated history now long past its prime. Though they're not "cruise people," Franny is determined to host the trip as planned because it's her mother's seventieth birthday, or chilsun, a major rite of passage celebrated by Korean families. But as her husband keeps pointing out, Franny and her mother aren't close, and it is surreal--even wrong--to be on a cruise as the death toll from the attacks on 9/11 continues to rise.

Also on board is Doug, an aging actor and former star of Starlight Voyages, the hit Love Boat-style television series famously filmed on the Sonata. With few professional prospects, a now sober Doug has reluctantly joined his former castmates on a reunion cruise for fans of the show, but he dreads the dark specter of his past misdeeds. Meanwhile, Lucy, the only Black female graduate student in her department at MIT, has uncharacteristically accepted an invitation to join her roommate on the cruise during the height of recruitment season. Lucy's impulsive decision reflects her growing ambivalence about the tech companies that are trying to hire her, including a new one with a strange-sounding name, Google.

All the World Can Hold beautifully explores how we balance our needs and our wants, as well as the regrets we live with and the chances to set them right. And though it's not a 9/11 novel, it does remind us that while the great world spins, the interpersonal dramas don't cease, even as more dire ones play out in the larger world.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter 1 1. The man from Guest Services is named Jimmy. Jimmy from Indonesia, two seemingly incompatible facts engraved on his brushed satin name tag. Franny is convinced that "Jimmy" isn't his real name. She assumes he shortened it--or the cruise line told him to shorten it--from something long and unpronounceable to something effortless and "American." Jimmy is all smiles and small talk as he shows them around the suite, opening doors to reveal the bathroom, the closet, the mini fridge, the personal safe, and voilà--he actually says "voilà" as he pulls back a curtain and gestures grandly with his arm--the private balcony. Their view of the port is unremarkable. The port, in general, is unremarkable. Under the late afternoon clouds, the water appears murky, too dark to hold a reflection of the soot- and algae-stained warehouses on the pier. Franny leans toward the sliding glass door for a better look at a nearby ship, a mega-liner twice the size of their own. She's about to call her husband over when she notices him kneeling in front of the television set on the bureau. He's aiming the remote at it, pressing random combinations of buttons too hard. "This thing's not broken, is it?" Every channel Tom turns to is black, loud with static and filled with diagonal snow. "There's no way I can go a whole week without the news." Jimmy, who had just started telling them about their daily fruit basket delivery, seems slightly wounded by the interruption. "I'm sorry, sir. We're having a problem with the satellite right now." He walks over to their luggage, which the porters brought in before they boarded and arranged on folding metal racks. He gives one of the suitcases a gentle nudge, squaring the edges off against the wall. "It should be fixed very shortly. And every morning, you'll receive a complimentary copy of the Herald Tribune ." "No New York Times or Wall Street Journal ?" Tom asks. "I'm sorry, sir. No." "Not even the Post ?" "It's the International Herald Tribune ," Jimmy says, emphasizing the word "international." Tom glares at Franny as if she's responsible for the ship's selection of newspapers. Then he sinks into the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. His stiff khaki shorts ride up indecently, well past midthigh, but he either doesn't notice or care. Three years they've been married, and Franny can count on one hand the number of times she's seen him in shorts. He said his legs were too white to wear them--a strange, circular argument that never made sense until now. It's the last week of summer, and compared to Jimmy, whose evenly tanned skin is the color of gingerbread, Tom looks unseasonably pale. "Here in this armoire, sir and madam, you'll find your complimentary bathrobes and slippers." Jimmy opens the door to a large closet. A light turns on inside, revealing two plush robes and several plastic bags hanging from a hook. The bags are labeled and require no explanation, but he explains them anyway, noting that laundry, dry cleaning, and shoeshine services all have a guaranteed turnaround time of eight hours or less. " Muy rápido ," he adds. The sudden switch to Spanish appears to be too much for Tom, who jumps up from his seat. He flips open his wallet, thumbing through his dwindling supply of small bills. Ever since they left the hotel this morning, he's been tipping people left and right--the housekeeper, the bellman, the concierge who called for their taxi, the man at the port who tossed their luggage into some kind of wheelbarrow and then took off running toward the ship. Tom's expression is the same now as it was then--slightly pinched and put out, in a way that suggests he's more inconvenienced by the need to tip than grateful for the service. "All right, thank you. I think we can figure out the rest from here." "Yes, thank you so much," Franny adds, brightening the sound of her voice to make up for the coldness in his. "That was very helpful." The faint indentations on each side of Jimmy's mouth sharpen into creases when he smiles. He bows deeply from the waist as he accepts the twenty-dollar bill from Tom's outstretched hand, palming it with the skill and speed of a magician. They follow him to the door, where Jimmy stops at the threshold and flashes them another smile before offering two final reminders. The first is about the celebratory champagne toast, which will be served poolside right before departure. And the second is to ring him if they need anything--"absolutely anything"--a line he's probably required to repeat to all the passengers in his section of the deck. Tom turns the lock and dead bolt as soon as Jimmy leaves. "You actually thought that was helpful?" he asks. "Like we've never seen a coffeemaker or a minibar before?" "I was trying to be polite." She's tempted to say that it can't be easy repeating the same script with such enthusiasm, especially when people aren't listening. "Plus, he was thorough" is all she can manage. Franny unwinds the silk scarf from her neck and pulls back her long hair, which is still damp with sweat from the rush to board. According to Jimmy, they were among the last passengers to arrive, which wasn't the accident he assumed it to be. There was no snarl of traffic that kept them, no confusion about the recent change of port. Just another argument that stretched on for longer than it should. "So this is the Royal Ocean Suite," Tom says, in a tone that suggests there's nothing royal about it. "Suite" probably isn't the right term to describe the cabin, which has a combined sitting room and bedroom, but Franny is relieved by how bright and airy it is, not cramped at all. Whoever designed the space tried to make the most of the light by adding built-ins and furniture in white lacquered wood, upholstered in muted shades of salmon and seafoam. She's glad that Tom insisted on getting a suite and wonders if she should tell him so. If they're going to survive this trip, she needs to find a way to smooth things over, even though the trip--the timing of it, at least--is what he's so upset about. Despite his many protests in recent days, Franny refused to postpone their plans, which left him no choice but to come. "Celebratory champagne toast," he says. "Did you catch that?" "It's his job, Tom. He's supposed to tell us about the events." "Celebratory." He shakes his head at her. Once again, it feels like an accusation. She worries that he's about to resume the fight that began at the hotel, which was really just a continuation of the same fight they'd been having all week. "I'm going to the bar," he announces instead. "What? Now? You're not going to unpack?" "I can do that whenever." At least three or four times a month, sometimes more, Tom has to travel for work. He says that having a routine helps him keep his bearings. Whenever he arrives in a new city, he hangs his clothes in the closet to air out the wrinkles. As soon as he returns home, he empties his suitcase and sorts everything into piles, one for the laundry and one for the cleaners. He's not the type of person to live out of a suitcase, or watch TV when he travels, or sit around in some bar. "But don't you want to...Your tux--" He gives Franny a withering look that warns her not to say another word about his tux, which she brought even though he told her not to. When he found the garment bag discreetly tucked in between their suitcases and carry-ons that morning, he asked if she'd lost her mind. Did she really think he was in any sort of mood to wear black tie and take her dancing? Franny scans the cabin, searching for something else to talk about, something that will keep them in each other's presence, if only for a little while longer. They'll never resolve this unless they try. She picks up the brochure on the coffee table and flips through its glossy pages, landing on the maps of all the decks. "So which bar are you going to?" she asks. "Whichever one has a working TV." Every set on the ship probably relies on the same satellite signal, which isn't worth pointing out to him. She understands that he just needs something to do. "Well, let me come with you," she says. She's surprised when he doesn't turn her down. THE SONATA IS the oldest ship in Aria Cruise Lines' fleet, something Franny didn't know--something she couldn't possibly have known--when her brother and his girlfriend convinced her to book passage on the five-day cruise to Bermuda. According to the historical section of her brochure, the ship entered into service in July 1980, making it just over twenty-one years old. Franny now realizes what it was about the mega-liner that made her so curious. Not only was it substantially bigger, but it also looked newer, more modern, nicer . In comparison, the Sonata seems like a budget ship, the kind that appeals to a certain type of traveler, like her perpetually underemployed brother. That's probably why their suite was so affordable, why suites were even available at all. On their way to the elevators, Franny can't help but see signs of the Sonata 's age everywhere she looks. Tuscan color schemes of gold and terra-cotta; velvet wallpaper and paisley-patterned carpet; cherub-faced wall sconces dripping crystals shaped like teardrops; and along every corridor, elaborate chandeliers filled with soft white bulbs, giving the appearance that all the gilt and gold leaf surrounding them is lit by candlelight. When Jimmy first showed them to their cabin, she was too anxious to focus on the décor, which struck her in passing as excessive and old-fashioned. But now she sees it more clearly for what it is: tacky and old. Tom walks at a brisk clip, following the signs to the elevators. He seems determined to get to a bar as quickly as possible, passing hotel-quality paintings of fruit bowls and fat, lyre-playing angels. Franny's chest tightens. She remembers what he said when she first mentioned the trip, before she hinted and asked and eventually pleaded with him to do this for her. But we're not cruise people . She wonders what exactly she's gotten them into. The busyness of their surroundings is such a contrast to their home, a Fifth Avenue co-op that's as spare and serene as the Sonata is baroque. Although Tom's not religious, she's certain that if he believed in hell, this ship is probably what it would look like. At the elevator bank, three older couples are huddled in conversation, waiting to go up. Tom presses the down button like he's ringing a doorbell, impatient for someone to answer. A woman with a great white pouf of hair turns to him. "I think that's the wrong way." "Pardon?" he asks. "The bubbly--it's on the Lido Deck. Deck ten." "Oh...we're not going to that." The woman tips her head to the side and frowns at him as if he just said something silly. "But they only do free champagne when we're about to leave. Plus, you're going to miss a pretty good view of Boston." "We're not really int--" Franny places a hand on his shoulder, aware that making small talk with strangers might lead to a subject she wants to avoid. "We're not going to that right now ," she interrupts. "We just wanted to take a quick look at the lower decks." She hopes this will be the end of it even though she suspects it's probably not. "You young people." The woman seems delighted. "Already checking out the bars and nightclubs, aren't you?" Franny and Tom are both thirty-eight. Not quite "young people," but younger than most of the people she's seen on board. Franny smiles politely, not certain what to say. The woman smiles back, motioning toward Franny's wedding rings with her chin. "Well, aren't you a lucky girl?" Under the twin chandeliers--one in front of each elevator--the emerald-cut diamonds appear even larger and brighter than usual, illuminated from the outside in. Franny quickly lowers her hand from Tom's shoulder. "Are you two newlyweds?" The word "newlyweds" attracts the attention of the woman's friends, who turn in unison to examine them. "Just married?" a man with a hearing aid says to no one in particular. "They're very good-looking," another woman whispers to her friend, but not quietly enough. "They'll have beautiful babies. Our neighbor's baby is half Oriental." Tom's older relatives make comments like this at every holiday gathering, immune to his reprimands about not calling Franny "Oriental" or assuming that all married couples want children. He often seems more bothered by this kind of talk than she is, though Franny appreciates his willingness to correct people so that she never has to. She's not certain if he heard what the woman said because his expression registers no reaction now. He just stands there, staring at the bronze-paneled elevators. There's an arrow above each set of doors, slowly ticking toward them. Both cars seem to be stopping on every deck. "No, we're not newlyweds," Franny says, scanning the area for stairs. "First-timers though?" the woman asks. "To cruising, I mean." To confirm this will only invite more conversation. But better this subject than the alternatives, she decides. "Yes. We're here with my family...for my mother's seventieth birthday." She omits the words "to celebrate," aware that Tom is sensitive to the idea of celebrating anything right now. Like "newlyweds," this information earns a murmur of approval from the couples, who chime in with "wish my kids would do that" and "my son would never" in that way of people who are actually quite proud of their adult children but don't want to seem too proud. "How wonderful. So where are they?" The woman looks around like they should all be together. Franny has no idea. Her brother, Jae, and his girlfriend, Esther, were in an earlier boarding group with Ma. They never got a chance to make arrangements about where to meet or when. She doesn't even know what their cabin numbers are, which was terrible planning on her part. But despite a sudden pang of guilt for losing track of her family, she's grateful to have some alone time with Tom before the cruise starts, to make sure he remembers why they agreed to do this in the first place, even if the timing is no longer right. "My mother's resting," she guesses. "My brother too." " Resting? But they're going to miss departure. You all must be first-timers, aren't you?" The up elevator arrives with a soft chime. When the doors open, Franny is disappointed to see that the car is nearly full. "What did I tell you?" the woman says to Tom. "Everyone's heading to the pool." She and her friends size up the situation and wonder aloud if half of them should get on or all six of them could squeeze in together. They bicker back and forth, eventually deciding that they don't want to get separated in the crowds, not like they did on that cruise to Alaska when they couldn't find Fred for an hour. The people in the elevator are surprisingly patient, as if they all have a Fred of their own to deal with. They hold the doors open until the woman finally waves them on. "So where are you folks from?" she asks. And there it is. The subject that Franny was hoping to avoid. The question was clearly directed at Tom, perhaps as a way of drawing him into the conversation. Franny stares at him in profile, hoping he can sense her thoughts like he sometimes does at parties when he decides it's time to leave before she even has to ask. Don't answer her , she tries to tell him now. Just lie . But of course, this is what Tom has wanted to talk about all along. "We're from New York," he says. The woman's eyes widen. "New York City?" He nods. The couples stop chattering. The wife of the man with the hearing aid almost shouts at him: "They're from New York City ." At this, the man's whiskered gray face collapses. Whatever excitement the couples were just feeling, heading up to the Lido Deck for champagne and a view of the port, is instantly extinguished. Instead, they study their sandals, fumble with the cameras slung around their necks, glance impatiently at the elevators they were content to wait for just moments ago. "It's so awful," the woman says quietly. "What happened there, it was just so awful." "That's why I'm trying to find a TV," he says. "We both work downtown. Our offices are right in that area...I want to know what's going on." On Franny and Tom's first date--a setup by former classmates from law school--she appreciated how quick he was to pick up on subtle cues about things she'd rather not discuss. Her siblings, for example. What her father did for a living. It's rare for Tom to misread a social situation, but it's obvious that that's what he's done. The woman seems nervous all of a sudden, wringing the bamboo handles of her purse like a wet rag. She doesn't want to continue talking about what happened in New York any more than her friends do. She just wants to acknowledge their shared grief and move on. "Try to have a nice time with your family," she says, patting him gently on the cheek. "There's no use sitting in front of a TV, just watching those planes hit the towers over and over again." THE BAR, WHICH is called the Grotto, is nearly empty when they arrive. The bartender is the third person to remind them about the champagne toast by the pool, prompting Franny to wonder if free champagne is a big deal on every cruise, or just this one. "Do those work?" Tom asks, pointing at the TVs mounted from the ceiling. All three sets are turned off. "Sorry, mate. Problem with the satellite." The bartender's accent sounds fake, but his name tag confirms that he really is from Australia. "Should be fixed very shortly. What would you like to--" The end of his question is cut off by the sound of a horn--two long, slow blasts from somewhere nearby. Tom sits down and orders a round of club sodas, which Franny interprets as an invitation, even though she dislikes club soda and always has. She slides in next to him, not certain where to begin. What can she say that she hasn't already said? Despite Tom's recent accusations to the contrary, she does understand that the timing of their trip is terrible. Insensitive and inappropriate, to use his terms. But they agreed to do this three months ago when Jae and Esther first suggested they come, back when the world seemed safe and all they risked losing was five days at sea. The bartender returns with their drinks and a fish-shaped bowl of nuts. "Anything else I can get for you?" "Do you know if the Internet on the ship is working?" Tom asks. "In the business center? No, that runs off the satellite too." "Then what about phone calls?" "From one cabin to another? You just dial--" "No. What if I want to call someone who's not on the ship?" The bartender glances at Franny, and then back at Tom. "Sorry, mate. That's also--" "Don't tell me. The satellite." He mutters "unbelievable," but not quietly enough to escape notice. Franny's jaw tenses. The bartender's does too. He waits for something more to follow, then reverts to the same script he used before. "It should be fixed very shortly, sir. Anything else I can get for you?" Tom is no longer paying attention. He's resting his chin on his fist, staring at a long bank of windows facing the pier. The question hangs there, suspended for a few seconds too long before Franny responds with an apologetic smile. "No, thank you," she says. It bothers her to see Tom behaving so rudely, especially to someone who makes his living serving others. As a teenager, she waited tables at her mother's Korean restaurant after school. The people who treated her like she was invisible were the worst. Franny downs most of her club soda, fighting the urge to tell him to be more polite. She resents the need to, but she reminds herself that nothing about his behavior--or hers, for that matter--is normal right now. Normal spun off its axis on Tuesday. The two of them rarely disagree, much less argue, but that's all they've been doing for the past five days--arguing about why she wants to be here and he wants to be home. "You smell like cocoa butter," she says, just to hear herself say something. "What?" "I think that woman we were talking to, when she touched your face--I think some of her suntan lotion got on you." He rubs his cheek and brings his fingers to his nose with a frown. "Did you notice her reaction, by the way?" He dips a napkin into his glass and wipes off his skin. "She would have stood there all day, just talking nonstop. But the minute I mentioned where we were from, it was like she couldn't get away from us fast enough." The loudspeaker squelches. Franny clears her throat, raising her voice to be heard over an announcement. "People have different ways of coping, Tom." This is something she's always known, but never understood as clearly as she does now. Tom's way seems to involve watching CNN play the same footage on loop, or reading every word of every article he can get his hands on about the attacks. Franny doesn't have the stomach for it, any of it. She looks up at the black television screens, grateful that the satellite isn't working. She hopes it stays that way. She doesn't need to see or read the news to know what happened. Every time she closes her eyes, it happens. The planes strike the towers, the smoke billows out, and then the people--the people start to jump. "Look," he says quietly, his voice gentler than she's heard it in a while. "I know I've been giving you a hard time about this trip, but, Franny, even you have to admit, this is..." He pauses, then waves his hand at the cavernous Grotto. She's not sure what he's gesturing at. It could be anything, or everything. The glittery faux rock walls, the waterfall spilling out into the indoor lagoon, the boulder-shaped speakers piping in soft island Muzak. Franny glances at the entrance, where more people are starting to filter in, dressed in bright floral shirts and billowy caftans that graze the floor. "This is what?" she asks. He shakes his head. "I don't know. After everything we've been through, this all just feels so...wrong." As if on cue, a group of middle-aged women at the far end of the bar start to cheer. The bartender is putting on a show for them, rattling a metal cocktail shaker in each hand with exaggerated vigor. The women are laughing and smiling, having themselves a time. Franny knows what Tom means, but his word choice is telling. She wouldn't have said "wrong," which implies that there's a right and wrong. "Surreal" is actually what comes to mind. Being on this ship while Lower Manhattan continues to burn, while the death toll continues to mount, is absolutely surreal. But what can she do about what they left behind? Nothing. "Maybe if you and your mom were close, I'd get why this was so important to you, but half the time, you barely get along." There's no point trying to deny this, so Franny slowly rests her hand on his, not certain if he'll pull away. "Please. We're here now. Please just make the best of this with me." Tom stares at his empty glass, nodding like he agrees, or at the very least, understands. But he still seems conflicted. Franny wonders what more she has to say to convince him. She already explained how meaningful birthdays are to elderly Koreans, who celebrate each decade of old age as if they didn't expect to survive. The chilsun --the seventieth--is widely considered to be the most important birthday of all. But given Ma's resistance to gifts, spending money, and being the center of attention, postponing the trip was effectively the same as canceling it. They would never get a second chance. "Remind me again. What happened to the trip insurance you bought? Why wouldn't the cruise line let us use it?" Franny holds the sigh in her chest as she recites the exact same answer that she gave him twice before. Their trip insurance policy specifically disallowed acts of war from coverage, and it defined "acts of terrorism" as incidents that occurred exclusively overseas, not on U.S. soil--language she hadn't given much thought to a few months earlier. That same language now makes everyone who purchased a policy ineligible for a refund, not that she and Tom really need one. It's not about the money for Tom; it never has been. It's about wishing he had an out. "This is my way of coping," she says hesitantly. "Helping my mom have a nice birthday for a change--this is something I can actually do, something we can both do together." Tom continues to nod as if it's finally sinking in. Franny forces herself to wait, aware that she's been doing most of the talking and now she has to listen. She watches the bartender work valiantly to entertain the small crowd gathered around him. He spins a lazy Susan and fills four rotating coupe glasses with peach-colored liquid, prompting everyone to break out into applause. "Excuse me, sir?" A young man with messy brown hair leans over the bar. He waves his empty glass in the air, signaling that he wants another. "Sir?" The bartender seems slightly annoyed by the man's tone of voice and insistent posture, encroaching on his space behind the bar. He focuses on the drinks in front of him, plucking flower petals out of a plastic container with tweezers and floating them on the surface of the cocktails. " Sir ," the man repeats, louder this time. "There's a line over here, sweetheart," a woman says good-naturedly. "I'll be right with you." The bartender doesn't lift his head from his work. Franny is beginning to suspect that the man isn't a man at all. He looks more like a college student, or possibly even a teenager, someone too young to be served alcohol. "Excuse me, sir." The kid is almost shouting now. "I just need some water." She turns to Tom, wondering if he's watching this interaction too. But he's staring at the bank of windows again, his expression as sad as she's ever seen it. It takes a few moments to realize what he's looking at, but eventually, like clouds slowly drifting in the wind, the tiny changes in the scenery become more obvious to her. The pier is moving. Or more accurately, the ship is moving away from the pier. The Sonata has departed. Excerpted from All the World Can Hold by Jung Yun All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Yun's latest (O Beautiful) publishes in the year of the 25th anniversary of 9/11. Loosely based on the author's own experience, the work takes place on an aging cruise ship setting sail for a five-day journey to Bermuda a week after the historic incident. Capturing the sentiment in the air at the time, the narrative follows three sets of passengers: New York couple Tom and Franny, with family to celebrate her mother's 70th birthday; aging actor Doug Clayton and his nephew, there for Doug's first-ever Starlight Voyages (an old TV show akin to The Love Boat) reunion cruise since the show's ending decades ago, to make meet-and-greet appearances; and MIT graduate student Lucy, who is in the midst of job hunting while onboard at the invitation of her free-spirited roommate. VERDICT Writing with grit and compassion, Yun unveils the heart of her characters and brings forth an engaging piece that looks into the realm of friendships, family, identity, and belonging. Book groups and fans of realistic fiction will discover a contemplative look at life on many levels and find much to reflect upon.--Shirley Quan

Publishers Weekly Review

With the world still reeling five days after 9/11, a Bermuda-bound pleasure cruise presses on, and the passengers' private crises feel just as weighty to them as the terror attacks, in Yun's acerbic if overstuffed debut. The cruise ship Sonata has seen better days, back when it was used for filming Starlight Voyages, a popular Love Boat--esque TV series. Now, it's hosting a reunion cruise where passengers mingle with former cast members including Doug, a washed-up actor who's desperate for any gig. Paying customers include Franny, who booked a family trip to celebrate her Korean mother's 70th birthday, and whose desire to be a good daughter trumped her husband's suggestion that the cruise would feel "frivolous" at such a time. Among the other passengers is MIT computer science PhD Lucy, risking a job opportunity at fledgling tech company Google by postponing an interview. Added to her ambivalence is her nagging sense of regret over leaving behind her earlier dream to become an artist. Two wide-angle chapters on 9/11's aftermath (blood banks, flyers for the missing) feel unnecessary, but Yun succeeds at presenting the cruise as tragically absurd, as when the cast participates in a "sexiest male legs" contest and Doug is overcome with a taste of "pure bile." Beneath the farce, there's a great deal of depth to this character-driven work. Agent: Jennifer Gates, Aevitas Creative Management. (Mar.)

Kirkus Book Review

A cruise that sets off just after Sept. 11, 2001, hosts several uneasy passengers. Yun's third novel is set on theSonata, a stand-in for television's "Love Boat" of the 1970s and '80s, here hosting a themed cruise where passengers can hobnob with former cast members of the show, renamedStarlight Voyages. The five-day cruise begins on Sept. 16, switched at the last minute to embark from Boston instead of New York, sailing round-trip to the Bahamas. The discomfort of trying to take a lighthearted vacation at this point in time causes some passengers to try to back out, but the insurance policy specifically excludes refunds due to "acts of war." The three main characters include Doug, a white erstwhile hottie who played the show's bartender, sober after years of debauchery and with little memory of his supposed heyday--though the cold treatment he receives from a female cast member suggests he was even worse than he remembers. Franny is a successful Korean American estate lawyer who has brought her family to celebrate her mother's 70th birthday, but her generosity has no impact on the tension and coldness of the group. Lucy is a Black MIT senior in the middle of recruiting season whose white roommate invited her to join her family trip at the last minute, all expenses paid; soon she can't imagine why she accepted. Putting the Love Boat and 9/11 in the same sentence, much less the same novel, seems a risky business, but Yun makes it work by embracing the awkwardness and absurdity of the fact that life must go on, even the bizarrely amped-up version of life lived on a cruise ship, with its ice sculptures and food garnishes and ridiculous "traditions." In the liminal space between the "before" and "after" of unfathomable tragedy, each of her nuanced characters will have an opportunity to move past some of their self-imposed limitations. Yun's sensitivity to the subtle and not-so-subtle operation of race, sexuality, gender, and privilege adds texture, and a final section previewing the aftermath of 9/11 widens and clarifies the novel's perspective. A challenging but very real premise, thoughtfully explored. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.