Page 53 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“Ideally both,” Bess says without looking up from her own sheet.

“That’s asking a lot on a Wednesday.”

Bess looks up. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Is it?”

“It’s been Tuesday since breakfast, Nettie.”

Nettie sets her pen down with the patience of someone making a very important point. “Ironically every day feels like a Saturday on a cruise, Bess.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I say with a laugh. And it’s a truth I will never complain about.

At the front of the room, Tinsley grips the microphone like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her hair is staging a prison break from its clip, there’s a mysterious stain on her cruise staff polo, and her smile has the slightly manic quality of a woman who’s been awake since four dealing with emergencies I don’t want to know about.

“Welcome to afternoon trivia!” Her voice hits that professional brightness that requires copious amounts of caffeine and sheer willpower. “Today’s theme is Second Acts and New Beginnings, in honor of our special guests.”

The Second Act Society people cheer from their tables near the front. Their matching teal lanyards catch the light every time someone moves, which is constantly. And I can tell by the looks on their faces, these people came to win.

I spot Silas at a table with Holland and Nicolette with his reading glasses perched on his nose, studying the question sheet with the focus of a man who takes game shows seriously. Holland touches his arm, says something that makes him smile. It’s the smile you build over decades of marriage—warm, automatic, and completely genuine. I guess whatever hurdle they hit the other day, they’re over it. Good for them.

Celeste drifts into view behind them, translucent and shimmering in her vintage cocktail dress because apparently ghosts are able to accessorize with the best of them. She leans over Silas’s shoulder, examines his paper, then looks at me and winks.

I openly frown at her. She hasn’t exactly been helpful.

“I’ll be hosting today with—” Tinsley glances at her tablet and something crosses her face. Panic, maybe. The realization she’s forgotten something critical—or worse yet, someone called in sick and she’s just now seeing it.

Marina Maxwell appears at her elbow as if she’s been summoned. She’s wearing white linen pants and an emerald blazer that whispers money—or Elodie’s magic from the Queen’s boutique—her auburn hair is pulled back smooth and perfect. She leans in, murmurs something to Tinsley, and Tinsley’s shoulders drop about three inches.

“Marina Maxwell has graciously agreed to co-host!” Tinsley pivots as if this was planned all along. “Marina brings experience in entertainment and—well, everything, really.”

Wow, I’ve never heard Tinsley utter a kind word about anyone. She must be so tired she’s out of her mind.

Marina takes the second microphone with ease as if she’s done this a thousand times. “Happy to help. Fair warning though—I have a face that makes people think they’re wrong even when they’re right.”

The crowd laughs.

Marina has that quality I’ve never been able to name—the kind that makes you want to pull up a chair and tell her things you haven’t told anyone.

To my surprise, Wes has positioned himself against the back wall with his arms crossed, looking very official and not fooling me for a second. I know that look. That look has nothing to do with ship safety and everything to do with the pretty redhead in front.

Well then. This cruise just got more interesting on several levels.

“First question,” Tinsley reads. “Which American icon got her cooking show at age fifty after writing a bestselling cookbook?”

“Julia Child!” Nettie scribbles immediately.

“We should discuss it first,” Bess says.

“What’s to discuss? It’s Julia Child.”

“It could be a trick question,” Bess counters. “Last year they had a question about the plural of mongoose and I still lose sleep over it.”

Nettie snorts. “Bess, you’ve never lost sleep over anything in your life.”

“Except that mongoose.”

I glance over to see Silas with his head bent toward Holland, the two of them in their own little world the way people are when they’ve been married long enough to have their own language. Nothing about him says guilty conscience. Nothing about him says anything except devoted husband having a perfectly ordinary day.