Page 54 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Poppy blinks a few times. “That’s... impressive. I’ll give you that.”

Although the expression she’s wearing suggests she’s about twenty percent impressed and eighty percent recalculating our friendship and perhaps her safety. I brush pearl sugar off my chin with all the poise the moment allows, which is absolutely none.

Magnus grunts beside me. “It’s thievery is what it is.”

Says the man who dug through a stranger’s bakery bag with his ghostly fingers. A thousand years in Valhalla and not one etiquette class between raids.

I turn back to Poppy. “So how are you enjoying the trip? You know, all things considered?”

She takes a sip of her coffee, and her brows pinch together while she considers it. “It’s surprisingly serene, actually. I know that sounds strange given what happened, but Stockholm is beautiful. I really think the group needed this.”

“I agree. How are you holding up?”

“It’s been rough.” She stares into her coffee as if it were about to forecast her future. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Astrid. I can’t imagine what went wrong. Has your husband heard back from the coroner yet?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. Do you know if she had any allergies?”

“No.” Poppy shrugs. “I mean, she could have. We weren’t all that close, honestly. I thought it might be a shellfish allergy or something since it took her out so quickly. It’s just a shame the way it all happened. On our first night, no less. Not that it would have been any better any other night.”

I nod. “Timing doesn’t make it any less terrible.”

We each indulge in another cookie. These are so good I’m going to have to beg the pastry chefs onboard to whip up a few batches. Regularly. Possibly under contract. I’ll have Ransom draw up the paperwork.

“So what do you do back in Connecticut?” I ask, helping myself to another cookie.

Poppy brightens. “I’m an interior designer. I have a little boutique firm. Nothing fancy, mostly residential work. Helping people make their spaces feel like home.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say, and it’s the truth.

“It is. I mean, it’s not saving lives or anything, but there’s something satisfying about watching a client walk into a finished room and just exhale. As if they’ve been holding their breath for years and suddenly they can let it out. It keeps me busy, anyway. Between the firm, the hospital gala committee, two charity boards, and whatever the country club ropes me into every spring, I barely have time to read the books we vote on.”

Her version of busy comes with valet parking. Duly noted.

Magnus sidles up to Poppy, studying her with frank appreciation. “She speaks of creating sanctuaries. How delightfully domestic. I wonder what her own sanctuary looks like. Specifically, her bedchamber. I’d offer to inspect it personally. For structural concerns. I’m very thorough.”

He would zero in on the bedchamber. Centuries dead and still such a Viking.

“I love interior decorating.” I keep my face neutral through sheer force of will. “How long have you been doing it?”

“About six years, give or take. My kids were in high school when I started, and I needed something that was mine, you know?” She smiles. “My husband’s an orthopedic surgeon, so he’s always had his career. I wanted something, too.”

“Wow, we have a lot in common. I used to paint murals in children’s bedrooms, and my ex is a plastic surgeon. I have two kids, a boy and a girl, but they’re both grown and in college.”

“Really?” She leans back and laughs. “We’re practically twins. I have a boy and a girl, both in college. Twenty-two and twenty. Yale and Stanford.” She gives another laugh, and there’s a mother’s pride tucked inside it.

Mothers can turn anything into a trophy case. I say this as a woman who once framed a participation ribbon.

Poppy tilts her head, curiosity plain on her face. “Can I ask what happened? With your ex, I mean. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Oh, it’s not a secret. It’s barely even a story anymore.” I wave a cookie for emphasis. “I came home the day we were supposed to leave for our twenty-fifth anniversary cruise and found him entertaining. Several women. At once. In our house. The man couldn’t remember our anniversary, but he could coordinate a group activity.”

Poppy barks out a laugh, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. Give it a decade, it ripens.” I shrug. “So I took the cruise by myself. Best decision I ever made. I boarded the ship and simply never got off. Some women get a tattoo. I got a stateroom.”

We share a laugh, warm and easy, and then Poppy’s gaze drops and the laugh drains right out of her.

“I’m so sorry he cheated on you,” she says quietly. “That must have been so very painful.”