Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
W hen it comes to visiting public establishments with a heartfelt fondness, there is only one place that tops that list for me and it’s a bookstore.
I love books.
I love the feel, the thrill of looking at all of the new luscious covers, and I’m pretty sure the scent of books is the perfume of the gods.
There is no quicker way to intoxicate me than to inhale the scent of a brand-new stack of literary goodness.
Well, maybe Ransom has a quicker way, but as for things outside the sphere of my love life, there is nothing like it.
And yet now that I live on a cruise ship, I’ve come to appreciate another type of public establishment—maritime museums.
Bess, Nettie, and I have stopped in on more than a few during our travels, and it’s fascinating to me to see how far life on a seafaring vessel has come. Not only that, but my love for the sea and all the things in it has multiplied and now sit right up there with my love for all things literature.
The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic stands tall with its brick facade and it boasts a clear view of Halifax’s bustling waterfront.
The salty brine of the ocean wafts through the entrance as Bess, Nettie, and I shuffle through the doors along with a mob of people. A brass bell mounted above the door chimes cheerfully, and it’s a stark contrast to the somber history housed inside these walls.
The air smells of old wood and varnish, and it’s a touch warmer in here than it is outside but not warm enough to convince me to take off my coat. The crowd is thick and the murmur of tourists creates soft background noise.
We’re greeted by a giant anchor on display, and suddenly I feel as if we’ve been whisked away into a sailor’s time capsule. The gift shop is already brimming with tourists, but we manage to pass it up for now in favor of soaking in the exhibits.
“So, this is what it’s come to,” Nettie gruffs. “Museum field trips. Do we need to break out our AARP cards to qualify for the full experience?”
“Ha!” Bess laughs at her bestie. “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been qualified to break out your AARP membership for the last forty years.”
“Nettie, if you’re angling for a senior discount, I’m right there with you,” I tell her as we bypass maritime treasures that were recovered from the depths of the ocean, such as old figureheads and rusted diving helmets that hold an otherworldly appeal. “I’ve been waiting for my AARP card to kick in for years, and you can bet your feisty britches I’m going to squeeze every discount I can out of it.”
Bess points straight ahead. “I’ve been waiting to see this exhibit for years.”
The exhibit in question is all about the RMS Titanic . It turns out that this particular maritime museum has one of the most exhaustive collections on the topic.
“This is going to be tough.” Bess sighs as we look at the signage at the entry of the exhibit. “I think I might need a cocktail to get through the rest of the day.”
“And maybe a life jacket,” I say as my eyes are already growing misty. Just the thought of the suffering that went on that fateful night breaks my heart.
We quickly take in the first leg of the showroom, taking in all of the knickknacks collected from the seafloor, one of them being a wooden lounge chair that sits in front of a wall-length picture of the Titanic itself.
Nettie stirs to my right as she examines an old photo of the ship’s first-class passengers, all dressed to the nines.
“Look at these men,” she says, fanning herself with her fingers. “Each and every one of them was too handsome for their own good. If I’d been on that ship, I would’ve made it my mission to make their last night worthwhile. And no iceberg on the planet would have been able to stop me.”
“Good grief,” Bess says as she zips on over. “Would you keep it down? People are going to discover you’re a lunatic.”
“Oh, I am not.” Nettie is quick to wave her off. “These men look hot-to-trot and you know it. They deserve better than what they got.”
“Now that I’ll agree with.” Bess touches her fingers to her lips as she inspects the photos herself. “One thing is for sure, if you were there that night, Nettie, you’d be too busy flirting to get on a lifeboat.”
“Please,” Nettie gravels. “I’d do more than flirt,” she quips. “I’d be the reason some of those men went down with the ship willingly.”
I shake my head at the thought. “Only Nettie Butterworth could turn a tragic historical event into an opportunity for romance.”
“I’m just saying.” Nettie shrugs. “If you’ve got to go out, you might as well go out with a bang.”
On that note, we continue deeper into the exhibit, and we can feel the mood shifting as we approach the more somber displays. It’s hard to believe that this grand ship met such a tragic fate—and yet every inch of this room reflects that heavy history.
The lighting dims as we move through to the next room and cool blues and grays wash over the displays. There’s a model of the ill-fated liner in a glass case with every detail painstakingly recreated, right down to the miniature lifeboats that weren’t nearly enough.
Photographs line the walls with grinning families boarding with excitement, unaware of the icy destiny that waits for them. My gaze falls on a preserved life jacket, the once-bright canvas now worn and faded with evidence of desperation.
There’s something haunting about seeing the tangible proof of lives lost—something that sends heartache of grief through the room.
As we wander through the exhibit, we come across a display of personal belongings, more than a handful of tiny artifacts salvaged from the deep. Watches, combs, shoes.
My breath catches when I see a tiny pair of shoes with the leather polished to a shine. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of it all—the lives, the stories, the families.
I’m about to tell Bess that I might just join her for that cocktail once we’re through, but when I look up, I don’t see Bess or Nettie. Instead, I spot Visalia Jones, standing still as a statue with her shoulders rigid as she, too, stares at those same tiny shoes, her eyes glistening as she wipes away a tear.
I take a deep breath and make my way over as Bess and Nettie drift to another display.
It’s time to shake down my next suspect, and what better place to dig into the tragic topic of death than right here, surrounded by relics of lost souls.
Merritt Garrett may not have drowned in the icy Atlantic, but her fate was sealed on a cruise liner—and I’m about to find out why.