Chapter 2 #2
The woman turns with a warm smile. She’s willowy and elegant, with honey-blonde hair cut in a sleek bob that looks professionally styled.
She has classic Scandinavian features, cornflower-blue eyes, fair skin, and she’s wearing an expensive gold cashmere sweater paired with inky dark jeans.
She radiates effortless wealth, the sort that never has to check a price tag.
“Hello, ladies!” She extends a perfectly manicured hand. “Poppy Lindgren. So lovely to meet you all. Are you with the cruise line?”
“I teach the art classes on board,” I say as we shake. “Watercolors, acrylics, the occasional finger-painting incident. If anyone paints a shirtless Viking this week, I’ll be held partially responsible.”
“Oh, we will absolutely be painting shirtless Vikings,” Poppy assures me with a dark laugh, and I believe her.
“How long have you been with the book club?” Marina asks.
“Oh, about eight years now,” Poppy says.
“Best decision I ever made. It’s my escape from real life, you know?
We’re all from Willow Creek, Connecticut.
Fifty women, one zip code, and a truly shocking number of opinions about Vikings.
Twice a month we meet for wine and books, and once a year we do something like this. ” She gestures around the room.
“Sounds perfect,” Bess says.
“It is. Well, mostly.” Poppy’s smile dims as she glances at Astrid. “When certain people aren’t trying to run everything their way.”
Astrid’s laugh could slice the charcuterie. “I founded this club, Poppy. I think I’ve earned the right to have opinions.”
Poppy gives a hard blink. “Opinions are fine. Mandates are different.”
The temperature in our little circle drops about ten degrees.
“Well.” Poppy’s smile snaps back into place. “Lovely chatting with you all. The chocolate-covered strawberries are calling my name.”
A woman after my own heart. And my own dessert strategy.
She floats off toward the buffet, and Astrid watches her go with narrowed eyes before shaking her head. “It’s just creative differences. Don’t mind us.”
I’m still processing that exchange when Sienna Caldwell pops up at my elbow, looking slightly frazzled. Her frizzy auburn hair has escaped its velvet headband, and her glasses are sliding down her nose once again.
“Astrid, we need to talk about the costume gala—”
“Not now, Sienna.” Astrid is quick to wave her off as she sips from her glowing cocktail.
“Yes, now. You can’t just announce things without consulting the committee—”
“I can announce whatever I want.” Astrid’s voice could chip the ice sculpture. “I helped fund this cruise. Or have you forgotten?”
Sienna’s soft face flushes. “That doesn’t give you the right to—”
“It gives me every right.” Astrid turns back to us, dismissing Sienna entirely. “Sorry about that. Administrative details. So boring.”
Marina and I exchange a look. That wasn’t boring. That was a hostile takeover before appetizers.
The group breaks apart as someone across the room calls Astrid’s name. She sets her blue cocktail on the edge of the buffet table and sweeps off, and Poppy’s already disappeared into the crowd. Sienna lingers for a moment, pink clear to her ears.
“I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”
“No worries,” I say gently. “I’m sure it’s been a long travel day for everyone.” And I mean it. Wrangling fifty opinionated women while somebody else holds the purse strings can’t be an easy gig, and my heart goes out to her more than a little.
“This is true,” Sienna says. “Anyway, you’re all welcome to join any of our activities this week. Book discussions, author panels, the costume gala.” She adjusts her glasses. “The more the merrier. And as you can see, there are more than enough Vikings to go around.”
Everyone chuckles, and the tension loosens its grip.
Nettie grabs my arm. “Speaking of Vikings, I’m on a mission to take a selfie with every single one in this room.”
Bess runs a quick head count. “That’s at least twenty Vikings.”
“I’m aware. I’ve got a full phone battery and zero shame.”
“They’re not real!” Bess says for the third time.
“Real, cardboard, imaginary. I’m flexible in my old age.” Nettie waggles her brows. “Come on, Bess. Help me document this historic moment.”
Bess gives a dramatic sigh. “I’d better supervise before she does some damage. That woman is a menace to Vikings everywhere, cardboard or not.”
They head off toward the closest cluster of cutouts, and I’m left standing with Marina near the windows. Copenhagen’s lights are nearly gone now, the city shrinking to a glittering smudge on the horizon, and the water churning in every shade of blue behind the ship.
Marina stares at the city with her jaw set in that careful way she gets when she’s somewhere else entirely.
I’m about to say something when I spot Astrid a few yards off, arguing with a striking woman I haven’t met yet.
This one’s tall, five-nine at least, with waist-length raven-black hair woven into intricate braids.
Heavy black eyeliner, bold red lipstick, multiple ear piercings glinting in the light.
She’s wearing black leather and a dramatic cape with so much silver jewelry I bet she jingles when she moves.
She could have walked straight off the cover of one of their novels.
Their argument is intense, all sharp gestures from Astrid and a flush riding high on the other woman’s cheeks, but I can’t hear a word of it over the music and chatter.
“That looks cozy,” I say.
Marina nods without looking away from Copenhagen. “Women don’t always get along. Especially when power dynamics are involved.”
I tuck that away for later, along with everything else Marina doesn’t say. Suffice it to say Marina Maxwell is still very much a mystery to me.
“Speaking from experience?” I tilt my ear her way in hopes she’ll offer up a clue as to what drove her onto the ship and away from whatever she escaped.
But she doesn’t answer. She’s too busy keeping tabs on the lounge entrance, and her shoulders dip when whoever she’s hoping for fails to appear. She’s watching for someone, and I know exactly who that is.
I bite down on a smile. “You’re waiting for Wes, aren’t you?”
Her face turns bright pink. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to people who know you. Which currently includes me, Bess, Nettie, and probably Ransom.” I leave Wes out of that equation, but he’s a bright man. He can figure it out.
“Great. Subtle as a foghorn.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” I pause. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Her shoulders tense. “Depends on the question.”
“What landed you in that bar in Copenhagen? The one where we found you?”