Chapter 19
After the fortress excursion, and after Nettie’s expulsion from an eighteenth-century cannon, Wes announces he’s taking us to experience authentic Finnish culture.
Authentic Finnish culture turns out to be a traditional sauna on the outskirts of Helsinki, which I suppose beats a second cannon.
The bar for today is low, and Nettie set it there personally.
The drive out of the city takes twenty minutes, and somewhere along the way Helsinki trades its trams and tidy boulevards for a storybook.
Birch trees crowd the road in silvery rows, little red cottages with white-trimmed windows peek out from between the pines, and every so often a lake flashes past the window, flat and bright as a mirror.
Finland collects lakes the way Nettie collects regrettable men.
There’s always another one glinting nearby, and nobody can explain where it came from.
By the time the van rolls to a stop on a gravel drive, the only sounds left in the world are wind in the birches and water lapping somewhere close, and I half expect a woodland creature to walk out and offer us lingonberries.
The spa building itself is brimming with warm wood and clean lines, nestled beside a lake that looks cold enough to cause instant regret should you so much as dip a toe in it.
Inside, the sauna room is intimate. Cedar walls glow amber in the soft light, wooden benches sit stacked in tiers, and a pile of smooth stones radiates enough heat to make the air shimmer.
It reminds me of a cozy cabin in the woods, only with less taxidermy and more eucalyptus. The scent of wood and steam fills the space, and it’s so quiet I can hear the lake lapping against the dock outside.
We do a quick change and we’re all in towels, the whole lot of us—me, Bess, Nettie, Marina, Ransom, and Wes—and it feels both awkward and strangely equalizing. Nobody looks all that intimidating in terry cloth.
Scratch that. My husband looks intimidating in terry cloth. Ransom Baxter looks intimidating in a bathrobe, in a Santa hat, and without a stitch of anything on at all. I can personally attest to that last one, and I plan to attest to it again later tonight. A wife has her research to conduct.
Nettie immediately claims the top bench as if she’s planting a flag on newly discovered land. “Top tier is mine. I’ve earned this through suffering. Besides, after getting shot out of a cannon, heights have lost all power over me.”
She was more or less shot out of a cannon, so I choose not to argue with her about that.
“You got stuck in a cannon because you climbed into it voluntarily,” Bess points out, settling onto the middle bench and smoothing her towel as if it were one of her cranberry pantsuits. “The only people who suffered were the four firemen who had to catapult you out.”
“Those men can pull me out of anything, anytime.” Nettie wiggles into place with a dreamy sigh. “Two of them had forearms I’ll be thinking about clear through Christmas.”
“That’s not suffering,” Bess says. “That’s a felony in progress.”
“My definition is more flexible than yours.”
“So are your morals,” Bess mutters, and I decide someone should issue that woman a license for concealed sass.
Marina perches beside Bess, tucking her towel carefully around herself. “How long are we supposed to stay in here?”
“Until we achieve enlightenment,” Nettie says from above. “Or pass out. Whichever comes first.”
There’s a woman aboard our ship who recently helped someone achieve the permanent version of passing out, so I’d prefer we not tempt fate with either.
“That’s not how saunas work,” Wes says, taking the bench across from where I’m already sitting beside Ransom.
“Everything’s negotiable if you’re determined enough,” Nettie tells him. “That’s how I landed my second husband and how I got out of a speeding ticket in Montana once. Same skill set, coincidentally.”
Ransom drapes his arm across my shoulders and pulls me close, and I lean into him because the heat is already making me drowsy in the best way possible.
Wes’ eyes keep drifting to Marina, who has her crimson hair piled on top of her head and her towel gliding down her chest just enough for the good captain’s eyes to bulge while trying their very best to stay north of the danger zone.
She looks serene and beautiful and slightly pink from the heat, and judging by the way our captain has forgotten how to blink, I’m not the only one keeping score.
“This is nice,” I murmur.
“It’s a hundred degrees,” Ransom says.
“Exactly. Nice.” I tip my chin up at him. “You of all people should know by now that I like it hot.”
“Believe me,” he says, dropping his voice into that low register that makes my knees melt with or without the heat, “I know exactly what you like.”
A quiver runs through me when he says it, and I highly approve.
Ransom seals the deal by pressing a slow kiss to my bare shoulder, right there in front of the Good Lord, country, and two octogenarians, and I feel that one straight down to my toes.
Marina presses her lips together and studies the ceiling as if the cedar planks have suddenly become fascinating.
“Get a room, you two,” Nettie calls down from her perch. Then she swings a look at Marina. “And while you’re at it, maybe you and the captain should book the one next door. I hear this establishment has vacancies.”
Marina gasps loud enough to suck up all the steam.
Wes, to his credit, reaches for the ladle beside the water bucket as if he’s been given a job to do and pours water over the heated stones. Steam hisses up in a dramatic cloud, and the temperature spikes another ten degrees.
“Are you trying to cook us?” Bess asks.
“It’s traditional,” Wes says, grinning. “The Finns believe you haven’t truly lived until you’ve had reason to wonder whether you’ll continue to.”
Nettie stretches out on her bench, and her towel threatens to stage a walkout. “I could live here. Just exist in a permanent state of warm relaxation. Never make another decision again. Let the sauna decide everything for me from here on out.”
“The sauna would make safer choices,” Bess says. “So would a coin toss, a Magic 8 Ball, and a raccoon pulling levers at random.”
We all share a quick chuckle, even Nettie, who oddly seems flattered more than anything.
“Truth be told, we should’ve handed her decisions over to inanimate objects decades ago,” Bess goes on. “Vermont would still have its reputation, and that poor man in Scooter Springs would still have his boat.”
Both Bess and Nettie are from Vermont. And honestly? All of Vermont is safer for the fact they’re living on a cruise ship. But I’ll never say that out loud. Come to think of it, Maine is probably safer without me in it as well.
Marina laughs, and it’s such a genuine sound that we all turn to look at her. She catches herself and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. That was just funny. The part about the raccoon.”
“Don’t apologize for laughing,” Wes says, and his voice has gone softer. “You should do it more often.”
Her entire body turns pink, and I don’t think the stones can take credit for it.
Bess catches the exchange too, and she shoots me a look that says we’ll be convening a committee on this later. I plan to chair it. There will be snacks.
“So,” Nettie says from on high. “Scale of one to ten, how weird is it that six grown adults are sitting around naked in a glorified cigar box together?”
“We’re in towels,” Bess corrects.
“Hand towels,” Nettie notes.
“Bath sheets, actually,” Wes says. “I requested the large ones specifically.”
Ransom tips his head. “That’s the most heroic thing you’ve done all cruise.”
Wes presses a hand to his chest. “Finally. The recognition I deserve.”
Ransom shifts beside me. “This is definitely in my top five strangest crew-bonding experiences.”
“What are the other four?” I ask.
“I’m almost afraid to tell you. You might just use them against me.”
“Absolutely I will,” I say. “A wife needs ammunition. It’s in the vows, right after the part about sickness and health.”
Wes leans back against the cedar wall and closes his eyes. “I once had a first mate who insisted we do team-building exercises in the ship’s freezer. He said it would build character.”
“Did it?” Marina asks.
“No. It built resentment and two cases of mild hypothermia.”
“Back home they’d call that a Monday,” Bess says. “Vermont is basically a freezer with maple syrup.”
“See?” Nettie waves a hand at the lot of us. “This is much better. We’ve got warm resentment happening here.”
“There’s no resentment,” I protest.
“Give it ten more minutes,” Bess says.
The heat continues to build, wrapping around us like a blanket fresh from the dryer, and Wes keeps sneaking glances at Marina whenever he thinks no one’s looking.
She’s doing the same thing right back, quick little looks whenever his eyes close, her mouth curving before she can stop it.
It’s adorable, and it’s also making me want to demand they figure out whatever’s happening between them.
But then I think they already know. I don’t see how they couldn’t.
Everyone else knows. Heck, the stones know.
“Question,” Nettie announces. “If you had to fight a Viking, and I mean a real Viking, not a book boyfriend Viking, would you rather face them on land or at sea?”
“Why would I fight a Viking?” Bess asks.
Nettie clucks her tongue. “I’ve seen you in the buffet line, Bess. You’d fight a Viking for the last slice of raspberry cheesecake and you know it.”
“Well, if cheesecake is involved, that’s a different story,” Bess is quick to amend. Everyone knows Bess would donkey-kick her own daughter for the very last slice of cheesecake. I wouldn’t dare get in the way of that dairy-based massacre waiting to happen.
“Land,” Ransom says immediately. “Vikings were legendary sailors. You don’t fight them in their element.”
I smile up at him. Ransom always knows the right answer to give. He could so take down an entire horde of Vikings—especially the ones who are really accountants. And he’d probably come away with a whole cheesecake for us too.