Chapter 4
Glorious news.
Nobody died last night.
No dire phone calls came.
No suspicious text messages.
No screams for help.
I did order Hugh a nice homeopathic herbal tea to be delivered to his door in the a.m. that’s supposed to do wonders for stress
relief, and all in all, with regard to last night: 1 point for the rational PA, Pip, and 0 points for Hugh.
I slept like a log, actually—when I finally did fall sleep, that is.
The soft purr of the cruise ship as we cut through the ocean was quite the sleeping aid—though I doubt it helped poor Jackie,
who’s been downing Dramamine like it’s water.
No, for me, the crisp white satin sheets and thick downy comforter were like slumbering in the comforting arms of a kind,
rocking polar bear, and the dreams that fell in likewise were nothing short of extraordinary.
It was the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in six weeks.
Perhaps my spell was broken, my curse over.
The star shower healed me. The beauty, the peace, the fact that I was so far away from all the troubles behind . . . the conversation
with Nash . . . it was all restorative. Being back with Nash alone did something to me, quietly closing the door and setting
me back in place. I hadn’t even realized how off I’d felt with him all the way across the continent for so long, out of reach
of our usual conversations.
But listen to me. I sound like I’m in love.
It’s not love. It’s just . . . well, it’s hard to explain. I guess all I can say is, Nash fills a specific place in my life
that nobody else can, and when he’s not around, a part of my life is lacking.
Simple.
At any rate, coffee calls.
I push the sheets off me and rush through the prep work of the morning. Shower. Teeth. Run a comb through my unruly hair.
Don an olive-green sweater to go over my black leggings. Take tiny scissors and give my bangs a millimeter trim so they just
barely graze my glasses.
Everything to scream I don’t really care about my appearance and am willing to do the bare minimum as a professional . . .
until I swing back and give my blue eyes an extra deep line of liner to make them pop. Another layer or two of mascara until
my lashes (annoyingly but prettily) hit my glasses every time I blink.
I look like a deer. A surprised deer that’s spotlit by headlights and about to get run over. But still, a cute doe-like deer.
Done.
Somewhere between stepping out of bed and out of the shower, a cream envelope has been slipped under the door. My name is on it, in the kind of handwritten calligraphy brides-to-be fight over.
I rip it open.
The weather across the transatlantic will be brisk today, I’m informed, reaching a blustery high of 56 with partly sunny skies.
There’s a list a mile long of extracurricular activities, all continuing on the outskirts of our book cruise program. Half
of the happenings go on in the deepest part of the ship, which, thanks to my lovely new claustrophobic situation as a thank-you
gift from cave diving with Hugh, I skip over.
I check my phone one more time for any missing messages needing attention, check my reflection one last time, and shut the
door behind me.
The Seven walk into the meeting lounge in various states.
Jackie with one handkerchief over her mouth while gripping a wastebasket. The sea doesn’t welcome her, it appears.
Gordon in what I can only refer to as a sheepskin dress, carrying a wooden Samurai sword.
Neena in full glam from the neck up, but wearing a satin nightgown with robe sashed around her waist.
Ricky, who, after I ask about his whereabouts, slithers out from behind a wingback chair (which means he also overheard the
private conversation Neena and I had about her hemorrhoid cream situation).
Crystal, who slinks in after my fifth call. She was in her room playing video games (no surprise).
And Nash, who looks particularly sober this morning.
I try not to take it to heart when he seems to purposefully ignore my gaze.
He’s just exhausted. Days of little sleep will do that, of course.
Oh, and Hugh.
Where is Hugh?
“I’m going to check on him,” I announce, picking up a second cup of coffee for Hugh from the coffee cart after pocketing my
phone.
It isn’t like him to miss my calls, I mentally note, with a little chill.
Nobody really answers me.
I cast a look at everyone in their various positions around the room.
Some are looking at the library books.
Some are lounging on the couches.
Some stand beside the heavy velvet curtains, inspecting the deep maroon.
Geez. A bunch of weirdos before eight.
“Hugh?” I call as I rap twice on the door.
I wait several seconds.
Rap again.
“Hugh?”
A full minute goes by. I shift my weight, following the intricate patterns of the carpet with my eyes as I wait.
Sip my coffee.
The cups are getting hot in my hands.
At last, I set a cup in the crook of my elbow and go for the knob.
I wasn’t exactly expecting it to open, but when I give it a turn, it goes easily, and I pop the door open just a respectful
inch.
“Hugh,” I call a bit louder now.
I step inside.
I take a couple of steps, slowly.
“Hugh?” I say again, but my voice cracks.
Stop it, Pip.
Stop it now.
Everything is just fine.
The door just happened to be unlocked.
And Hugh hasn’t come to the meeting, but it’s still early.
And you’re on edge because of what he said last night, but—
Then I see the lump.
And scream.