Chapter 16
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Dear Trixie,
I’m booked on the Norwegian fjords cruise, but honestly, I just want to curl up with a good book and enjoy the scenery from my balcony.
My family thinks I’m wasting money by not participating in every activity and excursion, but after a hectic year, peaceful solitude sounds like heaven.
Is it terrible to skip the organized fun and just order room service?
And if I do hibernate, what am I genuinely missing that might be worth venturing out for?
Dear Contentedly Antisocial,
You’ve discovered cruising’s best-kept secret! Your cabin is actually yours to enjoy, however you please. The cruise police will not, in fact, revoke your passenger privileges for skipping the conga line.
Room service on your balcony while sailing through the Norwegian fjords is possibly the most luxurious experience imaginable.
Those towering cliffs and cascading waterfalls are actually more impressive when viewed in peaceful solitude, without someone’s iPad blocking your view or a fellow passenger loudly explaining how these fjords are nothing compared to that lake back home.
For maximum cabin enjoyment, order breakfast the night before using the menu card that you hang outside your door.
The Norwegian salmon eggs Benedict is sublime when enjoyed in your bathrobe.
Don’t forget to request extra pillows for creating the perfect reading nest. And remember, the dinner menu is available for room service, too—just call and ask.
That said, there are a few experiences worth temporarily abandoning your sanctuary for.
Don’t miss the moment the ship enters Geirangerfjord (the captain will announce it).
The Norwegian cultural show is surprisingly not cheesy and genuinely beautiful.
And sunset from the observation deck when the light turns the mountains pink is truly magical.
Feel free to skip the belly flop contest without guilt (no explanation needed), any activity with mandatory fun vibes, and the soap opera stars’ “meet and greet” (unless you enjoy watching grown men fight over who had more resurrection storylines).
Remember, it’s your vacation. Some people collect port magnets, you’re collecting peaceful moments. Both are valid cruise souvenirs.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. If you need book recommendations, avoid Bess at all costs. Her light beach reading last cruise was a nine-hundred-page Russian novel about existential despair.
Day 6: At Sea / Scenic Fjord Cruising
The promenade deck of the Emerald Queen bustles with an energy usually reserved for game shows where the grand prize is something wildly impractical—like a lifetime supply of hot sauce or a porcelain unicorn collection.
A makeshift obstacle course stretches from one end to the other, with brightly colored cones, hula hoops, and what appears to be a kiddie pool filled with blue Jell-O.
The gloomy Norwegian sky hangs overhead like a damp wool blanket, but that hasn’t dampened anyone’s spirits. If anything, the dramatic fjord backdrop—sheer rock faces plunging into inky water—only adds to the spectacle.
The scent of grilled burgers and hot dogs wafts up from the outdoor grill, mingling with the crisp salt air. From somewhere above, a cover band’s rendition of “Eye of the Tiger” floats down, giving this whole absurd setup the theatrical vibe it demands.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Boomer Beaumont’s voice indeed booms through the PA system. “Welcome to what promises to be the most exciting event of our Norwegian journey—the Battle of the Sexes: Soap Opera Edition!”
The crowd erupts in cheers, particularly from a group of women wearing matching t-shirts with Team Hot Daytime Villain emblazoned across the front in rhinestones. Bess and Nettie have somehow finagled front-row seats, complete with binoculars that I’m pretty sure are meant for whale watching.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” I mutter, huddled in the corner with Ransom, who looks surprisingly calm despite the circus atmosphere.
“You’re doing great,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “Besides, it’s giving us the perfect cover to keep an eye on all our suspects.”
“I love that you said our.” I land a kiss on his lips because of it. “Leave it to you to find the silver lining in this soap opera tornado. Although I still don’t understand why anyone would think I belong in front of a camera.”
“Because you’re real,” Ransom says simply. “In a sea of plastic surgery and fake personas, you stand out. And you’re stunningly beautiful, but you always seem to overlook that.”
“Thank you,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.
The compliment catches me off guard, sending a flush of warmth to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate I’m currently cradling.
“Well,” I manage, “we both know the killer is still out there somewhere in this crowd, watching all of this unfold.”
“Not for long,” Ransom replies with his gaze sweeping the area with the calm precision of a man who notices everything. “We’re getting closer, Trixie. I can feel it.”
“We’re getting closer?” I purr at him and his lips curve in the right direction.
He sighs down at me. “At the end of the day, we’re always a team.”
Boomer Beaumont barrels toward us with his headset askew and his clipboard flapping like a distressed bird. He skids to a stop and gives us a once-over that lands somewhere between apologetic and dismissive.
“Hey—quick change of plans,” he says, already half-turning away. “We’re gonna have you two sit out the first round.”
I blink. “We’re sitting it out?”
Boomer nods briskly. “Yeah. No offense, but you’re a little…
low drama for the opener. We’re easing into things.
Think bigger personalities. Bigger reactions.
Louder hair.” His eyes flick meaningfully toward Team Trophy Wife, currently practicing synchronized squealing.
“And,” he adds, lowering his voice a notch, “you both read as competent. It kills the suspense. Also, Ransom, let’s be honest. You’d tear up the track. ”
With that, he’s gone—already shouting into his headset about Jell-O viscosity.
I stare after him. “Did we just get benched for being emotionally stable? And too young and fit on your behalf?”
Ransom’s mouth twitches. “Apparently, yes.”
“Well,” I say, snuggling closer. “I guess we’ll just have to suffer quietly on the sidelines.”
He slips an arm around me. “Tragic. But I’ll try to endure it for the sake of the investigation.”
“And our lack of loud hair,” I add.
“Especially that,” he says with a dry chuckle.
The soap husbands lumber onto the deck, each trying to out-swagger the other despite the fact that most of them are pushing seventy and have knees that audibly protest with each step.
Victor Darkmore leads the pack, his suspiciously dark hair gelled into submission and a black compression shirt showcasing muscles that haven’t seen action since the Reagan administration.
“Oh my goodness,” Nettie squeals from her front-row seat. “Luca is wearing SHORTS!”
Bess elbows her. “Calm yourself, woman. Those are compression shorts. It’s a medical necessity, not a fashion choice.”
“I don’t care if they’re a cardiac event waiting to happen. The man has legs!” Nettie fans herself dramatically. “And Santino! Look at those arms!”
Santino DiAngelo from Days of Our Nights flexes for the crowd, his silver-streaked hair catching the light.
The international crime lord who’s been resurrected fourteen times on daytime television looks distinctly less intimidating in person, especially with his reading glasses dangling from a chain around his neck.
The trophy wives strut onto the deck like they’re walking a fashion runway instead of a slippery cruise ship surface in the middle of a Norwegian fjord.
Their workout gear must have cost a mint, and they’ve somehow managed to coordinate their outfits to complement each other while still establishing a clear hierarchy—with Val’s neon pink ensemble screaming alpha female the loudest.
“For our first event,” Boomer announces, “it’s husbands versus wives in the Norwegian Obstacle Challenge! Who will prove superior? The stars of daytime television or their glamorous better halves?”
Boomer begins explaining the rules with his clipboard in hand. “Contestants will navigate through the hula hoop maze, cross the balance beam, dive through the foam noodle forest, wade through the Jell-O pool, climb the rope ladder, and finally, ring the victory bell! Fastest team wins!”
“This should be entertaining,” I murmur to Ransom, who watches the proceedings with quiet vigilance, already assessing what could go wrong. And there are many, many things.
“Look at Beth,” he whispers. “She keeps checking her phone and looking at Lance.”
I follow his gaze to where Beth Williams stands, nervously fidgeting with her phone while shooting glances at her husband, Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. (AKA Lance).
There’s tension in her posture that goes beyond pre-competition jitters.
I already told Ransom about the audio recordings Harper played for me yesterday. Beth is definitely on our radar now.
“And Harper hasn’t taken her eyes off Victor Darkmore since he arrived,” I note, observing the raven-haired trophy wife whose intense stare could burn holes through steel.
“On your marks!” Boomer calls out. “Get set! GO!”
What follows can only be described as elegant chaos.
The wives take off like Olympic sprinters, their designer sneakers barely touching the ground as they weave through the hula hoops with far too much grace.
Val takes an early lead, her yoga-toned body bending and twisting with impressive flexibility.