Chapter 3
Aman breaks away from the Second Act Society group and heads straight for Wes as the entire lot of us stand at the mouth of the gangway, here on embarkation day.
The man in question looks to be in his early sixties with sandy brown hair going silver at the temples, and he’s dressed in an expensive navy blazer over a crisp white shirt.
His movements are crisp and controlled, and there’s something about the way he carries himself that screams former corporate executive.
It’s basically a power suit without the jacket, but the jacket is implied.
“Captain Crawford!” He extends a hand. “Gideon Vale. We spoke on the phone about the group booking.”
“Mr. Vale.” Wes shakes his hand. “Welcome aboard. How was your flight?”
“Long but worth it.” Gideon turns to survey the atrium, and his eyes light up. “This ship is even more impressive in person.”
“Wait until you see the rest of her.”
Gideon waves to three people standing near the champagne fountain. “Let me introduce you to some of our members. They’re eager to meet the famous Captain Crawford.”
Famous Captain Crawford?
I bite down on my lip because I’m half-afraid he meant infamous. And I can’t help but feel like some of that infamy might be all my fault.
The first couple to approach catches my attention immediately.
The man is probably late fifties with silver-streaked dark hair and warm hazel eyes.
He’s wearing jeans and a charcoal henley that somehow manages to look both casual and expensive.
The woman beside him has shoulder-length auburn hair streaked with honey highlights, bright green eyes, and she’s dressed in layers of maroon and navy that look effortlessly put-together.
The kind of put-together you can’t fake, and can’t buy, though Heaven knows people try. People like me.
“This is Silas and Holland Rowen,” Gideon says proudly. “They own—”
“Nordic Hearth!” I practically shriek, and there goes every ounce of dignity I’ve ever had and every speck of cool, too. “Oh my goodness, I decorated my entire house with your furniture! Well, I did when I had a house. I live on the ship now.”
Holland’s face lights up. “Really? That’s wonderful! On both counts,” she laughs.
“Oh, I’m obsessed,” I gush, probably sounding unhinged. “The minimalist aesthetic, the craftsmanship, the way everything feels warm but not cluttered—my old house was basically a Nordic Hearth showroom. The UPS driver and I were on a first-name basis.”
“I’ve seen the photos,” Ransom says dryly. “It was a situation.”
“A tasteful situation,” I add.
Silas laughs, and it’s a warm, genuine sound that wraps around our little cluster like a soft blanket. “We love hearing that. Truly.”
“Are you the artist behind the designs?” I ask Holland.
“We both are.” She links her arm through Silas’s. “He handles the woodwork, I do the textiles and overall concepts. We’ve been working together and married for over thirty years.”
“Relationship goals,” Tinsley murmurs.
A woman glides over to join us, and glide is really the only word for it.
She’s probably mid-fifties with sleek dark hair styled in a sophisticated bob, flawless olive skin, and she’s wearing a burgundy wrap dress with black heels.
Everything about her screams polished professional, from her manicured nails to the expensive watch on her wrist. I’m guessing if her watch had a watch, it would also be expensive.
“And this,” Gideon says, “is Nicolette Devereaux. She’s a divorce attorney in Boston.”
“Recovering divorce attorney,” Nicolette corrects, with a smile sharp enough to cut a settlement in half. And possibly a prenup.
“I’m taking a sabbatical to figure out what’s next.”
“How long were you practicing?” Wes asks.
“Twenty-five years.” She accepts a glass of champagne from a passing server. “Twenty-five years of listening to people destroy each other over who gets the lake house. I really needed a break.”
“I don’t blame you,” Marina says quietly.
And something in her tone makes me think there’s a story there. An entire paragraph of a story. Possibly a trilogy.
Gideon’s gaze shifts to Marina, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
Marina’s face goes completely blank. “No,” she’s quick with the answer.
“I never forget a face.” Gideon studies her for another long moment.
Marina’s cheeks flush bright red. “I have that kind of face,” she forces a tiny laugh. “People always stop me and ask if we went to high school together.” She clears her throat, and I can hear the slight tremor in her voice.
Gideon doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it drop.
Wes gestures toward the elevators. “The Opaline Royale Lounge is ready for your bon voyage party whenever you’d like to head up.”
“Excellent.” Gideon turns to our group with an expansive smile. “You’re all welcome to join us as my guests.”
“That’s very kind,” Bess says.
“We’ll be there with hell’s bells on,” Nettie adds with a wink. “And if there are appetizers, we’ll be there twice.”
True as gospel.
Gideon shoots another lingering look at Marina. “I’m serious though. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Marina forces a smile, though she looks as if she’d rather do anything but curve her lips in that direction. If you asked her to choose between smiling at Gideon and jumping overboard in a ball gown, she’d be asking about the water temperature.
Gideon heads toward the elevators with Silas, Holland, and Nicolette, leaving a trail of awkwardness in his wake.
We all watch the Second Act Society group cluster together near the champagne fountain, their laughter and conversation filling the atrium with that infectious energy that makes you want to join in even if you don’t know what’s funny.
Laughter erupts from somewhere in the group—inexplicably loud, almost unnaturally so. It cuts through every other sound in the atrium, drowning out conversations and even the classical music playing from the grand piano.
I turn toward the sound.
“Wow.” I marvel to Ransom. “Have you ever heard a laugh like that before? It’s as if she has a megaphone built into her neck.”
“What laugh?” He follows my gaze. “Who are you talking about?”
And then I see her.
“That woman right there.” I point toward a blonde woman in a flowing white gown who stands in the midst of the Second Act Society, her head thrown back in delight.
She’s buxom and beautiful, with bright red lips and glittering white teeth.
Her hair cascades down her back in perfect waves, and she’s laughing with such abandon you’d think someone just told the world’s funniest joke.
But nobody else is reacting to her.
Nobody else looks her way.
And I’m getting the feeling that nobody else sees her as well.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Not on embarkation day. I haven’t even stepped into my cabin. I haven’t even had an appetizer. At the very least, let me have an appetizer before the paranormal parade begins.
She turns, looks directly at me, and her expression shifts.
The laughter dies. Her eyes narrow into a glare that could freeze the North Atlantic, and her perfect smile transforms into something cold and cruel.
She floats toward the ceiling and dissolves in a shower of pink stars before vanishing into nothing.
I gasp as my hand flies to my chest.
“What’s wrong?” Ransom asks, pulling me in as if he was moving me out of the line of a bullet.
“She’s gone.” I pant as I whisper out the words. “And she was never really here. I just saw a ghost.” I nod, watching the Second Act Society head toward the elevators, all smiles and first-day optimism and absolutely no idea what’s coming. “And you know what that means.”
Ransom growls. “It means murder.”