Chapter 13
The Mermaid Lounge lives up to its name with ocean-themed décor that teeters between elegant and excessive.
Turquoise velvet chairs cluster around small tables, the walls are painted in graduated shades of blue from pale seafoam to deep navy, and an enormous chandelier shaped like a jellyfish dangles from the ceiling with crystal tentacles that catch the light.
It’s beautiful in a “someone really committed to the theme” sort of way.
Think lots of coral, fishing nets, and sea shells in addition to larger-than-life paintings of mermaids.
But more importantly, there’s a buffet that could feed a small army in the room.
“Come to mama,” I breathe, making a beeline for the spread.
Tiny cucumber sandwiches cut into perfect triangles, smoked salmon on pumpernickel, chocolate-dipped strawberries the size of my fist, lemon tarts with peaks of meringue browned on top, cheese and crackers arranged in an elaborate spiral, and a chocolate fountain burbling away in the corner, ringed by fresh fruit and marshmallows like worshippers at an altar.
The Emerald Queen has two love languages—chocolate fountains and champagne fountains—and she speaks both fluently and without apology. Nettie, on the other hand, seems to destroy both fluently, which explains the involuntary twitch I’ve developed every time I see her near a fountain.
“This is why I come to these things,” Nettie announces, loading her plate with reckless abandon.
“I thought you came for the educational content,” Bess says dryly.
“I can be educated and well-fed,” Nettie shoots back. “It’s called multitasking.”
Marina and I grab our own plates and pile on enough food to make the afternoon worthwhile, regardless of how awkward the lecture gets.
Ransom and Wes opted out of this particular event—something about “respecting our female bonding time”—which really means they’re hiding in the sports bar watching football, or on the bridge. Smart men.
The lounge is filling up fast. I spot Silas sitting near the front, looking slightly uncomfortable in a room full of women about to discuss intimacy. Holland stands at a small podium near the windows, shuffling note cards and looking nervous but excited.
Nicolette appears beside us with her own plate—though hers contains exactly three strawberries and nothing else, which seems like a crime against buffet tables everywhere.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says warmly. “Holland is wonderful at this. She and Silas teach workshops all over the country.”
“On intimacy?” I ask.
“On reinvention in general, but yes, intimacy is part of it.” Nicolette takes a slow survey of the room, and for half a second her polish slips, showing something underneath—satisfaction, maybe, or vindication.
“Gideon was supposed to moderate this session, but Holland graciously agreed to do it solo.”
“She seems nervous,” Marina observes as she looks over at Holland.
“Wouldn’t you be? Talking about sex and desire to a room full of strangers?” Nicolette pops a strawberry in her mouth. “Although between you and me, I think she’s more comfortable talking about it than actually doing it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She leans in. “Let’s just say the Rowens have a very aesthetically pleasing marriage. Everything looks perfect on the outside.”
“And on the inside?”
“Who knows?” She straightens, her legal eagle mask sliding back into place. “I shouldn’t gossip. Enjoy the lecture, ladies.”
She drifts off to claim a seat near the front, and I exchange glances with Bess and Nettie.
“That was weird,” Nettie says.
“Weird is one word for it,” I say. Another word for it is clue.
We settle into chairs near the middle of the room—close enough to see Holland’s expressions but far enough back to make a quick exit if things get too uncomfortable. Marina sits beside me, her plate balanced on her lap, and I notice she’s chosen a seat with a clear view of the door.
Great minds think alike—and what we’re thinking now is escape route.
Holland clears her throat, and the room quiets. She’s wearing a flowing red tunic over wide-leg jeans, her honey-highlighted hair loose around her shoulders, and she radiates that breezy warmth I’ve come to associate with her.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she begins, her voice is soft, but it carries well. “Thank you so much for joining me today. I know talking about intimacy can feel awkward, especially in a room full of people we’ve just met, but I promise this will be a safe space.”
“Define safe,” someone mutters from the back, and nervous laughter ripples through the crowd.
Holland smiles. “Safe means judgment-free. Safe means we can talk about desire, dating, and second chances without pretending we have all the answers.”
She glances at her note cards, then sets them aside.
“I’m going to be honest with you. When Silas and I started teaching these workshops five years ago, I thought I had intimacy figured out.
We’d been married for decades, we had a successful business, we looked good together.
” She pauses, and something vulnerable crosses her face.
“But looking good together and being truly intimate are two very different things. And it took me until my late forties to realize I’d been performing intimacy instead of experiencing it. ”
The room goes quiet. This is not what anyone expected.
“What changed?” someone asks.
“I did.” Holland’s smile is bittersweet. “I stopped trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect partner, the perfect version of myself that I thought Silas needed. And I started asking what I needed. What I wanted. What desire even meant to me after years of marriage.”
I glance at Silas, who’s staring at his hands, his jaw tight.
“That’s terrifying,” Marina says quietly, and Holland’s gaze finds her.
“It absolutely is. Because when you start being honest about what you want, you risk discovering that what you want doesn’t match what you have.” She takes a breath. “But the alternative—spending the rest of your life pretending—that’s even more terrifying.”
Nettie leans over and whispers, “This got spicier than I signed up for. I came for lemon tarts and cheeky dating tips, not a marriage autopsy.”
“Shh,” Bess hisses.
“I’m just saying. The brochure promised Desire and Second Chances. So far we’ve gotten one lukewarm hand-hold and a husband who looks like he swallowed his own tongue.”
“Nettie.”
“What? He’s not denying it.”
Holland continues, warming to her subject.
“So let’s talk about reinventing intimacy after fifty. Not just sexual intimacy, though that’s part of it, but emotional intimacy. Intellectual intimacy. The intimacy that comes from being truly seen by another person.”
She launches into a discussion about communication, vulnerability, and the importance of knowing yourself before you can truly know another person. She’s articulate and engaging, weaving in research with personal anecdotes, and the room is completely absorbed. And so am I.
“One of the biggest myths,” Holland says, “is that intimacy gets easier with age. That somehow after fifty, we’ve got it all figured out.
But the truth is, we’re still growing, still changing, still discovering who we are.
And if we’re in long-term relationships, we’re constantly renegotiating intimacy with partners who are also changing. ”
“What if your partner doesn’t want to renegotiate?” someone asks.
Holland’s expression hardens. “Then you have to decide if you can live with that. Some people can. Some people can’t.”
Silas stands abruptly, his chair scraping the floor loud enough to turn heads, and strides out of the room without looking back. Holland’s eyes follow him for a beat too long before she refocuses on the audience—but the smile she offers is just a shade dimmer.
That was not a man enjoying his wife’s lecture on intimacy. That was a man who’d heard enough.
Trouble in paradise?
“Desire is complicated,” she continues, her voice steady despite the distraction. “Especially for women over fifty. Society tells us we should be grateful for whatever attention we get, that our desirability has an expiration date. But I’m here to tell you that’s garbage.”
Applause breaks out, and Holland nods. “You are allowed to want things. You are allowed to pursue pleasure. You are allowed to reinvent what intimacy looks like for you, whether that’s dating again after loss, exploring new dynamics in a long-term relationship, or choosing to be happily single and intimate with yourself. ”
Marina shifts beside me, and I glance over and catch the tears sliding quietly down her cheeks. She isn’t trying to hide them—and she isn’t trying to draw attention to them either. She’s just letting them happen.
Whatever Holland is saying is hitting something tender, and I make a mental note to circle back to that later. Or at least offer a hug and a lemon tart.
Holland wraps up with a Q&A session that gets progressively more candid—questions about dating apps, navigating physical changes, communicating needs to partners who’ve stopped listening. She handles it all with grace and humor, and by the time she finishes, the entire room is on her side.
“Thank you all so much,” Holland says finally.
“Remember—your second act is yours to write. Don’t let anyone else hold the pen.
” She checks her watch. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break.
Help yourselves to more refreshments, stretch your legs, and then we’ll reconvene.
When we come back, Nicolette will be discussing financial independence and legal protections for your second act—estate planning, divorce settlements, and protecting your assets.
All the fun stuff they don’t tell you about in romance novels. ”
The room erupts in applause, and women surge toward the buffet for second helpings and private conversations as the lounge breaks out into riotous murmurs.
“Estate planning,” Nettie says. “Nothing says ‘reinventing intimacy’ like discussing who gets your stuff when you kick the bucket.”
“It’s practical,” Bess counters. “More people should think about it.”
“I’m thinking about those lemon tarts,” Nettie says. “That’s as far ahead as I’m planning right now.”
Marina turns to me, mascara-streaked cheeks and all. She attempts a laugh that doesn’t quite hold its shape. “Well. That was not what I expected.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.” She dabs at her cheeks with a cocktail napkin that is losing this battle. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Of course I’m going to worry about you,” I tell her. “I consider you a friend.”
“Well, thank you.” She clears her throat. “What did you think of all this?”
“I came for intimacy tips and I think I got a front-row seat to somebody’s marriage imploding in real time.”
Marina glances toward the front of the room. “Do you think she and Silas are okay?”
“I think maybe they’re reinventing,” I say. “And reinvention can be messy.”
The way he left sure got my attention—not politely or quietly, but with enough noise to make a statement. I think about the tightness around Holland’s smile. I think about Nicolette’s little hint that the Rowens have a marriage that looks better from the outside than it feels from the inside.
Nettie appears with another plate of food. “Well, that was depressing and inspiring at the same time. I think I need more chocolate.”
“You need therapy,” Bess says.
Nettie nods. “I need chocolate-covered therapy.”
We make our way toward the buffet, and I spot Holland standing alone near the windows, staring out at the slate gray ocean.
She looks exhausted and relieved and sad all at once.
I’m about to go over when Nicolette intercepts her, and they have a brief, yet what looks like an intense conversation that I can’t quite hear.
Holland shakes her head at something Nicolette says, then shoots something back at her until Nicolette storms off.
“Interesting,” I murmur.
“What’s interesting?” Marina asks.
“Everything.” I link my arm through hers. “Absolutely everything.”
Because here’s what I know—people don’t just reinvent themselves for fun. They reinvent themselves because staying the same has become unbearable.
And sometimes, when staying the same means living with a secret that could destroy everything, murder starts looking like a viable option.