Chapter 17
It’s the very next day after our whale watching adventure, and I confess, I told Bess, Nettie, and Ransom all about Marina’s not-so-subtle approach to ghosting whoever she was speaking to on the phone. And now, just about everyone but Wes knows that she tossed her cell phone into the water.
But besides all that, I’ve been busy.
I’ve taught three art classes this morning—watercolor basics, acrylic landscapes, and something called intuitive painting that’s basically permission to make a mess with expensive supplies—and my back hurts as if I’ve been hauling lead-lined boxes instead of paintbrushes.
It’s two in the afternoon on our sea day as we cruise along Iceland’s dramatic coastline, and the Constellation Lounge smells like fresh coffee, the ocean breeze coming through the open deck doors, and about seventy people’s collective determination to win free spa packages.
Trivia brings out the competitor in everyone, apparently. Even elderly passengers who claim they’re just here for fun are gripping their pencils like weapons.
I’m wedged between Bess and Nettie at a table near the back, supposedly here to support whatever cause Tinsley’s promoting today.
But we’re actually here because Celeste cornered me after my last class and mentioned that people from the Second Act Society would be playing these reindeer games, and suggested that I watch them when they think nobody is looking.
“Do we write what we think or what we know?” Nettie squints at the answer sheet as though it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“Ideally both,” Bess says without looking up from her own sheet.
“That’s asking a lot on a Wednesday.”
Bess looks up. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Is it?”
“It’s been Tuesday since breakfast, Nettie.”
Nettie sets her pen down with the patience of someone making a very important point. “Ironically every day feels like a Saturday on a cruise, Bess.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I say with a laugh. And it’s a truth I will never complain about.
At the front of the room, Tinsley grips the microphone like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Her hair is staging a prison break from its clip, there’s a mysterious stain on her cruise staff polo, and her smile has the slightly manic quality of a woman who’s been awake since four dealing with emergencies I don’t want to know about.
“Welcome to afternoon trivia!” Her voice hits that professional brightness that requires copious amounts of caffeine and sheer willpower. “Today’s theme is Second Acts and New Beginnings, in honor of our special guests.”
The Second Act Society people cheer from their tables near the front. Their matching teal lanyards catch the light every time someone moves, which is constantly. And I can tell by the looks on their faces, these people came to win.
I spot Silas at a table with Holland and Nicolette with his reading glasses perched on his nose, studying the question sheet with the focus of a man who takes game shows seriously.
Holland touches his arm, says something that makes him smile.
It’s the smile you build over decades of marriage—warm, automatic, and completely genuine.
I guess whatever hurdle they hit the other day, they’re over it. Good for them.
Celeste drifts into view behind them, translucent and shimmering in her vintage cocktail dress because apparently ghosts are able to accessorize with the best of them. She leans over Silas’s shoulder, examines his paper, then looks at me and winks.
I openly frown at her. She hasn’t exactly been helpful.
“I’ll be hosting today with—” Tinsley glances at her tablet and something crosses her face. Panic, maybe. The realization she’s forgotten something critical—or worse yet, someone called in sick and she’s just now seeing it.
Marina Maxwell appears at her elbow as if she’s been summoned.
She’s wearing white linen pants and an emerald blazer that whispers money—or Elodie’s magic from the Queen’s boutique—her auburn hair is pulled back smooth and perfect.
She leans in, murmurs something to Tinsley, and Tinsley’s shoulders drop about three inches.
“Marina Maxwell has graciously agreed to co-host!” Tinsley pivots as if this was planned all along. “Marina brings experience in entertainment and—well, everything, really.”
Wow, I’ve never heard Tinsley utter a kind word about anyone. She must be so tired she’s out of her mind.
Marina takes the second microphone with ease as if she’s done this a thousand times. “Happy to help. Fair warning though—I have a face that makes people think they’re wrong even when they’re right.”
The crowd laughs.
Marina has that quality I’ve never been able to name—the kind that makes you want to pull up a chair and tell her things you haven’t told anyone.
To my surprise, Wes has positioned himself against the back wall with his arms crossed, looking very official and not fooling me for a second. I know that look. That look has nothing to do with ship safety and everything to do with the pretty redhead in front.
Well then. This cruise just got more interesting on several levels.
“First question,” Tinsley reads. “Which American icon got her cooking show at age fifty after writing a bestselling cookbook?”
“Julia Child!” Nettie scribbles immediately.
“We should discuss it first,” Bess says.
“What’s to discuss? It’s Julia Child.”
“It could be a trick question,” Bess counters. “Last year they had a question about the plural of mongoose and I still lose sleep over it.”
Nettie snorts. “Bess, you’ve never lost sleep over anything in your life.”
“Except that mongoose.”
I glance over to see Silas with his head bent toward Holland, the two of them in their own little world the way people are when they’ve been married long enough to have their own language.
Nothing about him says guilty conscience.
Nothing about him says anything except devoted husband having a perfectly ordinary day.
Which means exactly nothing. I’ve learned the hard way that the best liars look the most innocent.
“Question two.” Marina’s voice cuts through the room. “Which famous artist didn’t begin painting until age seventy-six?”
The room erupts in whispered debates. Marina mingles with the crowd as if she were born to do it—she pauses for effect, makes eye contact with different tables, and keeps the energy humming like a pro. This isn’t a woman who’s just helping out. This is a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
“She’s good,” Bess murmurs.
“She’s great,” Nettie corrects. “Look at Wes watching her like she’s the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.”
I glance back. Nettie’s not wrong. His full attention is on Marina now, and there’s something in his expression I rarely see. He looks as though he’s discovered something unexpected and isn’t sure what to do with it.
“The answer is Grandma Moses,” I say, still watching the drama unfold. “Anna Mary Robertson Moses to be exact.”
“How do you know that?” Bess asks.
“Grandma Moses is basically required reading if you own a paintbrush.”
“Bonus round!” Tinsley announces. “Please refer to the sheet you were handed at the door that has ten bonus questions. Please write your answers directly on the paper, and yes, spelling counts.” She pauses for effect. “Allegedly.”
Marina is making the rounds now, and watching her work a room is something—she stops at each table just long enough to make everyone feel like the most important person in it. Now that’s a gift.
When she reaches the Second Act Society group, she pauses at Silas and Holland’s table and says something that makes Holland laugh.
Silas looks up at her, then does a double-take.
“You’re the widow,” he says. It doesn’t come across as unkind. Just matter-of-fact. “Gideon mentioned you.”
I grow very still.
Marina’s smile stays exactly where it is. “Did he.”
Silas nods. “He said you were remarkably resilient.” His voice stays easy and warm. “Considering everything.”
Considering everything?
“That was kind of him,” Marina says, sounding perfectly pleasant on the surface, but with something considerably sharper underneath. “But I’m sort of curious what he meant by everything.”
You and me both, sister.
Holland’s hand finds Silas’s arm and she gives him a squeeze, but I can’t tell if she’s trying to comfort him or give him a warning.
“Just that grief takes courage,” Silas says smoothly. “Reinventing yourself after loss is one of the hardest things.”
Marina holds his gaze one beat longer than is comfortable. “Yes. I would certainly agree with that. Gideon seemed to know everything about everyone.”
I look down at my answer sheet and write nothing because I’m not thinking about trivia anymore.
She moves to the next table, her performance never wavering, but I’m locked on Silas now. He’s not writing anymore either. He’s staring at his answer sheet, his jaw tight, fingers gripping his pen hard enough that his knuckles show white.
Holland leans close and whispers something. Silas shakes his head, and now she looks worried.
Celeste is still hovering behind them, her entire countenance glowing a soft shade of pink as she catches my eye and taps her temple, then points at Silas.
Right. Cryptic ghost charades. Just what I need.
“Question eight!” Tinsley calls out. “What legendary performer was told she was too old for a comeback at forty-five, then broke box office records?”
The room buzzes with speculation, but I’m not listening anymore.
Silas pushes back from the table, and Holland starts to rise with him, but he leans down and says something quiet that settles her back into her chair. Then he’s through the door and gone, and Holland stares at the empty seat beside her for just a beat too long before she picks her pen back up.
“This is about as confusing as a hog in a hammock,” Nettie says, examining her answer sheet.
“Just write something down,” Bess says.
“I am writing something down. It’s called creative guessing.”
Marina is still working the room, her professional demeanor never slipping, and Wes is still watching her with that expression that says he’s more than interested.
Tinsley looks relieved to have competent help and yet she’s not missing the way Wes is tracking Marina as if she were a shoplifter—a shoplifter who might just be stealing his heart.
Meanwhile the Second Act Society people are taking this game more seriously than most people take their careers.
And somewhere on this ship, Silas Rowen is standing alone, seemingly rattled by a conversation with a widow.
I need to talk to him.
Soon. Before he pulls himself back together and becomes impossible to read again.
“I think I need more coffee,” I say as I bounce to my feet.
“You haven’t touched the coffee you have,” Bess points out.
“That’s because I want a different coffee.”
“That’s not a thing,” Nettie says with a wink.
“It is now.”
I slip out of the lounge and into the corridor.
The ship’s quiet here—most passengers are either at trivia or napping or hitting the buffet on the lido deck.
The carpet muffles my footsteps as I head toward the forward observation lounge.
It’s a guess, but people who need to think usually gravitate toward windows and water.
I round the corner and, sure enough, I spot him.
Silas stands alone at the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands in his pockets, staring out at the endless gray-blue expanse of ocean. The light coming through the glass turns everything silver and cold.
He looks smaller here, somehow. Older. Less like the confident Nordic Hearth co-founder who laughed easily at the bon voyage party and more like someone who looks burdened by life.
Celeste materializes beside me in a shower of hot pink stars, looking every bit like the bombshell diva she is.
“Now,” she whispers. “Let’s shake this man down before he rebuilds his walls.”
I take a breath and start walking toward him.
It’s time to see what stories Silas Rowen has been so carefully keeping buried.