Chapter 23
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
It’s me again—Exhausted and Conflicted, now officially Exhausted and KISSED.
So, I took your advice and tried to talk to my BFF.
It... didn’t go well. She said she needed “space to process” and has been eating all her meals in the cabin.
Meanwhile, Sean and I have been spending even more time together, and last night during the farewell party, he kissed me.
Really kissed me. The kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re standing on a ship in the middle of the ocean surrounded by a hundred people in formalwear.
Trixie, it was perfect. He’s perfect. And I’m absolutely terrified.
I haven’t felt this way about anyone since my divorce eight years ago, and honestly?
I’m scared to death of putting my heart on the line again.
What if this is just a shipboard romance that fizzles the moment we’re back in the real world?
What if I’m reading too much into three days of intense conversation and northern lights magic?
What if my BFF never forgives me and I lose a twenty-five-year friendship over a man I barely know?
Sean asked for my number. He wants to keep seeing me when we get home (we live two hours apart, which feels doable).
But I keep thinking about all the ways this could go wrong.
My BFF’s silence is deafening. My heart is racing.
And I have exactly one day left on this cruise to decide if I’m brave enough to take this chance.
What do I do?
Exhausted and Kissed
Dear Exhausted and Kissed,
First things first! Congratulations on the kiss that made you forget geography. Those don’t come around often, especially at our age. Don’t minimize that.
Now let’s talk about fear. Of course you’re terrified.
Opening your heart after divorce, after years of protecting yourself, after building a life that feels safe—that’s genuinely scary.
But here’s what I know about turning fifty—we don’t have time to waste on “what-ifs” and worst-case scenarios.
We have time to take chances on things that feel right, even when they’re risky.
Could this fizzle when you’re back home?
Sure. Could it turn into something real and lasting?
Also sure. You won’t know unless you give it a chance.
Two hours apart is nothing—that’s a weekend visit, a midweek dinner, a Sunday morning coffee.
If Sean makes you feel alive, if he’s willing to put in the effort, then exchange numbers and see what happens.
As for your BFF—her silence is her choice, not your responsibility.
You’ve tried to talk to her. You’ve been honest. If she can’t be happy for you, or at least civil, after fifteen years have passed since her relationship with Sean ended, that’s about her healing process, not about your worthiness of happiness.
Give your number to Sean. Take the chance. The worst thing that can happen is it doesn’t work out and you’ll survive. The best thing that can happen? You get a second act worth writing about.
XOXO
Trixie
P.S. Fear is just your heart’s way of saying this matters. Listen to it, acknowledge it, and then do the brave thing anyway. That’s what fifty is for.
Day 8: At Sea
There is something magical about looking out at the horizon in every direction and seeing nothing but rolling waves and ice blue water.
It’s the first of two sea days in a row, and Ransom is doing research for the case.
He won’t call it that, of course. He calls it following up on some questions and just checking a few things and staying busy, but we both know what’s happening.
My husband is just as bad at steering clear of an investigation he’s not officially part of as I am.
It’s one of the many reasons I love him.
I spend my morning writing in my blog, recapping the Blue Lagoon experience in a way that doesn’t mention the communal nudity or our sea witch hair, then teach three different art classes.
We paint the Blue Lagoon with acrylics, watercolors, and alcohol markers, and I don’t think I could ever get enough of that natural wonder.
My students produce varying degrees of success, from that’s actually recognizable as water to abstract interpretation of geological chaos, but everyone seems happy with their efforts.
The Second Act Society is running full steam today with a packed schedule of classes and seminars. Marina avoids them all. I’ve been watching for her, and she’s nowhere to be seen. But Bess, Nettie, and I attend everything as though we’re cramming for finals.
First up is “Financial Freedom After Fifty” led by a former Wall Street analyst who’s now a yoga instructor. The irony isn’t lost on anyone.
Nettie raises her hand during the Q&A. “If I invest in cruise ship stocks, does that count as supporting my lifestyle?”
“That’s not really—”
“Because I feel like it should. Plus, my lifestyle employs a heck of a lot of hot men.”
Bess nods. “Now that logic is something no one can argue with.”
“I might get it printed on a T-shirt.”
“Nettie, you don’t need a shirt for that. You need a disclaimer.”
Next is “Reinventing Your Personal Brand,” where we’re supposed to create vision boards. Bess carefully arranges magazine cutouts of gardens and books. I go for images of art supplies and ocean views. Nettie glues down pictures of motorcycles, martinis, and a shirtless firefighter.
“That’s not a personal brand,” Bess whispers.
“It’s aspirational,” Nettie says.
“It’s a wanted poster.”
“Same thing if the right man finds it.”
The afternoon session is “Finding Your Voice in the Digital Age,” taught by a podcaster who used to work in corporate law.
She talks about authenticity and vulnerability and building community.
Nettie falls asleep in the back row and wakes herself up with a snore so loud that three people turn around.
By four o’clock, I’m all seminared out and desperately in need of air.
I escape to the promenade deck, where the ocean stretches gray and endless under an overcast sky.
The wind is sharp and cold, but it feels good after hours of sitting in conference rooms listening to people describe their journey to self-actualization.
I’m leaning against the railing when Celeste materializes beside me in a shimmer of pink sparkles.
“There you are,” she says, settling in as though we’re old friends meeting for coffee. “I was wondering when you’d come up for air. Those seminars are dreadfully boring.”
“You sound like you’re in the know,” I tell her. “I’m guessing you’ve attended a few?”
“I float through most things on this ship. It keeps me entertained.” She examines her ghostly nails, perfectly manicured, naturally. “Though I must say, watching that woman talk about finding your authentic self while clearly Botoxed to within an inch of her life was quite amusing.”
I almost laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m dead. There’s a difference.”
She leans against the railing beside me, her translucent form flickering slightly in the wind that doesn’t touch her.
“You wanted to talk to me about Gideon.”
It’s not a question.
“I want to understand him,” I say carefully. “Why he was the way he was. Why he enjoyed hurting people.”
Celeste’s expression softens. Just slightly, and just enough to show something real underneath the flirtation and sass.
“He wasn’t always cruel, you know. When we were young, he was brilliant. Funny. He saw things other people missed. He made connections to things that no one else could see.”
“What changed?”
“He realized people’s secrets had value.” She stares out at the water as her voice grows distant. “And he also learned that fear was the best currency. He learned he could make people do anything. Pay anything. Promise anything. If he threatened to expose what they wanted hidden.”
I nod. “And he enjoyed it.”
“Oh, he loved it.” There’s no judgment in her voice. Just acceptance. “The power. The control. Watching people scramble and beg. It was like a drug for him. The bigger the secret, the more important the person, the more he savored it.”
The wind picks up, sending my hair across my face. I push it back.
“That’s awful.”
“That’s Gideon.” Celeste turns to look at me, and there’s something achingly sad in her eyes. “But I loved him anyway. Even when he became the worst version of himself. Even when he hurt people for sport. And I can’t wait to be with him again.”
She sighs, long and wistful, and for a moment the pink sparkles dim and she looks exactly like what she is—a woman who lost everything on a rainy night thirty-two years ago.
“We can send you to him right now,” I say, afraid to pull us out of this moment. “Just tell me the name of the killer.”
Celeste’s attention snags on something over my shoulder. Her whole demeanor shifts as the sadness vanishes and is quickly replaced by predatory interest.
A man walks past us, heading toward one of the hot tubs. Mid-forties, impressively muscled, wearing swim trunks and confidence in equal measure.
“Oh my,” Celeste purrs. “Now that is promising.”
“Celeste—”
“I’ll tell you who killed my Gideon,” she says, already drifting after the buff stranger. “Right after I have a little fun with this one.”
She disappears in a shower of sparkles, leaving me alone with the ocean, the wind, and the growing certainty that solving this murder would be significantly easier if my primary witness wasn’t a ghost with a one-track mind.