Chapter 24
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
Final update from Exhausted and Kissed—I’m now officially Exhausted but HOPEFUL!
The cruise ended yesterday, and I gave Sean my number.
We stood at the gangway saying goodbye for twenty minutes like teenagers, and yes, there may have been more kissing involved.
He’s coming to my city for work in three weeks, and we’ve already made plans for dinner.
I’m terrified and excited and feel like I’m fifty going on fifteen, but in the best possible way.
But here’s the real miracle—my BFF found me right before disembarkation.
She apologized for shutting me out, admitted she’d been processing a lot of old feelings, and then—Trixie, she gave me her blessing.
She said Sean and I seem genuinely happy together, and that fifteen years is long enough to hold onto hurt.
She told me she wants me to be happy more than she wants to be right about the past.
We hugged. We cried. We promised to actually stay in touch this time (with real effort, not just holiday cards).
And then she dropped a bomb! Sean’s business partner is apparently single, interesting, and planning to join him on his trip to my city.
She asked—very casually—if maybe the four of us could grab drinks together when they visit.
So now I’m planning my first real date with Sean in three weeks, trying to figure out if my best friend is interested in his business partner, and wondering how a cruise I almost didn’t take turned into the plot of a rom-com I’m suddenly living.
Is this what fifty is supposed to feel like? Because I’m here for it.
Exhausted but Hopeful
Dear Exhausted but Hopeful,
THIS is exactly what fifty is supposed to feel like. Brave. Messy. Romantic. Full of second chances and new beginnings and the hope that comes from knowing you’re strong enough to handle whatever happens next.
I’m thrilled your BFF came around. Real friendships can survive complicated situations when both people choose honesty over ego. The fact that she gave you her blessing—and is potentially interested in Sean’s business partner—shows real growth and genuine love for you.
As for the double date in three weeks? Yes. Absolutely yes. Wear something that makes you feel confident, pick a restaurant with good wine, and let yourself enjoy the fact that you took a chance on a cruise ship romance and it’s turning into something real.
Fifty isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about knowing yourself well enough to recognize when something matters and being brave enough to pursue it anyway. You did that. You’re doing that. And I couldn’t be prouder.
Now go plan that date, text your BFF about outfit options, and remember that the best second acts are the ones we write ourselves.
XOXO
Trixie
P.S. If the business partner turns out to be a dud, at least you tried. If he’s great? Well, then you’ve got yourself one heck of a story about how a disastrous travel compatibility situation turned into a double happily-ever-after. Either way, you win.
Day 9: At Sea
The Golden Era Ballroom smells like champagne, expensive perfume, and the particular brand of optimism that comes with turning fifty and pretending everything is fine.
It’s eight o’clock on our final sea day, and the ballroom is done to the golden nines—literally.
Gold chandeliers drip crystal from the ceiling.
Gold-framed mirrors line the walls, reflecting candlelight and glitter and approximately two hundred people who’ve polished themselves within an inch of their lives.
The carpet is gold with emerald accents.
Even the chair cushions are gold brocade.
It’s as if someone asked, “How much gold is too much gold?” and the ship’s designer said, “I don’t know her. ”
A massive banner stretches across the back wall, reading, SECOND ACT SOCIETY GRAND FINALE in swooping gold script.
“Look at those signs!” Nettie points below it, where two smaller banners glitter with gold lettering: HAPPY 50TH TRIXIE! and HAPPY 50TH MARINA! HERE’S TO BEING FIFTY AND FABULOUS!
“Oh, that’s great!” Bess beams.
“Aww, that is great. But I’m not sure about the fabulous part yet,” I say. “Ask me after I’ve had more champagne.”
I look up at Ransom and bat my lashes. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“Maybe just a little.” He winks my way. “Wes and Tinsley helped.”
“Well, if Tinsley had anything to do with it, those signs might actually combust at some point in the evening. Most likely when I’m standing next to them. Or at least the one with my name on it.” Maybe the one with Marina’s name, too.
We step in deeper and take in every inch that we can see.
The buffet tables are groaning under the weight of excess. Shrimp towers stacked three feet high. Beef tenderloin carved to order. Lobster tails arranged as edible art. Sushi rolls in geometric patterns. Caviar service with all the fancy accompaniments.
And that’s just the savory side.
The dessert buffet looks like the Emerald Queen herself has strong feelings about dessert and isn’t afraid to show it.
Chocolate fountains, plural. A croquembouche tower that requires scaffolding.
Tiny fruit tarts with glazed berries. Eclairs.
Macarons in every color. An ice sculpture swan dispensing champagne into crystal flutes. Wow, just yummy wow.
Music flows from hidden speakers, something jazzy and sophisticated that makes you want to either dance or commit a white-collar crime, I’m not sure which.
Bodies fill the space, glittering and glamorous, all dressed for the Oscars instead of a cruise ship party.
The Second Act Society crowd is out in force and their confidence fills the room like expensive cologne.
I’m wearing emerald green silk that Ransom picked out, a dress that makes me feel elegant and slightly dangerous, which is exactly how I want to feel at fifty.
Bess is stunning in sapphire blue, her red hair swept up in something that required professional intervention.
Nettie’s rocking a ruby red number with sequins, because that’s pretty much her signature move.
Ransom stands beside me in an inky dark suit that should be illegal in international waters. The man looks better in his fifties than he has any right to, and I’m not complaining.
“I can’t believe I’m fifty,” I say for approximately the hundredth time today.
This morning, Ransom brought me breakfast in bed.
Belgian waffles, fresh berries, real maple syrup, and coffee strong enough to strip paint.
We stayed in our cabin until noon, which felt decadent and necessary in equal measure.
Of course we found creative ways to occupy ourselves.
Let’s just say we set fire to the sheets, the shower, and maybe the balcony.
“You’re fifty and fabulous,” Nettie announces, appearing at my elbow with champagne. “The banner says so. It’s official.”
“The banner tells lies,” I tease.
“The banner tells the truth.” She thrusts a glass of champagne into my hand. “Fifty is the new thirty. Or the old thirty. I forget how the saying goes.”
“Neither of those is encouraging,” Bess says.
“Eh.” Nettie shrugs, snapping up a glass of champagne for herself from a roving waiter. “I’m here for chaos, not encouragement.”
“We know, Nettie. The banner outside your cabin says so,” Bess shoots back.
“I don’t have a banner outside my cabin.”
“You should.”
We spent the afternoon losing money and a significant portion of our sanity in the casino. Bess broke even at blackjack. I lost forty dollars at slots. Nettie bet on red seventeen times in a row at roulette because it felt right and walked away down two hundred dollars and completely unbothered.
Then we hit the Blue Water Café for its Nordic-themed lunch buffet and proceeded to eat like Vikings preparing for battle.
Gravlax with dill and mustard sauce. Swedish meatballs in cream gravy.
Smoked reindeer, yes really, with lingonberry compote.
Jansson’s temptation, which is apparently a potato and anchovy casserole that tastes better than it sounds.
For dessert, we demolished princess cake, cloudberry cream, rice pudding with cherry sauce, and something called drommar that melted on contact and tasted like butter cookies made by angels.
I’m still full. And I probably will be for the next three cruises—not that it will stop me from eating again.
Ransom wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “You doing okay, Detective Troublefield Baxter?”
“I’m fifty and at a party, potentially with a killer. Define okay.”
“You got me there.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “For what it’s worth, you wear fifty better than anyone in this room.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m accurate.” His voice drops lower. “And later, I’m going to show you exactly how much I appreciate every single one of those fifty years.”
I bite down on a smile. “Ransom.”
“What? It’s your birthday. I’m being romantic.”
“You’re being scandalous.”
“I can be both.”
“You’re being delicious, and in the event you hadn’t noticed, I’ve devoured just about everything you’ve served me today already.”
Bess leans in. “Are you two getting cutesy?”
“Honey, they’re getting to the finish line,” Nettie says with a laugh.
“Nettie,” Bess laughs and doesn’t disagree.
“What? It’s a race.” Nettie shrugs. “I’m just keeping score.”
Nicolette glides over in a black gown that would cost an obscene amount in the Queen’s Mall, her dark hair swept up, diamonds glittering at her throat. She looks old money and new confidence personified, which I suppose is the whole point of the Second Act Society.
“Trixie, honey, happy birthday.” Her smile is warm, genuine. “Here’s to the next fifty years. And a word of advice?” She glances at Ransom with approval. “Keep that handsome husband of yours alive and breathing for the next five decades and you’re golden.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say with a laugh.
“Though fair warning,” Nicolette continues, “the first fifty years are the hardest. After that, you stop caring what anyone thinks and life gets significantly easier.”
“I’m already there,” Nettie announces.
“You’ve been there since birth,” Bess mutters.
Nicolette winks at me and glides away toward the champagne fountain, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in her wake.
“I like her,” Nettie says. “She’s smart and sassy. What more could you ask for? Except me. I’m both and I’m Nettie Butterworth.”
Bess nods. “That’s part of the problem.”
Holland and Silas wave and make their way over as well, both dressed to impress. Holland in gold silk, Silas in a charcoal suit that makes him look distinguished and slightly dangerous.
They’re holding hands, which strikes me as both sweet and heart-warming. The perfect couple. They run a business together and have a family. They’re the ideal partnership.
Or a really good act.
“Trixie!” Holland offers me a quick hug, and she holds the scent of fresh-picked lilacs.
“Fifty looks good on you,” she says warmly.
“Though I have to say, I’m jealous. You get to do it on a cruise ship surrounded by friends.
When I turned fifty, I was in a hotel conference room eating rubber chicken and pretending to enjoy team-building exercises. ”
“That sounds like torture,” I say as we share a little laugh.
“It was character building,” Silas corrects with a smile.
She shrugs. “Everything is character building if you spin it right.”
“That’s very Second Act Society of you,” Ransom observes with a nod.
“We practice what we preach.” Silas squeezes Holland’s hand. “And speaking of practicing, we should get to that champagne fountain. Someone needs to make a toast before this crowd gets too drunk to appreciate it.”
They head toward the champagne fountain, and honestly? They look happy. Good for them.
The music shifts to something with actual bass that makes my shoulders want to move.
Nettie is already swaying to the beat, while Bess is pretending not to sway but totally is.
Laughter erupts from three different corners of the room at once.
The champagne fountain keeps doing its bubbly, ridiculous thing, and I’m here for all of it.
Nettie elbows me. “You see that?”
“See what?”
She nods toward the entrance, and my breath catches.
Wes stands in the doorway, looking sharp in his dress uniform—white jacket, gold buttons, captain’s authority written into every line of his posture. And on his arm, looking absolutely stunning in midnight blue silk, is Marina Maxwell.
My mouth falls open.
And to make things all that much more spectacular, Marina is smiling. Really smiling. Her crimson locks are swept back, her face lit with something I haven’t seen since Copenhagen. Joy, maybe? Or hope. Or the temporary relief that comes from pretending everything is fine for one perfect evening.
Wes says something to her and she laughs and touches his arm as they step into the ballroom together—like a couple!
The Golden Era Ballroom glitters around them, nothing but gold and champagne and celebration, while somewhere in this sparkling crowd walks someone who strangled a man with his own scarf.
“Well,” Nettie says, following my gaze. “This just got interesting.”
Ransom’s arm tightens around my waist. Bess moves closer. And I watch Marina Maxwell walk into her fiftieth birthday party on the arm of a man who might be falling for her, while secrets and lies swirl through the golden air like champagne bubbles waiting to burst.
Happy birthday to me—and maybe to the killer, too.