Chapter 3
The soft clink of champagne glasses mingles with laughter echoing through the corridors of the Emerald Queen of the Seas, while the faint scent of expensive perfume and fresh roses drifts through the air like an olfactory love letter written by someone with unlimited access to a credit card.
After completing our muster drill—thank goodness for technology that lets you do safety training on your phone while your stomach growls impatiently for cocktail hour—Bess, Nettie, and I then make our way toward what promises to be the social event of the evening.
No standing around in life jackets looking like confused tourists, just a quick video about not jumping overboard and remembering which whistle means abandon ship.
It’s a low bar, but apparently one that some people still struggle to clear.
The Emerald Queen truly is a floating city that makes even the biggest cruise ship out there look like a modest yacht.
Everywhere you look, there’s something designed to separate you from both your money and your common sense—waterslides that spiral into the stratosphere, rock climbing walls for people who find regular exercise too boring, zip lines for those with death wishes and excellent life insurance policies, theaters showing Broadway productions, and approximately seventeen different pools because apparently one body of water isn’t enough when you’re surrounded by an entire ocean.
And don’t get me started on the restaurants.
Twenty-six dining venues are scattered across nineteen decks like edible treasure chests waiting to be plundered.
My relationship with food has become borderline obsessive since moving aboard this floating paradise, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
When your biggest life decision is whether to have the lobster thermidor or the wagyu beef for dinner, you know you’ve found your calling.
Ransom is currently locked in a pre-departure security briefing with his team, no doubt going over protocols for handling passengers who think international waters mean international immunity from consequences and basic human decency.
The man takes his job seriously, which is both admirable and occasionally inconvenient when I’m trying to drag him away for mandatory buffet reconnaissance like now.
“Well, would you look at this,” Bess announces as we make our way to the entrance to the Commodore’s Circle, one of the ship’s most exclusive lounges. “It’s like Valentine’s Day had a baby with a luxury hotel and then fed it nothing but champagne and caviar.”
“And diamonds,” Nettie adds as she takes a gander at the glorious space before us.
Neither of them is wrong. Tinsley and her decorating team have outdone themselves, transforming the elegant space into what can only be described as Cupid’s fever dream.
Red roses cascade from crystal vases like botanical waterfalls, heart-shaped balloons bob against the coffered ceiling like romantic landmines, and the lighting has been dimmed to that special shade of amber that makes everyone look like they’ve been dipped in liquid gold and naughty intentions.
“It looks like Valentine’s Day founded a romance cult, and this is where they worship,” Bess observes with the kind of brutal honesty that makes me love her.
“I love when romance throws subtlety out the window and runs it over with a truck full of glitter,” Nettie counters, adjusting her heart-shaped earrings that flash in rhythm with her steps like tiny romantic emergency beacons. “Makes me feel tingly in places I forgot existed.”
“Some things are better left forgotten,” Bess mutters, but I catch her checking her reflection in a nearby mirror and adjusting her lipstick as if she’s preparing for a photo shoot. Bess doth protest too much, methinks.
The centerpiece of this romantic assault is a buffet that could make anyone present explode into tiny confetti hearts and send all dietary restrictions fleeing in terror.
We’re talking serious culinary artillery here.
Towers of lobster tails arranged like edible skyscrapers, prime rib being carved to order by a chef who clearly takes his knife work personally, and a caviar service that probably costs enough to fund every retirement plan in this room—and that’s just the appetizer section.
The chocolate fountain dominates one corner like a sweet, flowing monument to cocoa excess and poor impulse control—that would be from me—surrounded by strawberries, exotic fruits, and what appears to be every dessert known to mankind, arranged like sugary soldiers preparing for battle.
Artisanal cheeses from countries I can’t pronounce sit alongside imported charcuterie that looks like edible art, while champagne flows like water—expensive, bubbly water that makes everything seem like a better idea than it actually is. I know this firsthand.
But the centerpiece ice sculpture is what steals the show.
Two intertwined swans form a perfect heart, so detailed you can see individual feathers carved into the frozen surface.
It’s the kind of artistic achievement that makes you feel guilty about eating in its presence, which is exactly why I plan to load up on lobster tails before my conscience kicks in.
The lighting is dim, the chatter from the crowd is ceaseless, and the sound of easy listening rock music filters through unseen speakers.
“Wow, look at all this,” I muse. “I’ve never seen such decadence, and we see decadence every single day.
I think I gained twenty pounds just inhaling the air.
This buffet has some serious write-your-will-first energy, and could make grown men weep with envy,” I say, already mentally calculating the optimal approach for maximum consumption efficiency.
“It’s making me weep just thinking about my dress size tomorrow,” Bess admits, even though she’s eyeing the dessert section as if she’s already strategizing her attack plan.
Word to the dress-wearing wise: gauzy stretchy fabric is a must for cruise ship fashion. A dress like that can handle any buffet you throw its way.
“Life’s too short for dress sizes,” Nettie declares, already heading toward the food like a woman on the runway to her culinary destiny. “Besides, calories don’t count on cruise ships. It’s a maritime law.”
“I don’t think that’s actually a law,” Bess points out.
“It should be,” Nettie shoots back with absolute conviction. “I’m writing my congressman as soon as we dock. This is a matter of national importance.”
I’ve heard all that before. And well, it never gets old.
They beeline for the buffet with the kind of determination usually reserved for Black Friday shopping, leaving me to survey the growing crowd of love traditionalists and modern romantics who apparently have very different definitions of happily ever after.
Wes appears at my elbow, looking devastatingly handsome in his dress whites and sporting that captain’s confidence that could probably navigate ships through both storms and awkward social situations. And something tells me he’ll need everything he’s got to get us through the next ten days.
“Trixie, you look absolutely stunning tonight,” he says with the kind of smile that probably launched a thousand ships—or at least a thousand broken hearts—and that’s just among the female crew.
A waiter glides by and lands a flute of champagne in both of our hands.
My cheeks flush with heat, but before I can respond to Wes with something appropriately witty, Claudette Sterling materializes beside us with a man in tow, and both Wes and I nearly choke on our respective beverages.
Because there, emblazoned across the poor man’s forehead in block letters that could probably be seen from space, is what looks like a real deal tattoo that reads I’M MARRIED.
It’s the man I saw earlier while the passengers were boarding, but honestly, I thought I was hallucinating because a solid twenty minutes had passed since my last meal.
Any hint of a hunger pang and I have a propensity to fall down a rabbit hole and start seeing all sorts of things I shouldn’t—like questionable tattoos and ghosts.
Okay, so the hunger pangs don’t actually cause me to see the dead, but they don’t stop it either. Not that I see the dead often, but when I do, well, it almost always means there’s a murder afoot. Okay, fine. It’s not almost always. It’s always.
Oh, good grief. The silence stretches for approximately three eternities while we all stare at what has to be the most unusual conversation starter in maritime history—or any history, for that matter.
Claudette gives a little laugh at our shocked expressions, clearly used to this reaction by now.
“I’d like you to meet my husband, Mark Sterling,” she says with the kind of forced brightness that suggests she’s given this introduction approximately fourteen thousand times and still hasn’t figured out how to make it sound normal.
Mark gives a nervous laugh and runs a hand through his hair, which does absolutely nothing to hide his forehead billboard. Not that he’s trying.
“I know, I know,” he says with the kind of self-deprecating humor that comes from explaining the same embarrassing thing to every person you meet for the rest of your natural life.
“My wife said it was the only way she’d trust me again after.
.. well, let’s just say I earned it. And before you ask, yes, this is permanent. ”
“It’s a testament to our commitment,” Claudette adds while taking a deep breath that suggests she’s given this speech before, too. “Sometimes love requires dramatic gestures.”
“Sometimes love requires a good therapist,” comes a voice sharp enough to cut diamond and twice as cold.
Dr. Lavender Voss glides over like a platinum-haired shark in designer clothing, her piercing blue eyes taking in the tattoo situation with the kind of amusement that suggests she collects other people’s relationship disasters as a hobby. And I have a feeling she does just that.