Chapter 12
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
I’m taking my first Valentine’s cruise, and I’m completely overwhelmed by what to pack!
Everyone keeps giving me conflicting advice—formal wear for every night versus casual everything, winter coats for Europe versus summer dresses for deck parties.
I’ve already packed and repacked my suitcase four times, and I still feel like I’m missing something crucial.
What are the absolute must-haves for a romantic cruise, and more importantly, what can I leave at home?
Help me pack like a seasoned cruiser instead of a panicked first-timer!
Overpacked and Overwhelmed
Dear Overpacked and Overwhelmed,
Oh honey, I feel your pain! I once brought enough evening wear to outfit a small Broadway production and somehow forgot to pack a single pair of pajamas—try explaining to room service why you’re answering the door in a sequined ball gown at seven A.M. looking like Cinderella’s hungover stepsister.
Let me share the wisdom I’ve earned through spectacular packing disasters.
MUST PACK: One knockout dress that makes you feel like a goddess (for formal nights), comfortable walking shoes (your feet will thank you in every port), a light jacket (ships get chilly at night, and hypothermia isn’t romantic), and twice as many undergarments as you think you need because laundry service costs more than your mortgage.
Don’t forget a small day bag for excursions and something cozy for breakfast on your balcony.
SKIP: Half your shoes (you’ll wear the same three pairs while the other seventeen mock you from your closet), every piece of jewelry you own (one versatile set will do—this isn’t the Met Gala), and that “just in case” formal wear you’ll never touch but will spend the entire cruise feeling guilty about not wearing.
GENIUS TIP: Pack one completely ridiculous accessory—feathered headband, sparkly tiara, whatever makes you smile. Cruise ships are where normal rules don’t apply and dignity goes to die anyway, so you might as well lean into it!
Most importantly? The ship has shops if you forget something crucial. Relax, enjoy the adventure, and remember that confidence is your best outfit—even if you’re wearing yesterday’s mascara!
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Always pack one emergency chocolate stash. Trust me on this! When you’re trapped on a floating city with thousands of strangers and your cabin mate snores like a freight train, chocolate becomes a food group.
Day 4: At Sea
The gentle hum of the ship’s engines mingles with the splash of pool water and the delighted squeals of passengers as the Emerald Queen cuts through glorious walls of teal water that shimmer like liquid gemstones under an actual appearance by the sun, which seems just as surprised to be here as the rest of us.
The scent of coconut sunscreen battles with the aroma of grilled burgers from the poolside café, while Valentine’s Day decorations flutter in the sea breeze like romantic surrender flags.
It’s day four of our ten-day adventure, and it just so happens to be a day at sea. The ship bustles with the kind of manic energy that only comes from trapping thousands of people on a floating city with unlimited buffets and enforced fun.
The atmosphere thrums with the kind of manic energy that only comes from combining caffeine, sunburn, and the collective realization that you’re wearing a bathing suit in public for the first time since the Clinton administration.
On the rock-climbing wall, a middle-aged man in board shorts attempts to defy both gravity and his obvious lack of upper body strength, while his wife shouts encouragement that sounds suspiciously like death threats.
The bingo hall echoes with competitive geriatric warfare as someone shouts “B-7!” with the passion of a war cry, and I’m pretty sure I saw money change hands.
Passengers line up for the zip line like they’re queuing for salvation, while others brave the FlowRider surf simulator with varying degrees of dignity intact. Spoiler alert: very little dignity survives.
After Bess, Nettie, and I demolished breakfast one—chocolate chip pancakes drowning in raspberry compote, croissant sandwiches with ham and brie that melt together like delicious sin, and bacon crispy enough to shatter windows—and breakfast two (because why the heck not?)—lobster scramble so decadent it warrants an encore, fresh hot cinnamon rolls the size of my head glazed with poor life choices, and fresh custard parfaits layered with enough artistry to hang in the Louvre—Bess took off with Rex faster than a tourist rushing to catch a shore excursion after discovering they’d overslept.
Nettie and I have been floundering around ever since without her, wandering the ship like a comedy duo missing our straight woman, or like middle-aged women who’ve lost their designated driver and suddenly realize they don’t know how to navigate life without adult supervision.
I didn’t dare say a word about Elodie’s naughty revelation concerning the Crimson Key Society last night.
In fact, I won’t breathe a syllable until Wes is notified—partly out of respect for proper protocol, but mostly because I’m still processing the fact that my murder investigation has somehow evolved into an X-rated movie I definitely wouldn’t watch.
Ransom and I decided it was best to tell Wes together. Okay, fine. Ransom couldn’t wait to inform Wes that sexual shenanigans were running amok on his pristine ship, but only because he wanted to see if Wes would pass out, flip out, or spontaneously combust from sheer indignation.
I wanted to tell Wes myself to soften the blow, but we compromised the way married couples should—through extensive negotiation, strategic bargaining, and the kind of physical persuasion that left me questioning my ability to walk straight this morning without looking like I’d been wrestling with a particularly enthusiastic octopus.
But I digress. Nettie and I just don’t feel whole without Bess by our side.
“Bess is like our right arm,” Nettie laments as we stroll the promenade deck, where passengers lounge in hot tubs with cocktails in hand, their faces flushed with sun and satisfaction.
Heart-shaped pool floats bob like romantic life preservers while couples share fruity drinks with enough little umbrellas to furnish a small army.
Tinsley’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, announcing a Cupid’s arrow scavenger hunt and love potion mixology class, both of which sound like elaborate ways to humiliate yourself in public while paying premium prices for the privilege.
Nettie looks like she mugged Cupid and stole his entire wardrobe.
Her hot pink sweater features dancing cherubs engaged in activities that would make Victorian ladies (and a few modern ladies) reach for their smelling salts and possibly call the authorities and an exorcist. Her heart-shaped earrings flash like romantic warning beacons, while her rhinestone necklace spelling out HOT STUFF catches the sunlight like a disco ball announcing her location to any alien craft passing overhead.
“She is our right arm,” I agree, dodging a woman wielding a selfie stick with the determination of a medieval knight charging into battle. “And without her, we’re nothing but a couple of left arms, flailing around uselessly and probably knocking things over.”
“Unless you’re left-handed,” Nettie points out as if she’s given this serious thought, “then we’re nothing but a couple of right arms, which means we’re going in circles.”
“You mean two rights don’t make a wrong?”
“Pfft.” She waves me off. “Two rights make a sharp turn, which is exactly what we need to do to find some trouble worth getting into. All this wholesome fun is making me break out into hives. I need some good old-fashioned scandal to restore my faith in humanity.”
Before I can respond, Tinsley materializes like a perfectly groomed scandal in a cruise uniform—a very tight skirt and a blouse undone so low I can see her belly button.
“Ladies!” she chirps with forced enthusiasm.
“You’re missing all the Valentine’s festivities!
We have speed dating for seniors—because nothing says romance like three-minute conversations about medications—couples’ karaoke featuring songs from the prehistoric era, and a chocolate body painting workshop that’s already booked solid because apparently everyone on this ship has given up on dignity entirely. ”
“Chocolate body painting?” Nettie perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Now you’re speaking my sexy language. Although I’d prefer to be the canvas rather than the artist. I’ve got a lot more surface area to work with.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I mutter, having disturbing visions of Nettie covered in chocolate and sporting that mischievous grin that usually precedes handcuffs being slapped over her wrists.
But Tinsley’s attention has already shifted to a distinguished gentleman approaching with the confident stride of someone who’s never doubted his own charm. He’s silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and wearing a smile that could probably sell ice to Eskimos.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Tinsley purrs, suddenly jutting out what assets she has and tossing her chestnut hair as if she’s activating into man-hunting mode. “Duty calls.”
The man catches her eye and blows her a kiss with theatrical flair worthy of Broadway, causing Tinsley to practically melt into the deck like an ice sculpture in Florida summer heat.
“Wait a minute,” I muse, watching this unprecedented display of Tinsley acting like an actual human being. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s been after me since day one,” Tinsley tosses her hair again and adjusts her posture to maximum advantage. Her assets aren’t exactly Victoria’s Secret material, but they’re working overtime to make an impression.
“Wow, that’s not like you,” I say, genuinely shocked that Tinsley is capable of anything resembling romance that doesn’t involve maritime regulations, safety protocols, or clipboard-related foreplay.
Nettie shakes her head because clearly, she’s witnessed decades of romantic foolishness. “That’s exactly like her. Go get him, Cruise Control,” she says, giving Tinsley a helpful shove in the man’s direction.
Tinsley stumbles forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, but recovers with the professionalism that comes from years of coordinating passenger activities while maintaining the illusion that herding tourists is actually enjoyable.
“Well, what are we going to do now?” I ask, just as we bump into a perky blonde who bounces off us like a human pinball machine set to maximum enthusiasm.
“Oh, sorry!” she bubbles with the kind of infectious laughter that makes you want to either hug her or check her for pharmaceutical enhancement.
She’s all curves and sunshine, with platinum hair that defies both gravity and probability, wearing a pink sundress that screams I’m here for a good time, not a long time—and I probably have a trust fund.
Her smile could power Las Vegas for a week, and there’s something almost aggressively wholesome about her that makes me immediately suspicious—because in my experience, people this genuinely cheerful are either heavily medicated or plotting something.
“No problem,” I reply, steadying myself against the railing and wondering if I should check my pockets to make sure she didn’t help herself to my cabin key with sheer perkiness.
“I heard your question about what to do,” she continues with enthusiasm that could fuel a rocket launch.
“I’m headed to Dr. Stone’s seminar. You ladies should totally come with me!
I hear there will be a dessert buffet, and honestly, that’s ninety percent of why I’m going.
The other ten percent is the free champagne. I’m Candy, by the way.”
Of course, she is. Because what else would you call someone who looks like she was dipped in cotton candy, rolled in optimism, and sprinkled with rainbow dust? And I sort of love her for that. Face it, the world needs a lot more Candy.
“Say less,” Nettie declares, immediately linking arms with our new blonde companion. “Lead the way, Sugar Rush. Any event involving dessert automatically gets my vote, my loyalty, and probably my firstborn child.”
“What kind of seminar is Dr. Stone hosting?” I ask as we navigate through the crowd of passengers engaged in various Valentine’s activities, from face painting to couples’ yoga that looks more like advanced contortion than romance. And well, a naughty game of Twister, too.
“Oh, something about modern relationships and opening your heart to new possibilities,” Candy chirps as if she were discussing the weather or what she had for breakfast. Scratch that, we take our breakfast digest much more seriously around here.
“I don’t really pay attention to the boring parts, but Jazz promised there would be chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne, so I figured it was worth investigating. ”
Strawberries, champagne, and swingers, oh my.
Something tells me this will be a seminar to remember—and maybe censor.