Chapter 13
“Well, would you look at this estrogen festival!” Nettie announces as we step into what can only be described as an ode to Valentine’s Day with pink and red hues, heart-shaped everything as far as the eye can see, and enough glitter to choke a unicorn.
“Who needs old Bessie anyway when we’ve got ourselves a new blonde bombshell bestie?
And I’m pretty sure this one won’t lecture us about our sugar intake. ”
She gives Candy a playful nudge that nearly sends our new companion straight into a mermaid sculpture.
“Oh, you two are just the sweetest!” Candy giggles like champagne bubbles escaping from an expensive bottle.
“I feel like I’ve found my cruise ship soul sisters.
But I have to warn you—I’m absolutely terrible at sitting still during lectures.
I get fidgety and start playing with my jewelry, and sometimes I accidentally make inappropriate comments at inappropriate times. ”
She demonstrates by twirling a sparkly bracelet that catches the light like a disco ball on steroids, while simultaneously proving that subtlety is not her strong suit. She sort of reminds me of a younger, blonder, boobier version of Nettie. Honestly, she could be a long-lost child for all we know.
The Mermaid Lounge has been transformed into an underwater paradise that would make Ariel herself green around the gills with envy.
The scent of jasmine and vanilla wafts through the air like expensive perfume mixed with sugar cookies, while soft rock mingles with the gentle hum of excited female voices, creating a soundtrack that’s part cocktail party, part academic conference.
Cascading pink and red heart-shaped streamers drape from the ceiling like romantic seaweed, and twinkling fairy lights wind around the room’s signature mermaid sculptures, making their scales shimmer like they’re dancing in love-struck waters or having some sort of aquatic seizure.
Rose gold balloons float near the ornate ceiling like metallic jellyfish, and the ship’s signature mermaid chandelier has been adorned with Cupid’s arrows and tiny red hearts that catch the light like scattered rubies.
The whole effect is dizzyingly romantic—the kind of décor that makes you want to either fall in love or check your blood sugar and possibly call the authorities to report a crime against good taste.
“Trust me,” I tell Candy. “After watching Nettie try to climb Stonehenge yesterday, a little jewelry fidgeting is the least of our concerns.”
“I wasn’t climbing!” Nettie protests with mock indignation that would make Shakespeare proud.
“I told you I was conducting a structural integrity test. Those stones have been standing for thousands of years—someone needs to make sure they’re still earning their keep and not just coasting on ancient reputation. ”
“You tried to climb Stonehenge?” Candy’s eyes widen as if she’s far too impressed. “Oh my gosh, that’s amazing! I would have totally done the same thing. Life’s too short not to touch ancient mysteries, right? Plus, I bet the security guards were super cute.”
“Finally!” Nettie beams like someone just validated her entire existence and possibly offered to pay her bar tab. “Someone who gets it! Trixie, I like this one. She’s got adventure in her soul, sugar in her tank, and probably several dangerous decisions in her recent past.”
She’s not kidding.
I’m about to respond when the real showstopper hits me like a dessert-shaped freight train driven by a chef with serious sugar issues and a pastry degree. The buffet table stretches along the far wall like an edible work of art that could make the Garden of Eden look like a sad desk salad.
We’re talking serious pastry artillery here. These aren’t just desserts—they’re weapons of mass seduction that have the power to turn rational adults into giggling sugar addicts who suddenly develop selective amnesia when it comes to counting carbs.
Mermaid tail eclairs shaped like shimmering fish tails, filled with lavender honey cream and topped with edible pearl dust that makes them look like they swam straight out of a fairy-tale bakery.
Siren’s kiss macarons sit in perfect ruby red shells with champagne buttercream that literally sparkles with edible glitter—because apparently, even cookies need to accessorize these days.
Underwater treasure truffles squat like dark chocolate grenades that crack open to reveal liquid salted caramel pearls inside, while coral reef cheesecake bites flaunt pink coral-shaped white chocolate decorations and passion fruit drizzle richer than my ex-husband.
Sea foam mousse cups balance light-as-air coconut mousse topped with blue cotton candy that looks as if it would dissolve on your tongue like an ocean mist.
Neptune’s crown chocolate tarts lord over the display in rich chocolate shells filled with amaretto cream and crowned with actual gold leaf—because nothing says casual sea day seminar like precious metals on your dessert.
And the pièce de resistance—something labeled as Aphrodite’s apple rose pastries, delicate puff pastry roses made from thinly sliced apples, glazed with honey and dusted with cinnamon sugar like edible bouquets from the goddess of love herself.
“Holy mother of maritime desserts,” I breathe. “I think I just found my reason for living.”
The room buzzes with enough estrogen to power the Emerald Queen herself.
Women of all ages cluster around cocktail tables like elegant vultures in designer clothing who’ve given up on men but not on their credit limits—twenty-something cruise newbies with their phones permanently attached to their hands like digital appendages, sophisticated silver-haired ladies who look like they’ve seen it all and probably have the divorce settlements and therapy bills to prove it, and everything in between, creating a demographic that screams we’ve made questionable life choices, but we look fabulous doing it.
A hand-painted sign at the door reads GIRLS ONLY!
Sorry, gentlemen! We will make it up to you in flowing script with little hearts dotting the i’s, because subtlety died somewhere around the third mimosa and apparently took good judgment with it.
There’s also a winky face scribbled next to it that lets us know exactly how they plan on making it up to them. I cringe just thinking about it.
Women balance plates of desserts while nursing specialty lattes with names that sound like they were created by someone with a romance novel addiction and possibly a drinking problem as well.
Love potion latte and Cupid’s arrow cappuccino are just the beginning.
I spot a heartbreak healer hot chocolate and something called a passion fruit paradise mocha that comes with enough whipped cream to qualify as a flotation device, and something called a triple chocolate sin that appears to be more dessert than beverage.
“This is like a support group for women who’ve given up on men but not on sugar,” I muse, watching a woman in her sixties demolish a mermaid tail eclair with the unbridled abandon of a woman who has clearly done this before and has no regrets about her choices.
“The best kind of support group,” Nettie declares, already eyeing the dessert table as if she were planning a strategic assault. “Chocolate therapy with a side of female bonding. What more could you ask for? Besides maybe some stretch pants.”
“It does sound like paradise.”
At the front of the room, Dr. Jazz Stone commands a makeshift stage with enough confidence to let me know she’s given this presentation more times than a flight attendant demonstrating oxygen masks.
Her wild curly hair has been tamed into a sophisticated updo that somehow still manages to look bohemian chic, and she’s wearing a flowing emerald green gown that makes her look like a sea goddess about to bestow romantic wisdom upon her disciples.
Behind her, a large banner reads Opening Hearts, Expanding Horizons: Modern Love for the Modern Woman in elegant script that makes this entire presentation feel a bit more sophisticated.
The chairs are arranged in intimate clusters rather than formal rows, encouraging conversation and connection—or at least making it easier to share desserts without looking completely antisocial.
Jazz clutches a wireless microphone and moves around the stage with the fluid grace of a doctor who’s made peace with public speaking and possibly with several cocktails, and possibly some questionable decisions that led to giving relationship advice to strangers on cruise ships.
“Alright, ladies, let’s grab our goodies and settle in,” Candy chirps, practically bouncing toward the buffet.
“I promised myself I’d only have one dessert, but that was before I saw whatever those chocolate treasure things are, and also before I realized that promises made before noon don’t count. ”
“Promises made before encountering artisanal chocolate don’t count,” Nettie announces. And she should know. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of dessert justification and has probably written several strongly worded letters to food critics who disagree. “It’s a well-established principle.”
“Since when?” I ask.
“Since I discovered chocolate fondue fountains,” she shoots back. “Some things are bigger than willpower.”
We navigate through the crowd like we’re conducting a tactical dessert operation.
I end up with a siren’s kiss macaron that sparkles like a ruby someone forgot to turn into jewelry, while Nettie goes straight for the underwater treasure truffles with the dedication of a woman on a mission.
Candy, predictably, selects one of everything because apparently commitment issues extend to pastry choices.
“Ladies!” Jazz’s voice cuts through the chatter like a perfectly tuned instrument. “Welcome to what I like to call Love Without Limits 101—though the cruise director insisted I couldn’t call it How to Share Your Husband Without Going to Prison!”