Chapter 18
“Well, this is what our friendship has come to,” I announce to Nettie as we approach the entrance to the Hocus Pocus Lounge back on the Emerald Queen of the Seas, where promises of magical entertainment await passengers who’ve apparently run out of better ways to spend their evening.
It’s just hours after we kissed the Blarney Stone, and Bess is still MIA.
I shrug over at Nettie. “I guess we’re left watching someone pull rabbits out of hats while our third musketeer gallivants around with a silver fox who probably has three passports and a lawyer on speed dial.”
It could be true. We don’t really know the guy.
“At least rabbits are predictable,” Nettie replies, adjusting her rhinestone-encrusted sweater that reads MAGIC HAPPENS in letters that practically glow in the dark. “Unlike certain octogenarians who’ve decided that mysterious older men are more interesting than us.”
The corridor outside the Hocus Pocus Lounge pulses with the kind of manic energy that only happens when you trap several hundred people on a floating entertainment complex and give them unlimited access to cocktails with tiny paper umbrellas.
The scent of buttered popcorn mingles with whatever expensive cologne the gentleman ahead of us apparently bathed in, while the distant sound of slot machines provides a casino soundtrack to our evening’s entertainment choices.
Valentine’s decorations drape the walls like romantic crime scene tape, and heart-shaped balloons bob against the ceiling with the persistence of Cupid’s surveillance system.
Bess missed dinner with Ransom, Nettie, and me because she apparently had more pressing romantic obligations involving pilots who look like they know their way around both adventure and a lady’s heart.
After dinner, Ransom got called away to handle some commotion in the casino—probably passengers who think international waters mean international immunity from basic mathematics—so Nettie and I decided that entertainment involving disappearing acts might be appropriate, given our current friendship dynamics.
“I still can’t believe she ditched us for Rim of the World,” I mutter, scanning the crowd for signs of our wayward friend. “That restaurant has a wait list that requires a blood sacrifice and three references.”
“Money talks,” Nettie grunts as if she’s witnessed enough romantic foolishness to qualify as hazard pay. “And apparently, Rex speaks fluent currency.”
We’re about to step into the lounge when we literally collide with the object of our concerned discussion.
“Bess!” I practically shout as she materializes in front of us like a perfectly dressed ghost, looking absolutely radiant in a way that suggests she’s been dining on more than just expensive cuisine.
I can’t help but notice she’s dressed up more than usual in a midnight blue cocktail dress that I’ve never seen on her before, paired with jewelry that catches the corridor’s lighting like scattered stars.
Her red hair is perfectly coiffed, her makeup is flawless, and she’s practically glowing with the kind of satisfaction that usually requires either excellent room service or excellent company.
Ugh. What exactly is going on here?
Double ugh, because I think I know.
“Girls!” she beams, though there’s something almost dreamy about her expression, as if she’s been hypnotized by romantic possibilities, premium wine pairings, and the kind of male attention that makes rational women make irrational decisions.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere more age-appropriate, like bingo or complaining about the music being too loud?
” She belts out a loud guffaw, but Nettie and I aren’t laughing.
“Watching magic tricks,” Nettie replies dryly. “Though apparently, the real magic is happening elsewhere on this ship.”
Bess’s cheeks turn approximately the same shade as the Valentine’s decorations, which, on an eighty-year-old woman, should look alarming but somehow just makes her look more radiant.
“We had dinner at Rim of the World,” she sighs with the kind of contentment usually reserved for religious experiences or really excellent chocolate—or really hot dates with a sizzling senior.
“The view was absolutely breathtaking. You can see the entire ocean stretching out like liquid diamonds. The food was incredible. They had this lobster bisque that was practically creamy heaven, and the filet mignon just melted in your mouth like butter made of happiness.”
“Butter made of happiness?” Nettie grunts with a frown.
Bess pauses, her eyes getting that faraway look that suggests she’s mentally replaying every moment of the evening like a romantic movie on repeat.
“Rex was the perfect gentleman,” she continues, and I swear she’s practically floating.
“He pulled out my chair, remembered how I like my wine, and told the most fascinating stories about his flying adventures. Everything was just... magical. Like a fairy tale, but with better food and legal alcohol consumption.”
I exchange a glance with Nettie that could communicate entire dissertations on the subject of our friend’s rapidly deteriorating common sense.
“And how are things going with Rex?” I ask while trying to calculate the odds of our trio surviving this romantic invasion.
“You seem really happy,” Nettie adds, though there’s something almost cautious in her tone, like someone approaching a potential explosive device disguised as contentment and wrapped in expensive jewelry.
“Oh, please.” Bess is quick to wave us off with the kind of denial that fools absolutely no one. “It’s not that serious. We’re just having fun. I mean, at my age, what else is there?”
“Right,” I say. “And I’m just a casual observer of homicidal activities who happens to stumble across corpses with disturbing regularity while trying to enjoy vacation activities and a few chocolate fountains.”
Nettie nods and hitches her thumb my way. “What she said.”
“Besides,” Bess continues with a breezy tone, as if delivering information that definitely won’t change anyone’s life forever, “he invited me to spend a few weeks at his ranch in Montana.”
The silence that follows could be heard all the way back in Big Sky Country.
Montana MONTANA? The state that exists primarily to make other states feel crowded?
Nettie’s mouth falls open like a drawbridge that’s forgotten how to close, while I feel my brain grinding to a halt like a computer that’s just been asked to calculate the meaning of life using only emojis.
“Montana?” I manage, my voice climbing approximately three octaves higher than usual.
“Just for a few weeks,” Bess says casually as if discussing weekend plans instead of a potential cross-country relocation. “He has this beautiful ranch outside Billings—horses, mountains, it’s the whole romantic western fantasy. Sounds absolutely divine, doesn’t it?”
“Divine. Sure,” I whisper. If your definition of divine includes losing your best friend to a state that’s mostly populated by cattle and men who think flannel is formal wear.
“I should get inside,” Bess announces before either of us can form coherent responses to this life-altering bombshell. “I promised to save us good seats, and you know how these magic shows fill up. I’ll save a few for you gals as well.”
She disappears into the Hocus Pocus Lounge like smoke in a hurricane, leaving Nettie and me standing in the corridor like survivors of a romantic natural disaster.
“Montana?” Nettie finally explodes as if someone just told her chocolate has been outlawed—or worse yet, her bestie has been. “MONTANA?! That’s not a vacation—that’s a relocation! That’s where people go to disappear into wide open spaces and questionable internet connectivity!”
“We’re losing her,” I say with a hollow voice while watching my comfortable world crumble like a poorly constructed sandcastle. “This is really happening.”
“The Three Musketeers are about to become Two,” Nettie declares with all of the drama that the end of civilization would call for.
“What do we do about this? Stage an intervention? Hide his passport? Convince her that Montana is just a myth created by travel agents with sadistic senses of humor and a fetish for cowboy boots?”
I consider our options strategically, having witnessed enough relationship disasters to qualify for a degree in Romantic Crisis Management. “We could try talking sense into her, but she’s got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says common sense has left the building and been replaced by hormones and expensive dinner wine.”
“We could investigate Rex more thoroughly,” Nettie suggests as if she’s truly found a mission worth pursuing. “Find out what he’s really up to. I mean, we still haven’t gotten to properly interrogate him about the murder case.”
“If Bess is serious about him, we need to know who he really is,” I agree, though part of me wonders if we’re investigating for the case or for our own survival as a friendship trio.
“Because if he’s innocent, we might lose Bess to Montana.
If he’s guilty, we need to protect her from becoming the next victim. ”
“Either way, we’re fighting for our friend,” Nettie says with viral determination as if we were preparing for war. “And I didn’t survive eighty-plus years of questionable life choices to watch our little family get broken up by some smooth-talking cowboy with suspicious timing.”
We head into the Hocus Pocus Lounge, where the scent of stage makeup mingles with the aroma of overpriced cocktails and whatever mystical smoke machines produce when they’re trying too hard to create atmosphere.
It’s downright cold inside, and the venue pulses with intimate lighting that makes everyone look like they’re part of an expensive illusion, while the soft murmur of excited conversation creates the perfect backdrop for secrets and revelations.
Bess has secured us a table near the front, close enough to see every sleight of hand and probably close enough to get volunteered for whatever humiliating audience participation the magician has planned, too.
She waves us over with the enthusiasm of a woman who has no idea she’s just delivered news that could end our friendship as we know it.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she gushes as we settle into our seats. “I love magic shows. There’s something so thrilling about watching the impossible become possible.”
I stare at her for a moment because I just realized that sometimes the most dangerous magic tricks are the ones that make your best friends disappear into other people’s lives, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever see them again.
When love becomes the ultimate disappearing act, even the best magicians can’t make heartbreak vanish into thin air.