Chapter 19
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
My husband has planned EVERY SINGLE SHORE EXCURSION for our upcoming Valentine’s cruise—zip-lining in Ireland, castle tours in Scotland, walking tours through Paris.
He’s treating this like an athletic competition, while I just want to relax on deck with a good book and maybe visit a café or two.
I feel guilty for not sharing his enthusiasm, but the thought of hiking through ancient ruins in February makes me want to hide under the covers.
How do I tell him I’d rather sip champagne than scale castle walls without ruining our romantic getaway?
Exhausted Before Embarkation
Dear Exhausted Before Embarkation,
Oh sweetie, you’ve married an enthusiasm tornado! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to vacation like a civilized human being instead of a contestant on an adventure reality show.
Here’s the truth: you don’t have to do EVERYTHING together. Split up for some excursions! He can go conquer medieval fortresses while you conquer that novel you’ve been dying to read. Meet up for lunch and share stories. He’ll have epic photos; you’ll have your sanity intact.
Compromise on a few must-sees (maybe one castle tour?), but stand firm on your relaxation time. Some of the best cruise memories happen in a deck chair with a cocktail, watching the world go by. That’s not lazy—that’s living your best life!
Tell him this, “Honey, I love your adventurous spirit, but my perfect vacation includes equal parts exploration and relaxation. How about we each get to choose our ideal day?”
XOXO Trixie
P.S. The ship’s library is a hidden gem, and those pool deck chairs at sunrise? Pure magic with zero hiking required!
Day 6: At Sea
“Well, I have to hand it to Nettie,” I announce as I watch my octogenarian friend work her magic at the Romantic Trivia Face-Off station, where she’s currently schooling a gentleman half her age on the finer points of courtship etiquette.
“The woman approaches speed dating like it’s an Olympic sport, and honestly, she might just take home the gold, the silver, and possibly several phone numbers for good measure. ”
It’s the very next day—the first of two sea days in a row here on the Emerald Queen—and I’m watching what can only be described as organized romantic chaos unfold across the promenade deck while trying to look like someone who’s definitely not conducting surveillance on potential murder suspects, swinger society leaders, and people who think seven minutes is enough time to find their soulmate.
“Oh, leave her alone. She’s like a romantic Renaissance woman,” Elodie observes, materializing beside me with her usual predatory grace and a clipboard that suggests she’s appointed herself as some kind of romantic research coordinator today—and well, every day.
“I watched her give a twenty-minute dissertation on the art of letter writing during the Design Your Dream Date station. The poor man with her looked as if he was taking notes for an upcoming pop quiz.”
The afternoon sea breeze carries the scent of freshly grilled burgers from the deck barbecue stations, mingling with whatever expensive perfume the woman next to me apparently bathed in and the faint aroma of industrial-strength romantic desperation.
Heart-shaped balloons strain against their tethers like they’re trying to escape the scene below, while Valentine’s streamers flutter in the wind with the determination of romantic crime scene tape refusing to give up the ghost. And it looks as if every passenger on the ship showed up to participate in the bevy of today’s romantic-themed competitions.
“The competition is fierce today,” I reply, accepting a bowl of complimentary clam chowder from a passing crew member.
“I saw a seventy-year-old woman challenge a sixty-something gentleman to a dance-off during the Speed Compliments round. He’s still recovering in the medical bay, and I think his ego may require professional counseling. ”
“That’s the spirit of cruise ship romance!
” Tinsley chirps, bouncing over to us with enough manic energy to prove she’s had too much coffee and too little sleep.
She’s wearing a red blazer that could stop traffic and a smile that says she’s about to rearrange everyone’s love life without permission, and she’s wielding a clipboard like a weapon of mass matchmaking.
Tinsley Thornton stands at the center of the madness like a cruise director commandeering an army of lovesick passengers, her headset wrapped around her ears like a romantic communications device straight from Cupid’s customer service department.
“Welcome to the Love Connection Speed Dating Carousel!” she announces into a microphone with so much enthusiasm, you’d think she’s found her calling in organized romantic chaos. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to find your perfect match in just seven minutes per station!”
“That’s barely enough time to exchange names and discover deal-breakers, but we’re optimists here,” I mutter.
The promenade deck has been transformed into what can only be described as Cupid’s revenge plot crossed with a competitive sporting event.
Multiple stations are set up with heart-shaped signs announcing activities like Two Truths and a Lie About Love (which I’m guessing will result in three lies), Design Your Dream Date (featuring unrealistic expectations and budget concerns), and Speed Compliments Challenge (where people run out of nice things to say after approximately ninety seconds).
Passengers bundled in coats and scarves move between stations like romantic musical chairs, while soft yacht rock music mingles with nervous laughter and the distant sound of slot machines providing a casino backbeat to matters of the heart, and what sounds suspiciously like someone crying into their complimentary champagne.
“This is like watching natural selection in real time,” Elodie observes, her predatory gaze scanning the crowd like a lioness in designer clothing.
She’s wearing a pink hip-hugging dress that spells LOVE GURU on her rear in rhinestones that catch the afternoon light like romantic warning beacons alerting innocent bystanders to approaching danger.
“Except nobody’s actually being selected,” I reply, watching a gentleman in his seventies attempt to explain his ideal romantic evening to a woman who looks like she’s calculating the distance to the nearest exit.
“It’s more like romantic recycling—everyone gets passed around until someone settles for good enough. ”
“Exactly,” Tinsley chirps. “Low expectations and high entertainment value,” she declares with enough confidence to assure us she’s witnessed enough romantic disasters to qualify for hazard pay.
And she truly has. We all have at this point.
“But I have to admit,” she continues, “I’m shocked at how swamped my own dance card seems to be today.
I’m booked solid through the chocolate fountain meet-and-greet. ”
She gestures to her clipboard, which is covered in what appears to be phone numbers, cabin numbers, and possibly some dinner invitations written in various handwriting styles that range from legible to clearly written while intoxicated.
“You’re participating in your own speed dating event?” I ask with a touch of horror. “Isn’t that like a dentist performing their own root canals for fun?”
“It’s for research purposes.” She takes a moment to scowl my way. “How can I organize the perfect romantic experience if I don’t understand the participant’s perspective? It’s like being a food critic who doesn’t eat, or a marriage counselor who’s never been divorced.”
“She’s got you there,” Elodie says with a shrug.
“Hardly,” I shoot back. “That’s like saying you need to crash a car to understand traffic safety.”
“Bad analogy,” Elodie interjects. “Traffic accidents don’t usually end in marriage proposals, shared bank accounts, or people moving to Montana.”
So she knows.
“I’m betting speed dating doesn’t lead to marriage either,” I mutter, watching Nettie across the deck as she enthusiastically participates in what appears to be the Romantic Trivia Face-Off station.
She’s wearing a sweater that reads AGED TO PERFECTION and gesturing with the enthusiasm of a senior who’s found her competitive calling.
I scan the crowd for signs of Bess, but she’s safely ensconced at the spa getting what she described as extensive treatments that will apparently take most of the afternoon. Translation: she’s avoiding this romantic circus while I conduct surveillance on her potential Montana relocation specialist.
“Where’s your third partner in crime?” Elodie asks, following my gaze.
“Hiding at the spa,” I reply. “Probably getting seaweed wraps and pretending she’s not planning to abandon us for wide open spaces and questionable internet connectivity.”
“Smart woman,” Tinsley declares. “Though honestly, some of these connections are surprisingly genuine. I’ve seen people fall in love in elevator rides, bathroom lines, and buffet queues.
Seven minutes is practically a lifetime in cruise ship romance—long enough to exchange life stories and discover whether someone is willing to share dessert. ”
Leave it to Tinsley to find romance in a bathroom line.
The sound of a bell chimes across the deck, signaling rotation time, and passengers shuffle between stations like romantic livestock being herded toward their destiny.
Nettie waves at us from her new station before diving into what appears to be an intense conversation with a gentleman wearing enough cologne to asphyxiate passing seagulls.
“She’s certainly throwing herself into the experience,” Elodie observes with something approaching admiration.
“Nettie approaches everything with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s never met a bad idea she wouldn’t try twice,” I reply, the creamy chowder steaming in the afternoon air while providing the perfect cover for my surveillance activities.
“Speaking of bad ideas,” Elodie continues, “I’m conducting some field research of my own today. These men are sharing their deepest romantic desires in seven-minute increments. It’s like psychological profiling with better buffet food.”
“You’re absolutely terrifying and should probably come with a warning label,” Tinsley declares with what sounds suspiciously like admiration mixed with healthy fear.
“Thank you,” Elodie preens. “I’ve been working on my technique.”
That’s when I spot him—Rex Hartwell, silver-haired and distinguished, standing near the ship’s railing in what appears to be an intense conversation with Rob Stone, Jazz’s hippie husband with the sandy hair and Zen vibe who looks like he’s been practicing meditation since Woodstock ended and never quite came back to reality.
Their conversation looks anything but casual.
Rob’s hemp jewelry catches the afternoon light as he gestures with the kind of animated urgency that suggests he’s discussing something more pressing than cosmic relationship dynamics.
And well, Rex’s usual confident demeanor seems strained, his silver hair ruffled by the sea breeze as he leans in to catch every word.
Perfect. My target is finally away from Bess and engaged in what appears to be a very revealing conversation with someone connected to our murder victim.
“Well, ladies, this has been absolutely riveting,” I announce, gobbling up my chowder at an alarming pace, because if I’ve learned one thing, it’s to eat quickly between criminal investigations. “But I see someone I need to chat with.”
“Ooh, mysterious,” Elodie purrs. “Anyone I know?”
“Just another passenger,” I say, trying to sound casual, even though my detecting instincts are practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Well, I’m off to judge the Love Song Karaoke Challenge,” Tinsley says while consulting her clipboard like she was coordinating international peace negotiations. “Someone needs to ensure these people don’t traumatize each other with their musical interpretations of romance.”
“And I have a date with destiny,” Elodie announces, her gaze locked on a distinguished gentleman who’s just finished explaining his ideal romantic evening to someone who appears to be taking notes.
“Or at least a date with someone who might be able to explain why men think discussing their ex-wives constitutes romantic conversation. Because nothing gets the motor running like hearing about someone else’s romantic failures. ”
“That’s not foreplay, that’s forensics,” I call out after her, but she’s already gone.
Tinsley and Elodie drift away toward their respective romantic disasters, leaving me free to execute my surveillance mission.
I watch as Rob Stone’s conversation with Rex reaches some kind of conclusion as the hippie massage therapist patting Rex on the shoulder with the kind of meaningful gesture that suggests he’s just delivered either very good news or very bad advice.
Rob heads back toward the speed dating chaos, probably to find Jazz and report on whatever cosmic relationship wisdom he’s just shared. Rex remains by the railing, staring out at the ocean, looking as if he’s processing information that’s either changed his life or confirmed his worst fears.
Time to find out which.
I cross the deck, throwing my shoulders back in confidence as if to say I’m definitely not about to interrogate a potential murder suspect, my empty chowder bowl providing the perfect excuse for wandering in his direction.
Rex’s charm and Rob’s hippy-dippy attitude is hiding something darker than the ship’s shadows, and I have a feeling their secret alliance is about to prove that murder makes the strangest bedfellow.
Here’s hoping I can get Sexy Rexy to tell me everything.