Chapter 24
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Hello, Trixie!
Generation Gap at Sea
Dear Generation Gap at Sea,
A mother-daughter cruise? Either you’re going to bond like never before or one of you is going overboard by day three—possibly both! But here’s the secret—this could be the best vacation ever if you embrace your differences.
SPLIT AND CONQUER: Let her hit those lectures while you explore the ship’s hidden bars. Meet up for afternoon tea and share stories—her cultural enlightenment versus your poolside people-watching adventures.
FIND MIDDLE GROUND: Compromise on a cooking class together, try the casino (great equalizer!), or bond over making fun of the terrible karaoke singers from the safety of the back row.
SURPRISE FACTOR: Your mom might shock you by wanting to try the zip line, and you might actually enjoy that art auction. People act differently on vacation!
The vitamins and sensible shoes? She’s in full mom mode because she loves you. Let her fuss a little—and secretly, those comfortable shoes will save your feet by day four.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Take photos of everything. These will be the stories you treasure forever!
Day 8: Le Havre, France (Paris/Normandy Excursion)
The ship is docked in Le Havre, France, and everyone on board is buzzing, just itching to raid France like only a cruise ship can—which is to say, with overwhelming enthusiasm, questionable language skills, and enough camera equipment to document the liberation of Paris for the third time this century.
The morning air carries the scent of fresh croissants from nearby cafés, mingling with sea salt and whatever expensive cologne is wafting from the French businessman arguing loudly into his phone like he’s personally negotiating the Treaty of Versailles.
Le Havre’s historic port hums all around us, filled with ancient stone buildings huddling against the waterfront while seagulls provide their own raucous backbeat to our departure from floating civilization.
They’re probably placing bets on which tourists will embarrass themselves most spectacularly in the City of Light—my money is on us.
“Well, would you look at this continental conspiracy,” I say as Bess appears at the gangway with Ransom, Nettie, and me, looking absolutely radiant in a way that suggests she’s been dining on more than just the ship’s breakfast buffet and possibly French romance novels.
“Are you actually spending the day with us?”
“I’m shocked,” Nettie says, taking in her bestie. “I thought you declared war on activities that require walking in sensible shoes with people who weren’t Rex.”
Bess quickly waves us off with a laugh. “I couldn’t miss Paris,” she says, adjusting her red wool coat confidently, like she’s just discovered the secret to eternal happiness and it’s a silver-haired pilot.
“Rex is tied up with some business meetings all day in Le Havre, so I thought I’d spend the day with you three—if you don’t mind having your third musketeer back for a proper adventure. ”
“Mind?” Nettie shouts with enthusiasm because clearly, this troublemaker has been reunited with her people. “We’ve been floundering around without our ringleader! Welcome back to the land of the living, Bessie. I was starting to think you’d joined a cult.”
“I’m the ringleader?” Bess laughs, and I laugh right along with her.
“More like our fearless leader,” I say, giving her a quick hug.
“Here we come, Paris!” Nettie shouts with a howl. “The city of love, croissants, and questionable life choices will never know what hit ’em!”
“Finally, a destination worthy of my international incident potential,” I tease.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Ransom observes with that particular brand of amusement he reserves for Nettie’s special brand of chaos.
The hours long train to Paris winds through the French countryside that looks like someone took every romantic cliché about France and made them all come true simultaneously.
Rolling green hills dotted with stone farmhouses, well-manicured vineyards, and villages so quaint they look as if they came out of a storybook.
“So,” I say as we settle into our seats. “Are we going to discuss the elephant in the train, or are we pretending Rex isn’t planning to spirit you away to Montana like some kind of silver-haired cattle rustler with frequent flyer miles?”
Bess laughs it off because clearly, she’s living her best romantic fantasy. “It’s not that serious. We’re just having fun.”
“Right,” Nettie snorts. “And that explains why you’ve been abandoning us for him faster than teenagers ditch their parents at the mall. But sure, not serious at all.”
She has a point.
We finally get off the train and stretch our legs, breathing in the lush Parisian air as we take a look around. And then we see it.
Time seems to stand still as we stare at the grandiose beauty in silence.
The Eiffel Tower rises above us, and it actually lives up to all of the hype.
All that iron lacework reaching into the gray February sky manages to be both elegant and imposing at the same time.
The crowds move around its base in waves with everyone speaking different languages but all saying the same thing with their cameras—that they’re here, they made it, they’re standing in front of something that matters.
Even in winter, even with clouds threatening rain, the whole scene has that Parisian romance thing down perfectly. And I love every last bit of it.
“I know it’s cliché,” I say as we approach the base, “but good grief, it’s actually magnificent. It’s like someone took the concept of impressive architecture and decided to show off.”
“Clichés become clichés because they work,” Ransom replies, already calculating angles for what I suspect will be approximately fourteen thousand photographs that will somehow all look identical but still require individual commentary. “And because they survive French engineering standards.”
We embrace our inner tourists with the enthusiasm of people who’ve decided shame is overrated.
Bess poses like a 1950s movie star, her red coat dramatic against the tower’s iron framework.
Nettie makes faces that would get her banned from most tourist attractions, while Ransom and I attempt romantic shots that mostly capture our inability to take ourselves seriously and possibly our complete lack of professional photography skills.
The elevator ride to the top provides views of Paris spread below us like a living map of romance and revolution, the river Seine winds through the city like a silver ribbon connecting centuries of history, art, and excellent pastry.
“Now this,” Nettie declares, surveying the panorama with satisfaction because we just conquered a French version of Everest, “is what I call a room with a view. Eat your heart out, Montana.”
She’s not wrong.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled at a sidewalk café near the tower, surrounded by the intoxicating aroma of chocolate croissants and café au lait strong enough to wake the dead. Which, given my recent supernatural social calendar, might not be entirely metaphorical.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Nettie announces, demolishing her croissant without a shred of guilt. “Let’s discuss our murder case like civilized Parisians.”
“Because nothing says civilized quite like discussing homicide over pastry,” I tease, even though I’m already mentally organizing our suspect list.
“We have three potential killers,” Ransom begins. “Claudette Sterling, the traditional marriage counselor with secrets worth killing for.”
“The woman’s entire career is built on values she was actively violating,” I add, remembering her husband’s devastating revelations. I already filled Bess and Nettie in on the scandalous gossip on the train. “Professional hypocrisy with a side of personal betrayal.”
“Then there’s Jazz,” Bess contributes, finally focusing on something other than her newfound romantic agenda. “The grieving friend who knows suspiciously specific details about medications and has convenient access to psychiatric drugs.”
“And Rex,” Nettie adds pointedly, shooting Bess a look that could strip paint from the Eiffel Tower. “The mysterious pilot with inside knowledge about everyone’s business and timing that’s either incredibly convenient or incredibly suspicious.”
A constellation of tiny red stars materializes over our croissants like supernatural seasoning, as Richard, our friendly ghost, makes his entrance looking sheepish, as if he’s been caught in a cosmic relationship debacle.
“Richard is here! Everyone hold hands,” I announce quickly, extending my palms before anyone can question my sanity. I’m sort of a conduit when it comes to others hearing clearly to the other side, and the three of them know it.
“I owe you all an apology,” he begins, his ghostly voice carrying regret thick enough to spread on croissants. “For disappearing so abruptly when you mentioned Claudette. I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?” I ask gently.
“The affair,” he admits as his spectral cheeks flush with ethereal embarrassment.
“It was foolish, but in truth, we were confiding in one another and comforting one another after our spouses embraced that lascivious lifestyle. Ironic, I know.” He turns his attention to Nettie and sheds a soft smile.
“Nettie, your spirited energy reminds me of better times, when relationships were about genuine connection rather than alternative arrangements.”
Nettie practically glows under his supernatural attention, her cheeks turning approximately the same shade as her hot pink beret.
“Why, Richard, you old charmer. Death certainly hasn’t dimmed your appreciation for a woman with vitality.
Save a dance for me, would you? And maybe a few hot dates that center around margaritas. ”
“For heaven’s sake,” Bess mutters. “We’re investigating a murder, not planning your afterlife dating calendar.”