Chapter 7
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Dear Trixie,
I’m writing from the Emerald Queen docked in Gothenburg. My daughter (she’s twenty-eight) surprised me by booking this Baltic cruise for “mother-daughter bonding time.”
She paid for everything and upgraded us to a balcony cabin, and I was thrilled. Except now I’m wondering what’s really going on. She’s acting strange. Secretive phone calls on the balcony. Crying in the bathroom (she claims allergies—on a ship?). Constantly checking her phone.
When I ask what’s wrong, she insists everything’s fine and just wants to “spend quality time together while we still can.” While we still can? What does that mean?
Yesterday, during an entire sea day of pool decks and trivia, she barely noticed any of it. She stared at her phone looking heartbroken.
When I asked if she wanted to talk, she burst into tears, hugged me, and said, “I love you so much, Mom. I hope you know that.”
Is she sick? In trouble? Is it something with her ex-boyfriend? We have five more days on this ship. How do I get her to open up without making things worse?
—Worried in Gothenburg
Dear Worried,
Take a breath. Whatever’s happening, she chose to spend this time with you, on a cruise she planned and paid for herself. That means she loves you and wants you close during whatever she’s going through.
That while we still can comment is concerning, yes. But there are a million reasons she might say it. A move, a new job, a big life change, or the simple realization that time is precious. You won’t know until she’s ready to tell you.
Here’s my advice: stop trying to extract information and start creating space for it to emerge.
Use your time in Stockholm when we get there.
Suggest something low-pressure: coffee in Gamla Stan or a stroll through the palace gardens.
Side-by-side conversations are easier than face-to-face ones.
There’s a reason people confess things on long walks and never across a table.
And when she does talk, and she will, just listen. Don’t fix, don’t panic, don’t audition worst-case scenarios. Let her get it all out.
Also? She’s twenty-eight, not eight. She’s allowed private phone calls and complicated emotions. The fact that she brought you along means she wants to share. She just needs to find her courage first. Give her time. Give her grace.
And enjoy Gothenburg! Don’t let worry pickpocket your joy. Whatever she’s carrying, you’ll carry it together soon enough.
—Trixie
P.S. At least you’re having this crisis on a ship with chocolate lava cake. Some people have to fall apart at home, where the desserts are inferior.
Day 3: Gothenburg, Sweden
I’ve already written my blog post for the day, Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!, complete with photos of Swedish architecture and a carefully worded paragraph about unexpected tragedy that makes Astrid’s death sound like an unfortunate accident instead of cold-blooded murder.
Marketing is ninety percent word choice. So is preventing a shipwide panic.
The remaining ten percent is font size and prayer.
I also answered a letter from a worried mother this morning, and her problem is the same one I keep bumping into all over this ship.
Everyone is protecting somebody from the truth.
The daughter protects the mother, the book club protects its memories of Astrid, and I’m out here protecting six thousand passengers from the word murder.
It’s a regular protection racket around here.
Minus the profit, sadly. I’ve checked.
This is our first port since leaving Copenhagen, and I should probably be excited about setting foot on solid ground. I am excited. I’m simply more excited that solid ground comes with cinnamon rolls.
And in keeping with tradition, Bess, Nettie, Marina, and I indulged in our double-breakfast ritual.
First we hit the Blue Water Café, where we demolished flaky almond croissants, cardamom buns that smelled like Christmas, fresh berry parfaits, and smoked-salmon cream cheese on mini bagels.
Then we attacked the Main Dining Room, where we destroyed eggs Benedict with smoked trout, crispy hash browns, Swedish potato sausage, and buttered rye toast with lingonberry jam.
Okay, so I may have left out the stacks of pancakes, the French toast, and the wall of crullers we inhaled—they were chocolate glazed! But I digress.
We regret nothing. If anything, we’re looking into having the whole event commemorated in oil. Something tasteful, for the atrium. Nettie has requested to be painted as a nude goddess. Bess has requested to be painted at a different table.
Now that we’ve eaten our combined body weight in Scandinavian carbohydrates, we follow the rest of the passengers down the gangway and make our way into gorgeous Gothenburg.
The morning air smells of briny water and warm cardamom, like the whole city baked before we docked.
Early morning light washes the city in soft gold.
Red-roofed buildings line the waterfront in tidy rows, church spires point skyward, neat as a fresh box of sharpened pencils, and the archipelago stretches in the distance like scattered jewels on gray water.
Everything looks polished and orderly, and even the seagulls seem to have been instructed to maintain proper formation.
Wes and Ransom are both busy this morning escorting Astrid Storm’s body off the ship and dealing with the Swedish authorities, which has to be the least romantic errand two handsome men have ever run together. It also frees us girls up to do what we do best—snoop.
Magnus did not make the gangway. Either ghosts can’t leave the ship or he’s allergic to daylight, and I didn’t stick around to ask which.
For all I know, he’s back in my cabin right now, staging tiny Viking funerals for my towel animals.
If my terry-cloth zoo ends up buried at sea, he and I are going to have words.
It’s a shame, really. My best witness has been dead a thousand years, and he still won’t return my calls.
So it’s just the four of us, a free morning, a charming Swedish port, and a walking tour stuffed to the gills with women who all watched Astrid die.
Some women collect stamps. We collect suspects.
The excursion board near the gangway spells out our destination in cheerful letters: Cinnamon Rolls & Cobblestone Strolls: An indulgent walk through Haga’s most beloved cafés.
The Velvet Viking Book Club clusters nearby in a loose semicircle, still dressed in their jewel-toned travel wear (mostly velvet), each of them nursing a croissant and dissecting the deceased in the hushed tones most people reserve for celebrity divorces.
They’re managing Astrid’s absence rather than mourning it.
My investigative instincts sit up and take notes.
Nettie bounces on her toes. “I’ve carb-loaded and I’m emotionally available for whatever Sweden wants to throw at me.”
“That’s concerning on multiple levels,” Bess muses. “Most of them cardiac.”
“Sweden has no idea what’s about to hit it,” I say, and I mean that as an apology. To Sweden.
A woman in purple velvet, one I recognize from the Valhalla Lounge party, insists loudly, “Astrid would’ve wanted us to carry on.”
Would she, though? From everything I’ve heard, Astrid didn’t want anyone carrying on so much as a conversation without her direct supervision. The woman probably left instructions on how to grieve her properly. Alphabetized and subject to review.
Marina stands slightly apart from the group, electronic notebook in hand, scanning the dock with her professional posture firmly in place. Except she’s not supervising logistics. She’s looking for someone.
“He’s still with the Swedish authorities,” I say, sidling up next to her.
Her face turns the same color as her crimson locks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve scanned that dock four times. Either you’re looking for a certain captain or you’re casing the harbor.”
“I’m doing a head count.” She bites back a smile.
“Mm-hmm. Fifty-two women and zero captains. Now those are some seriously tragic numbers all around.”
Her mouth opens with a silent laugh. “I could push you into the harbor, you know.”
“You could, but then who would cover for you the next time a man in uniform makes you drop your iPad?”
She shoots me a look, but underneath it her mouth softens into something almost sad, and it makes me think Copenhagen wasn’t just about losing a job and an apartment. Whatever she left behind on that dock had a heartbeat.
And whatever it is, she won’t be carrying it alone. Not on my watch.
I’m about to prod further when the tour guide, a bubbly blonde woman in her twenties holding a sign with a cinnamon bun on it, calls for everyone’s attention.
“Welcome to Gothenburg,” she chirps. “We’ll be walking through Haga, stopping at three traditional cafés. Please stay together and watch your step on the cobblestones!”
I appreciate a woman who leads with pastries and follows up with safety. She’s got her priorities in the correct order. Sugar first, survival second. It’s how I run my own life, and I’m still standing.
We set off in a chattering herd, winding through streets that look like they escaped from a fairy tale.
The Haga district unfolds around us in uneven cobblestones, wooden houses painted mustard yellow and brick red, and flower boxes spilling color from every window.
Café chalkboards advertise “Hagabullen” in swooping script with a picture of a cinnamon roll next to it, and the smell of cinnamon, cardamom, and fresh coffee drifts down the street like an invitation you can inhale.
Someone behind me announces that if heaven doesn’t smell exactly like this, she plans on speaking to management.
Laughter ripples through the group, but it comes out strained around the edges, and honestly, who could blame them? Two nights ago these women watched their founder collapse under four feet of frozen Norseman, and this morning they’re expected to smile through a pastry crawl.