Chapter 11
Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!
Dear Trixie,
It’s me again, the worried mom from Gothenburg. We just docked in Stockholm, and I have to tell you what happened on our sea day. We were having breakfast when my daughter’s phone rang. She looked at it, went completely white, and took the call on the balcony.
When she came back inside, mascara running, she looked devastated. “I need to tell you something,” she said. “I called off my engagement two months ago.”
Trixie, I had no idea she was even engaged! Apparently she and her boyfriend got engaged six months ago. Small, private, just the two of them. She was planning to tell the family at Christmas, but then she started having doubts. Called it off in July.
And he just called to tell her he’s already dating someone else. Someone he met three weeks after she ended things. They’re apparently “very serious.”
That’s why she booked this cruise. She needed time away from everyone asking questions, needed to tell me before facing the family, and wanted to know if I thought she made the right choice. Because now she’s questioning everything.
Was she too hasty? Did she throw away a good thing? Is she going to end up alone?
I don’t know what to say, Trixie. How do I help her see that his moving on doesn’t mean she made the wrong choice?
—Confused and Concerned in Stockholm
Dear Confused and Concerned,
First: your daughter got engaged, had doubts serious enough to end it, and processed all of that without telling anyone. That takes guts. Don’t overlook that.
Second: him dating someone three weeks later doesn’t mean she made the wrong choice. It means he’s either rebounding hard or he wasn’t as invested as she thought. Either way? That’s information that confirms her instincts, not contradicts them.
Here’s what you tell her: “The right choice doesn’t always feel good immediately. Sometimes it just feels hard.”
She called off the engagement because something wasn’t right. That something doesn’t magically become right just because he’s moved on quickly. In fact, how fast he moved on probably tells her everything she needs to know about whether he was her person.
But here’s the thing—she doesn’t need you to convince her she made the right call. She needs you to trust that she knows herself well enough to have made it.
Stop trying to reassure her out of her doubt. Sit with her in it. Let her question and wonder and second-guess. That’s part of processing a breakup.
What she’s really asking isn’t “did I make the right choice?” It’s “will I be okay?” And the answer is yes. But she has to arrive at that herself.
You’ve got Helsinki coming up and then Tallinn. Use that time. Let her feel all of it. The doubt, the grief, the anger, the relief. Don’t rush her to the other side.
—Trixie
P.S. She’s not going to end up alone. But even if she did? Alone is better than wrong. Help her remember that.
Day 5: Stockholm, Sweden (Gamla Stan, Royal Palace, archipelago)
The Emerald Queen of the Seas has docked in Stockholm, and I’ve already written my blog post for the day, complete with photos of the Royal Palace I’m hoping to visit and a carefully worded paragraph about “honoring traditions despite recent tragedy,” which is my polite way of saying someone poisoned the book club founder a few days ago and we’re all pretending to be fine. Spoiler—we are not fine.
Breakfast was demolished this morning, first at the Blue Water Café, where I inhaled Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam, a cardamom bun still warm enough to fog my glasses if I wore any, a waffle so Belgian you could drown in the syrup it held in its crunchy wells, and a cheese Danish I claimed strictly for research purposes.
Then the Main Dining Room happened, where I systematically dismantled a plate of smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, another Belgian waffle wearing more whipped cream than waffle, and enough coffee to keep a small Nordic village awake through winter.
Two breakfasts isn’t gluttony. It’s thoroughness.
The venues get jealous if you play favorites, and I refuse to be the cause of a kitchen rivalry.
Naturally, I had my girl gang with me, and Bess, Nettie, and Marina were no slouches.
Ransom, however, did not join us, nor will he be joining us on dry land.
He’s stuck in his office having a virtual meeting with Swedish coroners about Astrid’s autopsy, which sounds exactly as grim as it is.
Somebody has to talk toxicology while the rest of us eat waffles like they’re about to go extinct, and I married him, so technically I’ve done my part.
However, Wes is indeed joining us today.
I have a feeling that not even a homicide on his ship can keep him from spending time with us.
And by us I mean Bess, Nettie, Marina, and me, the royal investigation committee that Wes thinks is simply enjoying a pleasant shore excursion.
He has absolutely no idea we’re tailing the Velvet Viking Book Club.
Although, let’s be fair, he’s met us. More to the point, he’s met me.
As soon as we set foot off the ship, the crisp blue skies, the brisk breeze, and the utter perfection of the quintessential European town hit us all at once.
Stockholm is aggressively charming. The cobblestone paths look well maintained, unlike some of the ankle breakers we’ve encountered elsewhere in Europe.
Buildings in shades of ochre and cream that have probably been standing here since actual Vikings roamed around doing whatever Vikings did all look gloriously cozy.
The air smells clean the way only Scandinavia seems to manage, as if somebody power-washed the entire city and then added a hint of salt water for ambiance. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and moody.
Also, rumor has it that a cinnamon bun the size of my head is waiting for me somewhere in Gamla Stan. The Swedes call it a kanelbulle. I call it destiny, and I fully intend to keep our appointment. This entire cruise has had a sticky bun theme.
Thanks to Marina’s intel, I happen to know that the Velvet Viking Book Club is planning to hang out with royalty today, and by proxy, so are we.
“I can’t wait to see the palace,” Bess says as we navigate Stockholm’s cobblestone streets. “All that history. The architecture.”
“I can’t wait to sit on the king’s lap!” Nettie announces.
Bess stops walking. “Sit on his what?”
“His lap. You know, like Santa.”
“He’s not Santa, Nettie.”
“But he wears a crown,” Nettie insists. “That’s basically the same thing.”
Bess’ eyebrows arch right into her hairline. “One brings toys to children. The other has an army.”
“Those elves are no slackers,” Nettie shoots back. “What do you think those pointy shoes are for?”
I shake my head. “And I’m betting the king has got a security team that would make Ransom’s crew look like mall cops. So maybe keep your lap-sitting fantasies theoretical.”
“You’re fun at parties,” Nettie says with a grunt.
I am, in fact, a delight at parties. The parties simply keep ending in homicide, and I refuse to accept full responsibility for that.
The Royal Palace rises before us like somebody decided to build a monument to showing off, and honestly?
I respect the commitment. It’s a mansion on steroids, the caliber of mansion that eats other mansions for breakfast. And lunch.
And dinner. Knowing Sweden, it probably lights a candle in between.
Honey-colored stone walls stretch three stories high, punctuated by rows of windows that gleam in the morning sun.
Gold detailing traces along the roofline and around the entrance, catching the light so brilliantly I want to squint and also take about fifty photos, and I see no reason I can’t do both.
The building sprawls across what feels like an entire city block, all symmetrical wings and perfect proportions that scream “royalty lives here and you don’t.
” A Swedish flag snaps in the breeze from the roof, and the whole thing is so meticulously maintained I’m pretty sure they employ people whose entire job is polishing individual stones.
It’s the career I never knew existed and now quietly covet.
Wes walks beside us in blue jeans and a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses on, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days.
Turns out having a dead body on your ship really kills the vacation vibe.
Pun intended, and I’m not sorry. But now that Astrid’s body is with the proper authorities and Ransom’s team is hot on the killer’s trail, he’s a new man.
Relief looks good on him. Then again, most things do.
“This is nice,” Wes says with his hands in his pockets. “No emergencies. No crisis management. Just a beautiful day in Stockholm.”
His gaze drifts to Marina as he says it, and she suddenly develops a deep fascination with a nearby lamppost. The pink creeping up her neck pairs beautifully with her crimson hair.
Nobody comments. We’re all very mature. Nettie only mouths the words honeymoon suite at me. Twice.
I’d knock on wood, but the nearest wood belongs to a royal palace door, and I don’t need to cause an international incident before lunch. That’s Nettie’s department.
“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s just a beautiful day.” I’m not mentioning that we’re about to crash a book club event and hopefully shake down a suspect or two.
“It’s very peaceful,” Bess adds.
“A totally normal shore excursion,” Nettie trills. “Not a sign of a homicide in sight.”
Bess and I shoot her a look. Marina stays quiet, which is smart, because she couldn’t improvise a convincing lie if her life depended on it. Although, ironically, she’s been telling more than a few convincing ones where it counts, and to the very people I want to believe matter to her.
I glance at Wes, and my heart grows heavy for a moment.