“That’s because you keep ordering from the wrong menu.” I laugh, feeling a bit giddy myself as I spot my gorgeous husband across the atrium. “I, however, have finally ordered from the right menu—the only menu I care to look at for the rest of my life. Look at Ransom and me. We’re proof that real love exists. Even if I did have to solve a few murders to get here.”
“You two are still in the honeymoon phase,” Bess points out with a grunt. “Give it six months and you’ll be arguing over who forgot to take out the proverbial trash—assuming you survive that long with your track record of finding dead bodies. Kidding. Mostly.”
She cringes as I gape at her.
“Six months?” Nettie mock-gasps while clutching her bedazzled purse as if it were a life preserver. “Bess, that’s practically a golden anniversary in today’s dating world. Most relationships don’t make it to the toothbrush stage or sharing their streaming passwords.”
I grin. “See? Ransom and I have already survived three separate streaming service logins AND a few murder investigations. We’re basically relationship veterans at this point.”
“That’s exactly my point.” Bess tosses up her hands, nearly smacking a passing passenger carrying a heart-shaped box the size of a small coffin. “We’ve turned love into a subscriptionservice with monthly fees and early termination penalties. And apparently, Trixie’s package comes with a complimentary corpse finder feature.” She winks my way. “If you have to find one on this trip, make sure it’s Cupid.”
The three of us share a mournful laugh.
Bess Chatterley and Nettie Butterworth happen to be my two favorite octogenarians, and they’re also a big part of the reason I live on this floating paradise instead of back in my old life getting cheated on by my ex-husband. Because nothing says upgrade like trading a cheating spouse for two sassy senior citizens and a supernatural murder-solving hobby.
And have I mentioned my hot new husband? Some might say that getting cheated on by my ex was the best thing that’s ever happened to me—andsomewould beme.
Speaking of being cheated on… Bess, with her sharp red bob and even sharper wit, spent decades teaching home economics at Honey Hollow High back in Vermont before her dentist husband decided his secretary’s dental hygiene was more interesting than his marriage vows. Now she’s making him pay—literally—for her cruise ship lifestyle while she drains his wallet one buffet at a time. I have to admire a woman who turned her divorce settlement into a floating retirement plan.
Nettie, meanwhile, looks like a walking Valentine’s Day explosion in her technicolor coat and those heart-shaped sunglasses. Her gray curls peek out from under a pink beret, and knowing Nettie, it probably has some kind of flashing lights or musical component. She’s from Scooter Springs, Vermont, where she “dabbled in farming,” though Bess always makes air quotes when she says that, hinting at Nettie’s more colorful agricultural past that may or may not be legal in some states.
“You know what your problem is, Bess?” Nettie continues, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at her bestie. “You’ve been hurt once and now you think all men are emotional tax write-offs.”
“Am I wrong?” Bess snorts, watching a man board whose forehead displays the wordsI’M MARRIEDin large block letters. Wait, is that actually tattooed on his skin? “Nettie, I was married to the same man for forty years,” Bess continues. “I’ve been hurt approximatelyfourteen thousand times, give or take a few forgotten anniversaries, and that time he tried to floss his teeth with my good jewelry—despite the fact he’s a dentist.”
“Well, I’ve been married more times than I can count,” Nettie declares with a touch of pride, “and I regret absolutely nothing. Each husband taught me something valuable.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious and slightly concerned for her mental health regarding the lessons she may or may not have learned.
“Husband number one taught me that love is blind because he couldn’t see the dishes piling up or the lawn that looked like a jungle. Husband number two taught me that love is also deaf. He couldn’t hear me asking him to get a job for three years straight. Husband number three taught me that prenups exist for a reason and so do private investigators. Husband number four taught me that retirement communities have surprisingly active social scenes and shockingly loose morals. And husband number five?—”
“Taught you that cremation is cheaper than divorce,” Bess finishes dryly.
“Now that’s just morbid,” Nettie says with a dark smile. “He taught me that sometimes the best relationships are the ones that end before someone gets arrested. Or before you have to start hiding the kitchen knives.”
“That’s... actually kind of wise,” I admit, watching the steady stream of passengers flooding the ship, each one looking as if they’re either ready for the vacation of a lifetime or a nervous breakdown. Sometimes both. Day one on a new cruise can be a lot.
But there’s just nothing like that first day glow.
Speaking of glowing, the rest of the crew that’s standing with us seems to be glowing, too. The crew loves the first day of a new cruise just as much as the passengers. The scent of a freshly scrubbed ship, the delicious scents from the fresh buffets, and the briny scent of the sea. I have to admit, it’s an intoxicating combination.
I glance over at Wes, who looks absolutely dashing in his crisp white uniform, and just about every woman who spots him begs for a selfie with the captain. Of course, he’s more than happy to comply, flashing that dimpled smile that could navigate shipsthrough storms.
Elodie and Tinsley stand next to him, side by side in their matching crew uniforms—white blouses and navy pencil skirts. Although Elodie’s version fits like it was painted on by a very talented and slightly perverted artist, while Tinsley’s looks like it came straight from the regulation handbook.
Elodie, my forty-something blonde South African bestie, stands close enough to Wes that she’s practically in his personal space, and I can see her scanning the boarding passengers like a lioness eyeing a particularly delicious herd of gazelle. That woman treats every cruise like an all-you-can-eat buffet of eligible men, and judging by the gleam in her eyes, she’s already spotted her appetizer course.
Tinsley would be the forty-something chestnut-haired, hairy, scary cruise director who makes no apologies about the fact she’s not my biggest fan. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d push me overboard if given half the chance.
And last but never least, there’s Ransom Courtland Baxter—fifty-something, handsome to a fault, devastating and arresting in every single way, make-my-knees-wobble Ransom. The head of vessel security, ex-FBI, ex-playboy du jour, stands with that confident posture that screamsI could disarm a bomb or break your heart with equal efficiency.
His jet-black hair has just a smattering of distinguished gray around the temples, cobalt blue eyes that see everything, and a body built for destruction—or justice, as it were. He also happens to be my gorgeous husband, which still makes me want to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. And thankfully, I’m not.
I cast a quick glance at the ship done up to the glittering-heart nines as the crystal chandeliers cast a dreamy glow over everything, while pink and red decorations drape every available surface as if Cupid decided to redecorate the entire ship in honor of his upcoming special day.
“Bess, just look at all this romance,” I say. “Ten days through the British Isles and France, and we’ll be celebrating the actual heart-shaped holiday on our final sea day—talk about perfect timing.”
My name is Trixie Troublefield Baxter, and let me tell you, I’m still getting used to that last name after a couple of months of marriage to the most amazing man on the planet. At forty-nine, Inever thought I’d be this giddy about Valentine’s Day, but being a newlywed has given me rose-colored glasses that would make a romance novelist jealous. Everything looks prettier when you’re in love—even Bess’s sharp observations and no-nonsense attitude seems sort of endearing.
