On the rock-climbing wall, a middle-aged man in board shorts attempts to defy both gravity and his obvious lack of upper body strength, while his wife shouts encouragement that sounds suspiciously like death threats.
The bingo hall echoes with competitive geriatric warfare as someone shouts “B-7!” with the passion of a war cry, and I’m pretty sure I saw money change hands.
Passengers line up for the zip line like they’re queuing for salvation, while others brave the FlowRider surf simulator with varying degrees of dignity intact. Spoiler alert: very little dignity survives.
After Bess, Nettie, and I demolished breakfast one—chocolate chip pancakes drowning in raspberry compote, croissant sandwiches with ham and brie that melt together like delicious sin, and bacon crispy enough to shatter windows—and breakfast two (because why the heck not?)—lobster scramble so decadent it warrants an encore, fresh hot cinnamon rolls the size of my head glazed with poor life choices, and fresh custard parfaits layered with enough artistry to hang in the Louvre—Bess took off with Rex faster than a tourist rushing to catch a shore excursion after discovering they’d overslept.
Nettie and I have been floundering around ever since without her, wandering the ship like a comedy duo missing our straight woman, or like middle-aged women who’ve lost their designated driver and suddenly realize they don’t know how to navigate life without adult supervision.
I didn’t dare say a word about Elodie’s naughty revelation concerning the Crimson Key Society last night. In fact, I won’t breathe a syllable until Wes is notified—partly out of respect for proper protocol, but mostly because I’m still processing the fact that my murder investigation has somehow evolved into an X-rated movie I definitely wouldn’t watch.
Ransom and I decided it was best to tell Westogether. Okay, fine. Ransom couldn’t wait to inform Wes that sexual shenanigans were running amok on his pristine ship, but only because he wanted to see if Wes would pass out, flip out, or spontaneously combust from sheer indignation.
I wanted to tell Wes myself to soften the blow, but we compromised the way married couples should—through extensive negotiation, strategic bargaining, and the kind of physical persuasion that left me questioning my ability to walk straight this morning without looking like I’d been wrestling with a particularly enthusiastic octopus.
But I digress. Nettie and I just don’t feel whole without Bess by our side.
“Bess is like our right arm,” Nettie laments as we stroll the promenade deck, where passengers lounge in hot tubs with cocktails in hand, their faces flushed with sun and satisfaction. Heart-shaped pool floats bob like romantic life preservers while couples share fruity drinks with enough little umbrellas to furnish a small army.
Tinsley’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, announcing a Cupid’s arrow scavenger hunt and love potion mixology class, both of which sound like elaborate ways to humiliate yourself in public while paying premium prices for the privilege.
Nettie looks like she mugged Cupid and stole his entire wardrobe. Her hot pink sweater features dancing cherubs engaged in activities that would make Victorian ladies (and a few modern ladies) reach for their smelling salts and possibly call the authorities and an exorcist. Her heart-shaped earrings flash like romantic warning beacons, while her rhinestone necklace spelling outHOT STUFFcatches the sunlight like a disco ball announcing her location to any alien craft passing overhead.
“She is our right arm,” I agree, dodging a woman wielding a selfie stick with the determination of a medieval knight charging into battle. “And without her, we’re nothing but a couple of left arms, flailing around uselessly and probably knocking things over.”
“Unless you’re left-handed,” Nettie points out as if she’s given this serious thought, “then we’re nothing but a couple of right arms, which means we’re going in circles.”
“You mean two rights don’t make a wrong?”
“Pfft.” She waves me off. “Two rights make a sharp turn, which is exactly what we need to do to find some trouble worth getting into. All this wholesome fun is making me break out into hives. I need some good old-fashioned scandal to restore my faith in humanity.”
Before I can respond, Tinsley materializes like a perfectly groomed scandal in a cruise uniform—a very tight skirt and a blouse undone so low I can see her belly button.
“Ladies!” she chirps with forced enthusiasm. “You’re missing all the Valentine’s festivities! We have speed dating for seniors—because nothing says romance like three-minute conversations about medications—couples’ karaoke featuring songs from the prehistoric era, and a chocolate body painting workshop that’s already booked solid because apparently everyone on this ship has given up on dignity entirely.”
“Chocolate body painting?” Nettie perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Now you’re speaking my sexy language. Although I’d prefer to be the canvas rather than the artist. I’ve got a lot more surface area to work with.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I mutter, having disturbing visions of Nettie covered in chocolate and sporting that mischievous grin that usually precedes handcuffs being slapped over her wrists.
But Tinsley’s attention has already shifted to a distinguished gentleman approaching with the confident stride of someone who’s never doubted his own charm. He’s silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and wearing a smile that could probably sell ice to Eskimos.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Tinsley purrs, suddenly jutting out what assets she has and tossing her chestnut hair as if she’s activating into man-hunting mode. “Duty calls.”
The man catches her eye and blows her a kiss with theatrical flair worthy of Broadway, causing Tinsley to practically melt into the deck like an ice sculpture in Florida summer heat.
“Wait a minute,” I muse, watching this unprecedented display of Tinsley acting like an actual human being. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s been after me since day one,” Tinsley tosses her hair again and adjusts her posture to maximum advantage. Her assets aren’t exactly Victoria’s Secret material, but they’re working overtime to makean impression.
“Wow, that’s not like you,” I say, genuinely shocked that Tinsley is capable of anything resembling romance that doesn’t involve maritime regulations, safety protocols, or clipboard-related foreplay.
Nettie shakes her head because clearly, she’s witnessed decades of romantic foolishness. “That’s exactly like her. Go get him, Cruise Control,” she says, giving Tinsley a helpful shove in the man’s direction.
Tinsley stumbles forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates, but recovers with the professionalism that comes from years of coordinating passenger activities while maintaining the illusion that herding tourists is actually enjoyable.
“Well, what are we going to do now?” I ask, just as we bump into a perky blonde who bounces off us like a human pinball machine set to maximum enthusiasm.
“Oh, sorry!” she bubbles with the kind of infectious laughter that makes you want to either hug her or check her for pharmaceutical enhancement. She’s all curves and sunshine, with platinum hair that defies both gravity and probability, wearing a pink sundress that screamsI’m here for a good time, not a long time—and I probably have a trust fund.
