Women balance plates of desserts while nursing specialty lattes with names that sound like they were created by someone with a romance novel addiction and possibly a drinking problem as well. Love potion latte and Cupid’s arrow cappuccino are just the beginning. I spot a heartbreak healer hot chocolate and something called a passion fruit paradise mocha that comes with enough whipped cream to qualify as a flotation device, and something called a triple chocolate sin that appears to be more dessert than beverage.
“This is like a support group for women who’ve given up on men but not on sugar,” I muse, watching a woman in her sixties demolish a mermaid tail eclair with the unbridled abandon of a woman who has clearly done this before and has no regrets about her choices.
“The best kind of support group,” Nettie declares, already eyeing the dessert table as if she were planning a strategic assault. “Chocolate therapy with a side of female bonding. What more could you ask for? Besides maybe some stretch pants.”
“It does sound like paradise.”
At the front of the room, Dr. Jazz Stone commands a makeshift stage with enough confidence to let me know she’s given this presentation more times than a flight attendant demonstrating oxygen masks.
Her wild curly hair has been tamed into a sophisticated updo that somehow still manages to look bohemian chic, and she’s wearing a flowing emerald green gown that makes her look like a sea goddess about to bestow romantic wisdom upon her disciples. Behind her, a large banner readsOpening Hearts, Expanding Horizons: Modern Love for the Modern Womanin elegant script that makes this entire presentation feel a bit more sophisticated.
The chairs are arranged in intimate clusters rather than formal rows, encouraging conversation and connection—or at least making it easier to share desserts without looking completelyantisocial. Jazz clutches a wireless microphone and moves around the stage with the fluid grace of a doctor who’s made peace with public speaking and possibly with several cocktails, and possibly some questionable decisions that led to giving relationship advice to strangers on cruise ships.
“Alright, ladies, let’s grab our goodies and settle in,” Candy chirps, practically bouncing toward the buffet. “I promised myself I’d only have one dessert, but that was before I saw whatever those chocolate treasure things are, and also before I realized that promises made before noon don’t count.”
“Promises made before encountering artisanal chocolate don’t count,” Nettie announces. And she should know. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of dessert justification and has probably written several strongly worded letters to food critics who disagree. “It’s a well-established principle.”
“Since when?” I ask.
“Since I discovered chocolate fondue fountains,” she shoots back. “Some things are bigger than willpower.”
We navigate through the crowd like we’re conducting a tactical dessert operation. I end up with a siren’s kiss macaron that sparkles like a ruby someone forgot to turn into jewelry, while Nettie goes straight for the underwater treasure truffles with the dedication of a woman on a mission. Candy, predictably, selects one of everything because apparently commitment issues extend to pastry choices.
“Ladies!” Jazz’s voice cuts through the chatter like a perfectly tuned instrument. “Welcome to what I like to callLove Without Limits 101—though the cruise director insisted I couldn’t call itHow to Share Your Husband Without Going to Prison!”
The room erupts in laughter that suggests several women have considered that exact scenario.
Then it quickly settles into expectant silence, punctuated only by the gentle clink of forks against china and the soft sigh of someone experiencing what might be a religious moment with their sea foam mousse—or possibly a mild heart attack from sugar overload.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Jazz continues, taking a theatrical sip from her own specially crafted cocktail that’s probably stronger than ship security—and that’s saying a lot coming from me. “Dr. Stone, I’m on a cruise ship. I’ve already had two mimosas before noon, and I’m wearing my best push-up bra—isn’t that expanding my horizons enough?”
Knowing laughter ripples through the crowd like waves hitting the shore, except these waves are made of middle-aged women who’ve clearly been there, done that, and bought the t-shirt in multiple colors.
“But I’m here to tell you that love, real love, doesn’t have to fit into the neat little boxes society has constructed for us—boxes that are probably too small, poorly labeled, and definitely not big enough for all our emotional baggage. How many of you have been told that jealousy is love? That possessiveness equals passion? That if you truly love someone, you should be everything to them—lover, best friend, therapist, adventure buddy, intellectual equal—personal cheerleader—basically a one-woman entertainment complex with no vacation days?”
More laughter, this time with an edge of recognition that makes me slightly uncomfortable and definitely makes me want more chocolate.
“Well, what if I told you that some of the happiest, most fulfilled couples I know have learned to share the load? Not just household chores, ladies—though let’s be honest, that would be revolutionary enough—I’m talking about sharing the beautiful burden of being someone’s everything, because frankly, that’s a job that requires a team and probably hazard pay.”
She pauses, letting her words sink in like expensive perfume into silk. And I bet half these women feel as if they’ve been doing relationships wrong their entire adult life.
“What if love didn’t have to be about ownership? What if it could be about abundance instead of scarcity? What if the secret to keeping your partner happy wasn’t about being everything they need, but about giving them permission to find different types of fulfillment in different places—and maybe getting some fulfillment yourself in the process?”
I glance at Candy, who’s nodding along like Jazz is explaining the secrets of the universe instead of what sounds suspiciously like relationship anarchy with a Ph.D. and a really goodmarketing team.
“Now, I’m not talking about cheating,” Jazz continues, her voice taking on the warm, reassuring tone of someone selling something that sounds too good to be true, and probably involves a timeshare presentation later. “Cheating implies deception, lies, betrayal—all those messy emotions that make for good soap operas but terrible life choices. I’m talking about conscious decisions. Ethical decisions. Open communication about desires and boundaries that doesn’t involve screaming, crying, or threatening to burn someone’s golf clubs.”
The temperature in the room seems to rise, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just from all the body heat generated by a hundred women leaning forward in their seats.
“I’m talking about the freedom to love without fear, to explore without guilt, to grow without limitations.” Jazz’s voice drops to an intimate whisper that somehow carries to every corner of the room. “Ladies, what if I told you that the most revolutionary thing you could do for your relationship is to stop trying to be your partner’s everything—and start giving them permission to find their everything in a community of loving, supportive people?”
The silence that follows is thick enough to slice with a dessert fork and serve with whipped cream. Actually, that does sound delicious. I’m getting hungry again.
“But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Jazz says with a knowing smile that suggests she’s just planted seeds that are going to grow into something potentially life-changing or completely catastrophic, depending on your perspective. “Let’s start with some basics about communication and boundary setting. Because whether you’re in a traditional monogamous relationship—bless your committed hearts—or exploring more... flexible arrangements that require color-coded calendars and possibly a very understanding therapist, the foundation is always the same, honest communication and mutual respect.”
As women around us start nodding and murmuring agreement, I realize I’ve just stepped into something far more complex than a simple relationship seminar. The pieces of Dr. Lavender Voss’s murder are starting to arrange themselves into a pattern I don’tparticularly like, and that pattern involves people who think sharing partners is as normal as sharing dessert recipes.
“Ladies, let’s take a fifteen-minute break for refreshments and reflection,” Jazz announces, and the women immediately swarm the dessert buffet like designer-dressed locusts with excellent taste in pastries and questionable taste in relationship advice.
