“Already filed mine,” Ransom deadpans. “It’s called a marriage certificate.”
“That’s right.” I nod up at my handsome hubby. “And the terms are non-negotiable.”
Rob Stone floats over with his usual cosmic obliviousness, apparently having missed the memo about reading the room or acknowledging reality.
“What a beautiful journey, everyone,” he announces with that Zen signature smile of his. “The universe brought us all together for mysterious reasons, and I’m grateful for the cosmic connections we’ve shared.”
We all stare at him with the collective expression of people watching someone discuss feng shui while their house burns down around them.
“Rob,” I say carefully. “You do realize your wife killed someone, right? And that those cosmic connections destroyed at least three marriages?”
“Everything happens for a reason,” he replies with infuriating serenity, drifting away while humming something that sounds like whale songs mixed with pharmaceutical advertising jingles.
“I can’t decide if he’s enlightened or deranged,” Nettie says.
“Or an accessory,”Ransom says.
“At this point, the distinction seems irrelevant,” Bess replies, finally turning around now that the coast is clear of married swingers and cosmic philosophers. “I can’t believe I almost moved to Montana for a married swinger,” she continues with a mortified disbelief usually reserved for discovering you’ve been walking around with toilet paper stuck to your shoe.
“At least your boyfriend was alive,” Nettie points out with a touch of optimism. “Mine was dead and still had better morals than Rex.”
Bess shakes her head. “Next time I’m falling for someone, remind me to ask for their wife’s contact information first. And possibly a certificate of single status notarized by three independent witnesses.”
Elodie and Tinsley join our little debriefing session, both looking like survivors of very different kinds of romantic warfare.
“Well,” Elodie announces with her usual predatory satisfaction. “That was the most educational Valentine’s cruise I’ve had in a while. I learned more about alternative lifestyle logistics than I ever wanted to know.”
“I’m never trusting another man with hemp jewelry,” Tinsley sniffs. “Or anyone who mentions expanding consciousness without referring to actual education.”
“Sweetie,” Elodie replies with her special brand of bluntness. “The only thing that needs expanding is your screening process. Might I suggest requiring references from previous romantic interests and possibly a psychological evaluation?”
“From now on,” Tinsley continues with growing conviction, “I’m demanding a full background check, medical exam, and possibly clearance from Interpol before I even accept a dinner invitation.”
“That might be overkill,” I point out gently.
“Better safe than sorry,” she shoots back. “I’ve got Rob Stone’s cosmic energy all over my tongue, and no amount of mouthwash is making that memory disappear. I’m considering industrial-strength bleach at this point.”
“And that’s another successful romantic cruise under our belt,” Wes says, expanding his chest as a few more stragglers head this way. “Only one murder, minimal property damage, and most passengers left with their original spouses—which, statistically speaking, is actually an improvement over last quarter.”
Sadly, that’s probably true.
“I’m updating my security protocols,” Ransom adds as if he just expanded that protocol to include lifestyle group monitoring and possibly require hazard pay from the International Association of Maritime Security Professionals. “New categories include swinger identification training, alternative relationship red flag recognition, and a strict no-Trixie-at-alternative-lifestyle-parties policy, effective immediately.”
“I won’t object to that.” A laugh bubbles from me at the thought.
“Think we should add that to the crew handbook?” Wes asks with a mock bow my way.
“Right after the chapter on ‘What to Do When Your Wife Finds Bodies Before Breakfast.’” Ransom shoots me a look that suggests I’m about to be featured prominently in maritime security training materials and possibly require my own warning label.
The entire lot of us shares a quick laugh over that one, with mine being the loudest and strongest for obvious reasons. Okay, fine. I’m bordering on tears, the real deal kind that comes with boo-hooing because there was far too much truth in that.
“I wonder what our next port of call will bring,” Nettie muses as if she’s already planning her next adventure and possibly researching international incident protocols. “Hopefully, fewer swingers and more straightforward homicides. You know, traditional murder motives like money, jealousy, or revenge—and a lot less cosmic energy realignment.”
As the last of the passengers disappear into the Greenwich morning, wheeling their luggage and their secrets toward whatever awaits them on dry land, Ransom slides his arm around my waist possessively, having spent ten days watching people try to recruit me for activities he’d rather not think about.
“So, Mrs. Baxter,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice carrying that growling tone that makes me want to do inappropriate things in public places. “Now that we’ve successfully avoided being converted to an alternate lifestyle, perhaps we should celebrate our commitment to traditional marriage values.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, though the way his fingers are tracing patterns on my hip suggests I alreadyknow the answer, and it probably violates several conduct codes for employees aboard theEmerald Queen.
