CHAPTER 6
The rest of the day passed in a blur of soap opera stalking and autograph hunting, with Bess and Nettie leading the charge.
We followed Bridge Blackthorne through the art gallery, where he purchased an abstract painting that looked suspiciously like spilled spaghetti, tracked Victor Darkmore to the spa, where he spent three hours getting what I can only assume was industrial-strength hair dyeing, and then weaccidentallybumped into Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. at the coffee bar on four separate occasions.
Bess and Nettie were in seventh soapy heaven. I was in mild embarrassment with occasional dips into acute mortification, especially when Nettie asked Victor Darkmore to autograph her left boob. To his credit, he did it with the charm of a man who’s been signing body parts since the Ford administration.
Dinner was a much-needed respite from our soap opera safari. The main dining room served chicken cordon bleu that could make any French chef proud with its crispy golden coating, giving way to tender chicken wrapped around ham and gooey Swiss cheese. The mashed potatoes had enough butter to makemy arteries protest, but my taste buds filed a counter-suit and won.
And the dessert? Seven-layer chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream that made me seriously contemplate licking the plate when no one was looking. I ordered a second slice while Ransom pretended not to notice. If there ever was a man who was made for me, it’s this one.
I shared Boomer’s proposition with Ransom over dessert, and his expression suggested I’d just asked him to tap dance on the captain’s table while wearing nothing but a smile. He said he’d think about it, which in husband language translates to absolutely not, but I’ll find a polite way to phrase that later.
There’s still no sign of Marlie Rothschild’s ghost.
Apparently, even spirits need their downtime. Or maybe she’s just waiting for the most dramatically inconvenient moment to make her entrance? I’m assuming that old soap opera habits die hard, even after death.
Now we’re all packed into the casino like sardines but with more sequins. The air smells of perfume, aftershave, and that peculiar mix of anticipation and regret that seems to float around gambling establishments.
Slot machines sing their electronic siren songs while the roulette wheel punctuates the symphony with its rhythmic spinning. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over everything, making even the people losing money look glamorous while doing it.
Captain Wes Crawford stands at a small podium, looking distinguished as the women sigh in his direction. Tinsley hovers beside him, her uniform somehow tighter than it was this morning. She’s openly glaring at Elodie, and the tension between them is thick enough to cut with the proverbial knife—hopefully not the same one currently residing in Madison Rothschild’s chest.
Okay, fine. The tension is totally one-sided. Elodie couldn’t bebothered to care. Elodie practically owns Boomer Beaumont, whereas Tinsley couldn’t even hope to rent the man.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wes announces, his voice carrying that perfect balance of authority and charm, “welcome to the grand unveiling of our Soap Opera Legends slot machines!”
The crowd erupts in applause as a velvet curtain drops to reveal a row of slot machines emblazoned with the faces of the soap hunks, most of which are on this ship.
Each one-armed bandit features a different soap star in their most iconic role.
Victor Darkmore fromThe Bitter and the Beautifullooks brooding and suspicious, as if the slot machine might be plotting against him.
Santino DiAngelo fromDays of Our Nightsgazes soulfully into the middle distance, presumably remembering all six of his on-screen weddings.
Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. fromCriminal Hospitalwears a lab coat despite never having treated an actual patient in forty-five years of television.
Bridge Blackthorne fromThe Young and the Heartlessis caught mid-slap, which was apparently his signature move for seventeen seasons.
And rounding out the collection is Rafe Montoya fromPassionate Deceptions, whose character has died and been resurrected so many times that even the writers have lost count.
The machines themselves are a riot of flashing lights and melodramatic sound effects. And I’m pretty sure I heard one of them say, “You’re not my real mother!” just as someone hits a small payout.
“Wow,” Bess beams. “These are really impressive!”
“Step back, sister,” Nettie says, catching her bestie by the elbow. “Bridge Blackthorne is mine. I’m about to make it rain nickels and poor decisions.”
I step in close to my handsome hubby. “Have you given the show any thought?” I ask Ransom, who stands beside me, looking as relaxed as a man who knows that every set of female eyes will find him eventually.
“No way,” he says simply, watching the spectacle unfold while most likely calculating how many security threats are present in the room.
Bess and Nettie immediately launch into a synchronized protest worthy of a daytime Emmy.
“But Ransom,” Bess whines, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! You have to do the show!”
“You’ll be on television!” Nettie adds. “And with your bone structure, you could have your own spin-off by next season.”
Ransom sighs as he turns to me. “Do you really want this?”
