Or you can use the fjord reset program—where every steep Norwegian hike earns you one extra dessert.
Remember, calories consumed while watching the Northern Lights or sailing past dramatic waterfalls simply don’t count. That’s not just my opinion—it’s practically maritime law!
XOXO Trixie
P.S. If you see Bess and Nettie hovering by the dessert table at precisely 10:30 P.M., join them! That’s when the pastry chef brings out the test batches for tomorrow’s menu. They’ve somehow charmed their way into becoming the unofficial quality control team. Okay, fine. I’m a part of it, too! See you at the dessert table!
Day 4: At Sea / Scenic Fjord Cruising
Nothing preparesyou for Norwegian fjords. Not pictures, not National Geographic specials, not even the extremely detailed descriptions from Bess and Nettie, who have apparently memorized the ship’s brochure word for word.
The massive rock formations rise from the sea like nature’s skyscrapers with their peaks draped in snow so pristine it makes my wedding dress look dingy—both of them, actually. Waterfalls cascade down craggy faces with water so clear you’d think it fell straight from heaven, and in a way, it did.
The sky is a brazen blue, the air is fantastically freezing, it’s all so perfect, and yet somewhere out there, a killer thinks they’ve gotten away with murder.
Day four finds us at sea, cruising through this postcard-perfect scenery while simultaneously filming the least natural reality show in television history. The juxtaposition would be poetic if it weren’t so absurd.
Ransom and the other husbands aren’t in this scene, much to Ransom’s relief. And thus, his absence at the moment, but he did say he would stop by as soon as he finished with his security briefing.
TheEmerald Queen’spromenade deck has been transformed into a floating television studio with a live studio audience of bundled passengers, all sipping something warm and waiting for the cast to bring the real heat. Cameramen dodge passengers while Boomer barks orders with the authority of a man who believes his coffee cup is directly connected to his power level. The higher the caffeine, the louder the commands. And it seems to be true.
I’m bundled in my practical gray wool coat and scarf, feeling distinctly underdressed next to my fellow cast members. The trophy wives have approached cold-weather fashion as if the fjords were actually a photo shoot with convenient glacial backdrops.
Val Cruz-Henderson sports a white ski outfit clearly designedwithout firsthand knowledge of snow. It’s trimmed with enough gold to destabilize a small economy. Her caramel locks remain mysteriously untouched by the sea breeze, which leads me to suspect industrial-grade reinforcement.
Beth Williams is wrapped in layers of pastel cashmere that make her look like an extremely expensive Easter egg. Her strawberry-blonde waves peek out from beneath a matching hat, and her face maintains that perfect balance of dewy freshness and expert makeup I’ve never managed to achieve—even indoors.
Harper Bailey stands slightly apart from the others, surveying the fjords through her designer glasses with her signature clinical detachment. Her structured dark coat gives her the air of someone accustomed to appraising masterpieces, and she has a leather notebook tucked under her arm like a contract waiting to be signed.
“All right, ladies!” Boomer claps his hands. “For this scene, you’re discussing your social media strategies while casually admiring the fjords. I want cattiness, I want competition, I want passive-aggressive compliments that are actually insults. ThinkReal HousewivesmeetsNational Geographic—all that raw, ancient beauty behind you while you completely destroy each other.”
“Say less,” Val purrs, adjusting her white fur hat. “Destroying others happens to be my specialty.”
Duly noted.
It’s so bone-shatteringly cold out that crew members begin circulating with trays of clam chowder and split pea soup served in sourdough bread bowls. A mercy I’m ever so grateful for. The aroma is heavenly, but I can’t help but notice none of the trophy wives are actually partaking in the feast. Apparently, calories don’t count on television unless they’re being counted against you.
“And...action!” Boomer calls.
Val immediately adopts a pose that suggests she personally sculpted the fjords as a weekend project. “Isn’t it marvelous what a good filter can do for these views? My last post got over fiftythousand likes. The algorithm simply adores dramatic landscapes with a human element.”
“Filters?” Beth’s voice drips with saccharine. “Oh, Val, I didn’t realize you used those. I’ve always found natural lighting more authentic. My followers appreciate genuineness. I guess some people need a little assistance.”
That was a lethal zinger if ever there was one. Honestly, I didn’t think sweet little Beth had it in her.
Harper adjusts her glasses, looking every bit the business maven she is. Or at least the one she’s trying very hard to portray. “I find that social media posts do better when you pair luxury with something dramatic. The fjords help. Hashtags matter, of course. But timing is everything.” She shoots a dark smile at the camera as I desperately try to read between the lines.
All three women turn to me expectantly.
“Oh.” I point to myself and nod. “I, uh, I mostly post pictures of my breakfast,” I offer. “True story. My children have begged me to stop. They’re both off in college and much more interested in whatthey’rehaving for breakfast than what I’m shoveling into my pie hole. My waffles went viral once, but only because the whipped cream formed what people kept insisting was a ghost. There was a whole thread.”
And yet, knowing what I do know about my supernatural quirk, it indeed could have been an otherworldly being.
Val’s smile freezes. Beth coughs delicately into her cashmere sleeve. Harper writes something in her notebook that I suspect translates to social media hopeless case.
