Ransom’s mouth twitches. “Apparently, yes.”
“Well,” I say, snuggling closer. “I guess we’ll just have to suffer quietly on the sidelines.”
He slips an arm around me. “Tragic. But I’ll try to endure it for the sake of the investigation.”
“And our lack of loud hair,” I add.
“Especially that,” he says with a dry chuckle.
The soap husbands lumber onto the deck, each trying to out-swagger the other despite the fact that most of them are pushing seventy and have knees that audibly protest with each step. Victor Darkmore leads the pack, his suspiciously dark hair gelled into submission and a black compression shirt showcasing muscles that haven’t seen action since the Reagan administration.
“Oh my goodness,” Nettie squeals from her front-row seat. “Luca is wearing SHORTS!”
Bess elbows her. “Calm yourself, woman. Those are compression shorts. It’s a medical necessity, not a fashion choice.”
“I don’t care if they’re a cardiac event waiting to happen. The man has legs!” Nettie fans herself dramatically. “And Santino! Look at those arms!”
Santino DiAngelo fromDays of Our Nightsflexes for the crowd, his silver-streaked hair catching the light. The international crime lord who’s been resurrected fourteen times on daytime television looks distinctly less intimidating in person, especially with his reading glasses dangling from a chain around his neck.
The trophy wives strut onto the deck like they’re walking a fashion runway instead of a slippery cruise ship surface in the middle of a Norwegian fjord. Their workout gear must have cost a mint, and they’ve somehow managed to coordinate their outfits tocomplement each other while still establishing a clear hierarchy—with Val’s neon pink ensemble screamingalpha femalethe loudest.
“For our first event,” Boomer announces, “it’s husbands versus wives in the Norwegian Obstacle Challenge! Who will prove superior? The stars of daytime television or their glamorous better halves?”
Boomer begins explaining the rules with his clipboard in hand. “Contestants will navigate through the hula hoop maze, cross the balance beam, dive through the foam noodle forest, wade through the Jell-O pool, climb the rope ladder, and finally, ring the victory bell! Fastest team wins!”
“This should be entertaining,” I murmur to Ransom, who watches the proceedings with quiet vigilance, already assessing what could go wrong. And there are many, many things.
“Look at Beth,” he whispers. “She keeps checking her phone and looking at Lance.”
I follow his gaze to where Beth Williams stands, nervously fidgeting with her phone while shooting glances at her husband, Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. (AKA Lance). There’s tension in her posture that goes beyond pre-competition jitters. I already told Ransom about the audio recordings Harper played for me yesterday. Beth is definitely on our radar now.
“And Harper hasn’t taken her eyes off Victor Darkmore since he arrived,” I note, observing the raven-haired trophy wife whose intense stare could burn holes through steel.
“On your marks!” Boomer calls out. “Get set!GO!”
What follows can only be described as elegant chaos. The wives take off like Olympic sprinters, their designer sneakers barely touching the ground as they weave through the hula hoops with far too much grace. Val takes an early lead, her yoga-toned body bending and twisting with impressive flexibility.
The husbands, meanwhile, approach the course with the cautious determination of men who are one pulled muscle awayfrom a hospital visit. Bridge Blackthorne, the brooding fashion dynasty heir fromThe Young and the Heartless, gets his foot caught in the second hula hoop and tumbles forward, taking out three more hoops in a domino effect that leaves him tangled like a pretzel.
“Oh dear,” Nettie gasps. “Bridge is down! Someone help him! STAT!”
Haper looks as if she couldn’t care less about her husband.
“I volunteer!” calls a Norwegian grandmother from the crowd, much to everyone’s amusement.
Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. attempts to circumvent the hula hoop disaster by leapfrogging over the fallen Bridge, a move that might have worked thirty years ago, but now results in a slow-motion collision that has the crowd wincing in sympathy.
Santino DiAngelo, showing surprising agility for a man his age, navigates around his fallen comrades and makes it to the balance beam, where he proceeds to cross with the deliberate focus of someone traversing the Grand Canyon on a tightrope. And he looks just as deliciously evil as he did all those years ago when he was my favorite soap villain. Favorite in the sense that I despised him the most.
“Go Santino!” Nettie cheers, jumping up and down. “Show these young squirts how it’s done!”
Meanwhile, on the wives’ side, Harper and Beth have caught up to Val at the foam noodle forest, where they’re batting away the hanging pool noodles with the ferocity of women fighting over the last designer purse at a sample sale.
“Those noodles don’t stand a chance,” I comment, wincing as Val delivers a particularly vicious swat that sends a noodle flying into a nearby waiter’s tray of drinks.
“Neither do those men,” Ransom replies, nodding toward where Santino has now reached the Jell-O pool. The soap star takes one look at the blue gelatin, then at his white designertrack pants, and makes an executive decision to walk around it instead.
“Disqualified!” Boomer calls out, waving a red flag. “Santino DiAngelo, you must go through the Jell-O pool!”
