Page 27 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

When I asked if she wanted to talk, she burst into tears, hugged me, and said, “I love you so much, Mom. I hope you know that.”

Is she sick? In trouble? Is it something with her ex-boyfriend? We have five more days on this ship. How do I get her to open up without making things worse?

—Worried in Gothenburg

Dear Worried,

Take a breath. Whatever’s happening, she chose to spend this time with you, on a cruise she planned and paid for herself. That means she loves you and wants you close during whatever she’s going through.

That while we still can comment is concerning, yes. But there are a million reasons she might say it. A move, a new job, a big life change, or the simple realization that time is precious. You won’t know until she’s ready to tell you.

Here’s my advice: stop trying to extract information and start creating space for it to emerge. Use your time in Stockholm when we get there. Suggest something low-pressure: coffee in Gamla Stan or a stroll through the palace gardens. Side-by-side conversations are easier than face-to-face ones. There’s a reason people confess things on long walks and never across a table.

And when she does talk, and she will, just listen. Don’t fix, don’t panic, don’t audition worst-case scenarios. Let her get it all out.

Also? She’s twenty-eight, not eight. She’s allowed private phone calls and complicated emotions. The fact that she brought you along means she wants to share. She just needs to find her courage first. Give her time. Give her grace.

And enjoy Gothenburg! Don’t let worry pickpocket your joy. Whatever she’s carrying, you’ll carry it together soon enough.

—Trixie

P.S. At least you’re having this crisis on a ship with chocolate lava cake. Some people have to fall apart at home, where the desserts are inferior.

Day 3: Gothenburg, Sweden

I’ve already written my blog post for the day, Suddenly Hitched—What a Trip!, complete with photos of Swedish architecture and a carefully worded paragraph about unexpected tragedy that makes Astrid’s death sound like an unfortunate accident instead of cold-blooded murder.

Marketing is ninety percent word choice. So is preventing a shipwide panic.

The remaining ten percent is font size and prayer.

I also answered a letter from a worried mother this morning, and her problem is the same one I keep bumping into all over this ship. Everyone is protecting somebody from the truth. The daughter protects the mother, the book club protects its memories of Astrid, and I’m out here protecting six thousand passengers from the word murder.

It’s a regular protection racket around here.

Minus the profit, sadly. I’ve checked.

This is our first port since leaving Copenhagen, and I should probably be excited about setting foot on solid ground. I am excited. I’m simply more excited that solid ground comes with cinnamon rolls.

And in keeping with tradition, Bess, Nettie, Marina, and I indulged in our double-breakfast ritual.

First we hit the Blue Water Café, where we demolished flaky almond croissants, cardamom buns that smelled like Christmas, fresh berry parfaits, and smoked-salmon cream cheese on mini bagels. Then we attacked the Main Dining Room, where we destroyed eggs Benedict with smoked trout, crispy hash browns, Swedish potato sausage, and buttered rye toast with lingonberry jam.

Okay, so I may have left out the stacks of pancakes, the French toast, and the wall of crullers we inhaled—they were chocolate glazed! But I digress.

We regret nothing. If anything, we’re looking into having the whole event commemorated in oil. Something tasteful, for the atrium. Nettie has requested to be painted as a nude goddess. Bess has requested to be painted at a different table.

Now that we’ve eaten our combined body weight in Scandinavian carbohydrates, we follow the rest of the passengers down the gangway and make our way into gorgeous Gothenburg.

The morning air smells of briny water and warm cardamom, like the whole city baked before we docked. Early morning light washes the city in soft gold. Red-roofed buildings line the waterfront in tidy rows, church spires point skyward, neat as a fresh box of sharpened pencils, and the archipelago stretches in the distance like scattered jewels on gray water. Everything looks polished and orderly, and even the seagulls seem to have been instructed to maintain proper formation.

Wes and Ransom are both busy this morning escorting Astrid Storm’s body off the ship and dealing with the Swedish authorities, which has to be the least romantic errand two handsome men have ever run together. It also frees us girls up to do what we do best—snoop.

Magnus did not make the gangway. Either ghosts can’t leave the ship or he’s allergic to daylight, and I didn’t stick around to ask which. For all I know, he’s back in my cabin right now, staging tiny Viking funerals for my towel animals. If my terry-cloth zoo ends up buried at sea, he and I are going to have words.

It’s a shame, really. My best witness has been dead a thousand years, and he still won’t return my calls.

So it’s just the four of us, a free morning, a charming Swedish port, and a walking tour stuffed to the gills with women who all watched Astrid die.