Page 10 of Without a Clue

The amount of organization and planning that went into this book cruise was heavy, to say it lightly. Over a year went into planning what I imagined would become our first of many book cruises: seven-to-ten-day excursions to stunning places around the world where readers could meet and share magical memories alongside their favorite authors. There were reasons behind this mad plan. Photography and film rights were included in the contracts. I’m hoping to capture so many perfect moments of the authors with their readers during this trip. There should be enough footage for newsletters, posts, advertising, and website management to last a year. And readers—of whom there are approximately three hundred on this ship—have been given so many books as part of this trip package, they’ll be going home with a new library.

A win-win for all.

I round up the troops and announce that we will meet back on deck in thirty minutes to go over the schedule, and then everyone departs for their rooms. Some attendants sail by while I’m not looking and take my bags—so sleekly, in fact, I thought for a moment I had just been robbed. Honestly, where did they hire these people? I can absolutely picture the CEO of this cruise liner tasking his underlings to loiter around the Eiffel Tower and find the smoothest pickpockets lifting wallets from tourists for the job.

My room is, in a word, incredible.

For one thing, it smells of lemon drops.

Plush pearly carpet looks like it was installed yesterday. Tendrils of gold are woven into the grasscloth wallpaper. The king-size bed overtakes the room, stuffed with a dozen plump white pillows of various sizes beneath a large, gilded oil painting of a water scene. What I expected from online searches was a head-shaped porthole. What I’ve received, however, and what makes up for the small space, are four floor-to-ceiling glass panels that take up the length of the room.

I pull open the door and immediately am washed in a breeze of warm, sea-salt air.

I step out to the little terrace, look down, immediately regret just how far down the tiny waves lap against the ship below, and step back inside.

Making a mental note here: Good to know. Avoid the patio.

When I step back inside, I notice for the first time my suitcase was somehow magically placed in my room.

How did they . . . ?

How did the staff know who I was when they took my bags? Or that I was in this room?

This is next-level hospitality stuff.

I gasp in shock when I lift the suitcase and feel it’s empty. I audibly say, “Wow,” to the gilded wallpaper when I pull out a dresser drawer and see all of my belongings inside. Crisply folded. Down to the shaggy sweatshirt I wear at night with the gaping hole in the armpit.

Okay, I love this place.

I, even with terrifying balconies leaving nothing but a three-inch steel bar between me and certain death, am meant for a life at sea.

I jump in the shower to scrub off the sea salt and the airplane-travel memories of the day and put on a pair of black leggings and a sensible I’m-working-not-relaxing-here cream blouse. I don’t have time to do anything but wind my hair into a wet bun, but at least I braid it first, then wind it round and round until it’s one gigantic Celtic pancake at the back of my neck.

Sensible.

Little bit prudish.

Could easily come off as a cross schoolmaster at an all-girls school, but I probably need to look it after the day I’ve had.

I’m the first to get back on deck, and as I wait, I scroll through work emails and text messages that have piled up over the day. All of the family messages that have been coming in waves in the past six weeks since everything with Michael went down. An electric bill to be paid. Thirty-seven spam emails swiftly trashed.

There is one text thread that my finger keeps swiping over to as I sit perched on a creamy stool by a marble top, one plain black flat hooked on the lower rung, swiveling me slowly back and forth as a live band plays an old Sinatra tune. Why hasn’t he responded yet? Where is he?

Hurry up.

He was supposed to be here an hour ago.

It feels like the day has dragged to a lifetime.

A new, most terrible thought occurs and my heart plunges into my stomach. What if he missed it?

What. If. He. Missed. The. Boat?

Sweat prickles over my body like an army of soldiers called to action by my hypothalamus commander.

Surely not.

Surely they wouldn’t leave one of The Magnificent Seven.