The Unsinkable Greta James(2)

Hundreds of people are milling around her, fancy cameras dangling from their necks, all of them eager to climb aboard and begin their Alaskan adventure. To the left, the city of Vancouver disappears into the sky, which is now silver, heavy with the threat of rain. Greta was here once for a show, but as with so many of the places she travels to, her views were pretty much limited to the inside of a music venue.

“It’s got eleven decks,” her dad says, stepping up beside her with a map of the ship. He’s wearing a too-thin windbreaker and a baseball cap he got for free when he opened a new bank account. It’s been three months now since her mother died, and for the first time in his life, he looks every inch of his seventy years. “And eight different restaurants. Four of them buffets.”

If her mom were here, she would’ve said: Wow! She would’ve said: I can’t wait to try them all. She would’ve squeezed his arm and beamed up at the ship, all eleven decks of it.

But Helen isn’t here. It’s only Greta, who still can’t believe that Asher managed to talk her into this.

“Cool,” she says, an attempt at enthusiasm, but it obviously falls flat, because her dad simply gives her a resigned look and returns to his map.

This was supposed to be a celebration, a fortieth-anniversary trip; they’d been planning it for nearly a year and saving up for it even longer. Last Christmas—a full five months ago now—Helen gave Conrad a calendar with photos of glaciers, and he got her a new fleece to replace her old one, worn and thin from years of gardening in it. They bought a pair of binoculars to share, the kind that hang heavy around your neck, and every time there was an article about Alaska in the newspaper, Helen would clip it out, put it in an envelope, get a stamp, and then mail it—actually mail it—to Greta with a Post-it note that said “FYI,” as if she were going too.

That new fleece—light blue and impossibly soft—is in Greta’s bag, which is currently being carried aboard the ship. Her mother never ended up wearing it. She’d been saving it for the trip.

The ship’s horn blows, and the line to board moves ahead. Behind her, the other four adults—even at thirty-six, Greta can’t help thinking of them this way—are already making plans, debating between the casino and the musical for their first night out. They’re longtime friends of her parents’ and each couple has their own reasons for being here: the Fosters both recently retired and the Blooms are about to turn seventy. But everyone knows the real driving force was Helen, whose excitement about this trip was so infectious, she somehow talked them all into it.

A steward walks past, and Greta watches him pause and take a few steps back in her direction. He points at her guitar case, which she’s had slung over her shoulder since they stepped out of the taxi.

“Would you like some help with that, ma’am?” he asks, and she tries not to flinch at the ma’am. She’s wearing a short black dress with Vans and sunglasses. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun at the top of her head, and there’s a leather jacket draped over the arm not carrying the guitar. She’s not someone accustomed to being called ma’am.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll hang on to it.”

Her dad grunts. “You couldn’t pry that thing from her even if she fell overboard.”

“I don’t blame her,” Davis Foster says as he comes up behind them, holding a map of Vancouver over his bald head as it starts to drizzle. “It’d be a real shame to lose it.”

Greta has known the Fosters since she was twelve, when they moved in next door. They were the first Black family on the block, and Greta had immediately fallen in love with their youngest son, Jason, who was two grades ahead of her. Nothing ever happened until much later, when they both found themselves living in New York, and even then, it was never serious, mostly just when they were both between relationships. None of the parents ever had a clue, which was by design. If they had, they probably would’ve started planning the wedding a long time ago, which is the very last thing either Greta or Jason would ever want.

Davis nods at her guitar case. “I bet it’d be worth a fortune on eBay,” he jokes, and his wife, Mary, gives him a whack across the chest. He doubles over in mock pain. “I was kidding.”

Mary is tall and slender, with dark brown skin and a pixie cut that makes her eyes look huge. Right now, they’re fixed on Greta. “We all know it’s worth a lot more in your hands,” she says, and there’s something protective in her gaze. Right from the start, Mary and Helen had been instant friends. Davis used to joke that they should call the little garden path between their houses the black hole, since the moment one of them crossed over for a visit—a bottle of wine in hand, always—they were as good as lost. At least for a few hours.

Now Greta can almost feel Mary’s determination to look out for her. It’s comforting, like her mom is still here in spirit.

“You know what you should do?” Eleanor Bloom says in her faint Irish accent, looking all lit up at the thought. She’s wearing a designer raincoat, and her long silvery hair is perfect, as always, even in spite of the dampness. “You should play a little show at sea. It would be brilliant to see you perform.”

“I don’t know…” Greta says, though of course she does know: there’s no way she’s playing on a cruise ship. Not ever, if she’s being honest, but especially not now.