The Unsinkable Greta James(21)

The sea lions begin to slip from view, the sound of their roars growing distant. Around them, the crowd drifts back inside the ship. But Greta and Ben stay there at the railing, watching the mountains glide by, unable to tear themselves away.

“We should go in,” he says eventually, and she realizes she’s shivering. “Want to get one last drink to warm up?”

Before she can answer, Greta spots her dad walking over, a woolen hat pulled low over his forehead. Automatically, she finds herself standing up straighter, like a teenager again, about to get busted for drinking in the middle of the day.

“Hi,” she says a little too brightly, and Conrad gives her a suspicious look. He glances from her to Ben, and Greta shakes her head. “Sorry, this is Ben Wilder.”

“Yeah, I know,” Conrad says. “I saw his lecture this afternoon. With you.”

Greta nods. “Right. Well, there was more I wanted to know, so…”

“You’re brushing up on all things Jack London,” he says, his eyes landing on Ben with a hint of amusement. “I guess there are worse ways to spend the day.”

“Not according to my students,” Ben says cheerfully.

Conrad turns back to Greta. “You saw the sea lions?”

“Yup,” she says. “They were amazing.”

“What else have you been up to?”

She shrugs. “We checked out one of the bars.”

“Really,” he says in mock astonishment, and it’s so unexpected that Greta laughs.

“Drinking rum is good for morale when you’re on a boat,” she informs him, as beside her, Ben gives a professorial nod. “So I’ve heard.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Conrad says. “Though it’s not a boat. It’s a ship.”

“See,” Ben says, turning to Greta with a grin. “Told you so.”

For a second the words hang there between them, harmless and mundane. And then Conrad’s face clouds over as they register. Shit, Greta thinks as she watches him. It only takes a second. Just like that, his eyes drop to the wooden deck and his shoulders tense. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just moody, the way the warmth has gone out of his eyes when he glances up again. You’d think he was unpredictable.

But Greta knows better.

Her head is still moving too slow, but her heart picks up speed.

“So what are you doing the rest of the day?” she asks him, trying and failing to sound casual, to gloss over it, like a middle schooler whose friends are mad at her and who is desperately trying to make it okay.

His voice, when he answers, is cool: “I already gave you the itinerary.”

“Right,” Greta says, blinking fast. “I’m not sure I’ll make it for dinner, so maybe I’ll just plan to meet you for breakfast tomorrow?”

Conrad is still stone-faced. “Whatever you want,” he says, and then, as he starts to walk off, he adds, “We’ll either see you or we won’t.”

When he’s gone, Ben lets out a low whistle. “So that’s your dad.”

Greta manages a nod.

“You must be ready for that drink now.”

But she’s not. Suddenly, she’s exhausted. And all she wants is to be alone.

“I think I’m gonna head back, actually,” she tells Ben, already walking in the direction of the wooden doors.

“Sure,” he says, trailing after her. “I should probably do the same. I’ve still got some final essays to grade.” She gives him a skeptical look, and he laughs. “After a few cups of coffee.”

Inside, they pass the couple she saw in the elevator this morning, the woman shuffling down the hall one tiny step at a time. “No sunburn,” she says, looking delighted.

“No sunburn,” Greta calls out as they pass her.

Ben looks at her with amusement. “Another fan of yours?”

“Something like that,” she says.

There’s a large crowd waiting for the elevators, everyone talking excitedly about the sea lions. Without discussing it, Greta and Ben turn and start climbing the red-carpeted staircase.

“So can I ask…” he says, looking sideways at her. “What was that back there?”

Greta sighs. “You know that game Taboo, where you try to avoid saying a certain word or phrase?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you said it.”

“Me?” he asks, surprised. “What was it?”

“Told you so.”

He frowns. “You told me…not to say it?”

“No, that’s it. That’s the phrase.”

“I’m confused.”

“It’s the title of one of my songs,” she says, breathing harder as they round another flight of stairs. “My first big hit.”

“Ah,” he says, understanding passing over his face. “And it’s about your dad.”

“Yes.”

“I gather it’s not a love song.”

“Not exactly.”

He nods. “How bad was it?”

“The song or the fallout?”

“The fallout,” he says. “I assume the song is great.”

“It is,” she says with a smile, and decides to leave it at that.