The Unsinkable Greta James(3)
“I saw there’s a variety show on the last night,” Eleanor continues, undeterred. “Anyone can sign up. I’m sure they’d be absolutely gobsmacked to have a real professional turn up there.”
“All the performers are professionals, honey,” her husband, Todd, says in his usual mild-mannered way. Other than his wife, Todd’s main passion is birds; he spends his weekends out in the marshes looking for egrets and other waterfowl. Once a year, his birding club takes a trip to some far-flung place that he views only through a pair of binoculars, but he’s never been to Alaska before, and a field guide to the state’s birds has been tucked under his arm all morning, already full of dog-eared pages. “They get pretty good people on these ships,” he tells Eleanor. “Comedians, magicians, Broadway dancers.”
“But not rock stars,” Eleanor points out. “Not people like Greta James.”
She says this last part like Greta isn’t standing right there beside her, smiling politely, like she’s talking about someone else entirely: Greta James the guitarist, the indie singer-songwriter with a cult following, as opposed to Greta James, daughter of Conrad and Helen, who learned to play guitar in the open garage beside the shelves of tools, with only Asher’s gerbils—banished from the house because of the smell—as an audience, and who now feels like a kid again as she waits to start this bizarre sort of family vacation, a poor replacement for the most important member of the group.
Across the way, she spots a man heading toward the end of another line. In a sea of older couples and young families, he sticks out. He has a trim beard and a square jaw and he’s wearing glasses that are either incredibly nerdy or incredibly hip; it’s hard to tell which. When she notices that he’s carrying an old-fashioned typewriter—cradled under one arm like a football—she wants to roll her eyes. But then she sees him clock her guitar case, and there’s nothing to do but exchange slightly sheepish smiles before he disappears into the crowd.
“Just think about it,” Eleanor is saying, and Greta turns back to her.
“Thanks, but—”
“This is small potatoes for her these days,” her dad says, arching an eyebrow. He doesn’t say it like it’s a compliment.
There’s a brief silence, and then Eleanor—trying not to sound deflated—says, “I suppose you’re right. It was only a thought.”
“Not at all,” Greta says, shaking her head. “I just…I don’t get a lot of time off, so…”
What she doesn’t say—what none of them say—is that all she’s had is time off lately.
Mary fixes Greta with an admiring look. “I remember you practicing away in that garage all those nights—”
Davis lets out a booming laugh. “You were god-awful, kid. But you were certainly determined. Gotta give you that.”
“That’s just it,” Eleanor says, turning back to Conrad. “How many people actually grow up to do the thing they dreamed of when they were young? You must be so proud.”
Conrad’s eyes drift over to meet Greta’s, and they stare at each other for a long moment. Eventually, he nods.
“Yes,” he says. “We’re very proud.”
Which is a double lie. He’s not. And there’s no we anymore.
Chapter Three
The room is so tiny, she can sit on the edge of her bed and touch the wall. But Greta doesn’t mind. She’s spent the last fourteen years in New York City, where space is a luxury, so she’s well versed in the art of living compactly. The bigger problem is the absence of any windows. By the time she booked the trip, all that was left were interior cabins. So while Conrad’s room has big glass doors that open onto a veranda, Greta’s looks more like something out of a minimum-security prison: small and beige and just barely functional.
Seven nights, she thinks. Only seven nights.
She sets her guitar on the bed beside a thick black binder. Inside, there’s a day-by-day itinerary of the trip. They’ll be at sea for the rest of tonight and tomorrow, cruising the Inside Passage (the inside of what, she has no idea); after that, they’ll travel on to Juneau, Glacier Bay, Haines, Icy Strait Point, and then spend another full day at sea as they return to Vancouver.
There are separate laminated pages for each port of call, filled with recommended tours, lists of restaurants, suggested hikes, and points of interest. There’s also a fairly ridiculous amount of information about the ship itself: floor plans and menus, instructions for making spa appointments, detailed descriptions of each club and bar, every lecture and game night. You could spend an entire week deciding how to fill your week.
Greta snaps the binder shut. It won’t be long now until the ship sets sail, and she doesn’t want to be burrowed inside it like a mole when it does. If she’s actually going on this trip—which it would seem, at this point, that she is—she’d at least like to witness the beginning of it.
After all, that’s what her mom would have done.
Outside, there are a few people bundled on Adirondack chairs beneath the low Vancouver sky, but most are dotted around the edges of the ship, peering either out at the city or at the hunched gray mountains that loom across the water from it. She finds a spot between an elderly couple and a group of middle-aged women in matching pink sweatshirts that say Fifty Is the New F-Word. They’re laughing as they pass around a flask.