The Unsinkable Greta James(45)

The first person she sees, of course, is the old lady. This time, though, she doesn’t say anything about sunscreen. She just raises her eyebrows and gives Greta an appraising look.

“Hope he was cute,” she says as they pass in the narrow hallway, and then, a second later, she turns around and adds, “Or she!”

Greta laughs and hurries down to the staircase, hoping she won’t run into anyone she actually knows. In her room, she throws on the pair of waterproof hiking pants her dad made her buy—for what, she wishes she could remember—and grabs a Dodgers cap that once belonged to another, more distant ex-boyfriend. She’s tempted to leave Ben’s sweatshirt on but switches it out for one of her own. Then she grabs her mom’s rain jacket and heads out.

“Where’s the disembarkation point?” she asks the first staff member she sees, a red-haired kid who can’t be more than eighteen and fixes her with such a long look that she suspects he knows who she is. She tugs the baseball cap lower as he gives her directions.

By the time she finds her way there, it’s 10:32, and Conrad looks deeply annoyed. There’s a group of about twenty people waiting in the same area, their outfits—which range from winter coats to puffy vests to fleeces—not doing much to give away the day’s plan.

“You’re late,” Conrad says as she walks up, his face stern beneath his hat, which has the logo of a random golf course on it.

“Only by two minutes.”

“Thirty-two,” he says. “If we’re being technical.”

“Well, we’re on vacation,” she says. “So we’re not.”

“You weren’t in your room.”

“Yeah, I was up early,” she says quickly, hoping there are no pillow lines on her face. “So I thought I’d grab some breakfast.”

Her stomach growls, and they stare at each other for a second.

“Anyway,” Greta says, anxious to change the subject, “how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says brusquely, like it’s a ridiculous question to be asking. He still looks a little pale, but nothing like the last time she saw him. In spite of his grouchiness, she can tell he’s happy to be getting off the ship. “I guess it was just a twenty-four-hour bug.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Gone fishing.”

Greta scans the waiting area, looking pointedly at the many people in outdoor gear. “And we’re not?”

“No, we’re—” He stops, exasperated. “You didn’t read the itinerary I sent you?”

“I’m a little behind on my correspondence.”

“This is the day we’re supposed to—” He stops abruptly, a hand on his coat pocket, looking unsure how to proceed. Finally, he says, “We’re going on a wilderness safari.”

“What’s a wilderness safari?”

He sweeps an arm around as if this should be obvious. “It’s—a whole thing. We go out on a boat to this island and look at the wildlife, then canoe down a river and hike to a glacier.”

“So why aren’t the rest of them coming?”

“I told you,” he says. “They went fishing.”

“Right, but—”

“Because,” he says so loudly that a couple in matching red jackets look over. Conrad lowers his voice a bit. “Because your mom picked this one out. Just for the two of us.”

The memory has a force to it: Helen at the kitchen table back in Ohio, humming Christmas carols under her breath as she flipped through the pages of a brochure. “Do you think your dad would like to do a scenic railroad tour?” she’d asked Greta, who was sitting across from her, trying to catch up on the emails that had piled up while she was on the road. Outside, small flakes of snow were pinging against the windows, and the smell of sugar cookies—which Helen had spent the afternoon baking with the twins—made the room feel cozy and warm.

Greta looked up from her computer. “Is it a tour of a train or by a train?” she said. “Because…neither.”

“How about a zip line?”

“Seriously? Dad?”

Helen sighed. “I want to plan something for the two of us. I’m so glad the Fosters are coming, and I’m still working on the Blooms too, but it’s not very romantic if we’re with the group the whole time. How about a wilderness safari?”

She held up another brochure, this one with a picture of an orange canoe and a handsome young guide holding a paddle, and she looked so hopeful right then that Greta wanted to say, You know you’ll be on it with Dad, right? Not that guy? But in an impressive display of restraint, she simply said, “I think that’s the one.”

“I think so too,” Helen said, looking pleased. “There’s a hike and a glacier and a canoe trip. Also a picnic lunch in a field of wild strawberries. You know how much your dad loves strawberries.”

“I know,” Greta said. “It all sounds very romantic.”

Helen laughed. “You’d be surprised how romantic he can be.”

“The guy who gives you a new pair of mittens every Christmas?”

“Lucky for him,” she said with a grin, “I happen to find mittens extremely romantic.”

Now Greta stares at Conrad, her heart sinking. Because this was supposed to be their day. Instead she’s here, and Helen isn’t, and somehow—somehow—they have to find a way to get through this without her.