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.
“Dad,” she begins, but before she can say anything more, a ruddy-cheeked man in knee-high fishing boots and a knit cap appears in the doorway, his arms spread wide.
“Hey there, I’m Captain Martinez,” he bellows, “and if you’re here for the wilderness safari, you’re in the right place. We’re gonna start by loading you guys onto the boat out there, but let me make sure we have everyone first.”
As he begins the roll call, Greta can feel Conrad tensing up. It’s rare to be feeling the same thing at the same time as him, but she knows they’re both silently pleading for the captain not to call out her mother’s name.
When he says, “James, party of two,” she relaxes a little. But beside her, Conrad’s face is still stony. Greta would like to think it’s because he’s wrestling with his own private grief over what the day could’ve been. What it should’ve been. But mostly, she suspects, it’s the same sinking realization she’s having right now: that they’re about to spend an entire day together. Just the two of them.
“Okay, team,” says Captain Martinez when he’s done checking off names. He surveys the ragtag crew and nods. “Let’s do this.”
Without looking at her, Conrad starts to follow the group toward the exit, a door at the side of the ship that opens to a metal ramp. Greta trails after him, already exhausted by the day, which has barely begun. But she feels better the moment she steps outside. The town of Haines is spread before them like a postcard, a scattered collection of boxy buildings, bright red and white beneath a dazzling blue sky, all of it tucked beneath a line of jagged mountains. It feels like walking off a ship in the 1800s, arriving in this hardscrabble, windswept town, half sleepy and half wild. Like something out of a story about the gold rush, she thinks. And then she realizes that the story is probably The Call of the Wild, and that Ben will love this place with such exuberant, openhearted enthusiasm that she almost wishes she could be there when he wakes up to see it.
There are no tenders today; the ship has docked right up against a floating wooden pier, and the metal ramp clanks as they make their way down to it. Beneath the shadow of their towering ship—which must hold at least as many people as this town—a few smaller tour boats are lined up. Greta and Conrad follow the captain over to theirs, filing on behind the rest of the group and taking their seats along the benches inside. Beneath them, the boat creaks and sways.
Everyone seems way more prepared than Greta; there’s the gray-haired couple with their floppy-brimmed hats and water bottles, the woman with a fancy camera around her neck and a waterproof case for her phone, the couple around her own age wearing so much khaki it looks like they thought they were going on an African safari instead.
Once everyone is on board, the captain gives a safety talk, pointing out life preservers and first aid kits, and then he rattles off a list of activities for the day. Greta is only half-listening, hypnotized by the rhythm of the water as it laps up against the wooden pilings of the dock. But then the word picnic breaks through the hum, and she looks up again.
“Strawberries,” she says softly, just as the captain says, “There’s a strawberry field at the edge of the island, and you’re welcome to pick as many as you’d like. But watch out for the foxes, since they like them too.”
Conrad glances at her. “I thought you didn’t read the itinerary.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how’d you know that?”
She wants to say it. She almost does.
But the word Mom gets lodged in her throat.
Instead she says, “I must’ve heard about it somewhere.”
The boat peels off from the dock, kicking up a wake as they steer away from the shore. Around them, everything feels saturated with color—the unnatural blue of the sky, the brilliant green of the water, the shocking white of the snow—like a knob has been turned up on the world. Greta closes her eyes, feeling the flecks of water on her face as they pick up speed. Beside her, Conrad sighs and then, in a voice so quiet she almost misses it, he says, “I love strawberries.”
Chapter Nineteen
They don’t dock so much as run aground, the boat grinding up against a gravel beach on a remote spit of land. One by one, the captain helps them down, and Greta spins in a circle, her sneakers crunching on the rocks as she takes it all in: the rows of mountains with their sugary peaks and the bristle of spruce trees ahead. Woven between them, the glacier is a shock of white. From a distance, it almost looks like it’s in motion, the way it curves and flows like water, as if at any moment it might come bearing down on them. But, of course, the opposite is true. Inch by inch, it’s retreating. Eventually, all this will disappear.
A rusty school bus is parked across a field, painted green and beige like it’s trying to blend in. Three rugged young white guys in wellies and baseball caps—two of them sporting thick beards—wait for them near the door.
“I haven’t been on a school bus in fifty years,” Conrad says, squinting at it. “My back hurts already.”
“Come on, old man,” Greta says cheerfully, and they make their way up toward the bus, their shoes squelching in the mud.