“It’s your big chance to learn all the moves.”
She glances over at him. “Please tell me that’s not why you’re here.”
“No, I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason? It’s our last day. I thought we should spend some time together.”
Greta gives him a skeptical look.
“Fine,” he says. “It was Asher’s idea.”
It’s almost enough to make her laugh. But not quite. “I’m probably not the best company right now,” she tells him.
He gives her a once-over, taking in the leggings and sweatshirt and lack of makeup, the messy knot of her hair and the way her knees are drawn up to her chest. “Rough night?”
“Something like that,” she says, returning her gaze to the window.
“How was whale watching?”
There’s a hitch in her chest as yesterday comes back to her: the sound of the wind and the taste of the salt, the sheer size of the whales as they broke the surface of the water, and the splash as they came down again. And, of course, Ben: his arms around her, his beard rough against her cheek, the sound of his delighted laughter as that giant tail disappeared into the water.
“It was amazing,” she says truthfully.
“You saw some?”
“A few,” she says. “How about you?”
“We went bear watching. Only spotted one, but it was worth it. He was huge.”
“Almost as big as Davis,” says a voice behind them, and Greta feels two hands on her shoulders. Mary leans over and gives her a feather-light kiss on the top of her head. “Hi, sweetie.”
For some reason, this makes her feel like crying. “Hi.”
“Where’s your fella?” Mary asks, walking around the chairs to face them, silhouetted against the window.
“Good question,” Conrad says. “Shouldn’t you be at his lecture?”
Greta had forgotten that Ben was due to give another talk today. She wonders if the cruise director replaced him with someone, or whether the auditorium is empty right now. Thinking about him onstage in that tweed jacket sends a zip of nervous electricity through her, and she glances down at her phone almost involuntarily.
All night, she’d wanted to text him, but she hadn’t. Because what was there to say, really?
Even so, she’d been disappointed to wake up this morning and find no message from him. Not even a simple update. She debated reaching out to ask how Hannah was doing, only she wasn’t sure about the etiquette in a situation like this. Would it be intrusive to check in? Was it rude not to? She even considered calling the local hospital in the hope of getting an answer without having to be in touch with Ben at all, then decided that was veering alarmingly close to stalker territory. Probably they couldn’t tell her anyway. So she’d done nothing. And now it’s been twenty-four hours since he left, and not a word.
She turns the phone over in her lap.
“He had to leave,” she tells them. “Family emergency.”
“What do you mean, leave?” Conrad asks. “We’re at sea.”
“He went from port yesterday.”
“But how—”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he figured it out.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Mary says. Something about the look on Greta’s face must be enough to warn her from asking anything more, because she’s quick to move on. “Hey, I bet this will cheer you up. Davis and I decided to do a medley for the variety show tonight.”
Greta raises her eyebrows. “A medley of what?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a laugh. “He’s in the piano bar trying to figure it out as we speak. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“And listen, don’t shoot the messenger, but I promised Eleanor I’d check one more time to see if you want to—”
“No,” Greta says flatly, aware that she sounds like a petulant teenager. But she doesn’t know how many more times she can say it. “Please tell her in the nicest way possible that I still have no interest in performing at a cheesy cruise ship variety show.” She pauses. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Mary says. “But you should know the reason she’s been pushing so hard is that your mom promised we could all come see one of your shows this summer.”
Greta’s caught off guard by this. “She did?”
“She was always telling us how great they were. How they made her feel like she was twenty-one again.” Mary smiles wistfully. “We were going to plan a girls’ trip to come see you play on tour. And now that she’s gone…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“I suspect,” she says after a moment, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, “that Eleanor is thinking this might be the closest we get.”
Greta reaches for Mary’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “It won’t be,” she says. “I promise. Tell me when you want to come, and I’ll take care of it.”
“We’d love that,” Mary says, looking down at her fondly. “Your mom would be so proud of you, you know that?”
Greta nods, but what she’s thinking about is her sixth-grade talent show, when she got such cold feet that her mother had to come backstage. “Ah,” she said when she saw Greta perched on an overturned recycling bin, miserably hugging her guitar. “I see the problem now.”
“What?” Greta asked, lifting her head.
“You’re not playing.” She stooped down so that their eyes were level. “You just need to play. Once you start, you’ll be fine. I promise.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” she said, giving Greta a kiss on the forehead, “that’s your superpower.”
And she was right.
But now, for the first time in a long time, Greta is scared to play again. And nobody is here to tell her it will be okay.
When Mary is gone, Greta and Conrad sit listening to the instructor call out directions for the Macarena—Palms up, one then the other!—as the dancers dissolve into laughter, feet thumping on the wooden floor. Out the window ahead of them, the fog is starting to burn off, making everything sepia-toned in the afternoon light.
The threadbare copy of The Call of the Wild is sitting on the table between them, and Conrad looks over at it with interest. He picks it up and opens to the title page, where Ben’s name is written in the neat blocky handwriting of a child. He glances over, eyebrows raised, the significance of it becoming clearer. “Did he leave this for you?”