Mary tugs her hat down over her ears and nods toward the doors of the ship. “I should go. I promised the others I’d meet them. But you should come with us to the musical tonight. It’s supposed to be great. Almost as good as Broadway.”
Greta raises her eyebrows.
“Well, maybe off Broadway,” Mary says, and they both glance out at the snow and ice. “Way off Broadway. But you should come. We’re going to the early show.”
“Yeah, okay,” Greta says, thinking she has nothing else to do tonight but sit alone in her windowless room not playing the guitar. “As long as there’s no chorus line.”
Mary laughs. “No promises.”
Soon the glacier is upon them, and the deck begins to fill with people. The voice of a geologist crackles over the speakers, but otherwise, everything is hushed. Greta thinks about her dad alone on his balcony somewhere above, taking it all in.
“Wow,” says a little boy beside her, and she follows his gaze. This close, she can see how absolutely huge the glacier is, a solid block stretching across the space between mountains. The front of it is jagged and craggy, a shade of blue so unreal it’s like someone has taken a spray can to it. Everything is still except for the seagulls that circle the ship looking for table scraps, and though the sun has come out, the world still smells of winter.
Greta draws in a breath, thinking: There will never be a way to describe this.
And then: She would’ve loved it.
There’s a sound like gunfire, a loud crack that echoes out across the quiet bay, and a few people point frantically to the left side of the glacier. When her eyes find the spot, all Greta can see is the aftermath: a splash that breaks the stillness of the water. But a second later, another slab of ice shears off the side and goes crashing down, a mini-avalanche, the sound of it reaching them seconds later.
“That noise you’re hearing,” says the geologist, “is the calving of the ice. Or white thunder.”
“White thunder,” the boy repeats with a kind of quiet reverence.
Greta stares at the place where the ice disappeared, thinking how beautiful it is, all of it—the dreamlike mountains and cerulean sky, the clouds reflected in the bay—and how sad too, to see something so magnificent crumbling before their very eyes.
She pushes off the rail and heads inside.
Chapter Sixteen
Greta is on her way to the auditorium that evening when she gets a text from Asher.
I heard you stopped by to see Dad last night. He seemed glad. It’s been a tough start to the trip.
She pauses on the red-carpeted staircase, thinking of the way his face had looked so drawn and pale. I know, she replies. I feel bad for him.
Not exactly what he was picturing.
Well, she writes, that ship had already sailed. So to speak.
A few beats go by before Asher responds: When people ask what it’s like to have a rock star as a sister, it takes a great deal of restraint not to tell them what a dork you are.
Don’t worry, she writes. When people ask me what it’s like to have a bank manager for a brother, it’s the first thing I mention.
He sends back an emoji with its tongue sticking out.
Outside the theater, a crowd has gathered, everyone eager to get in and find good seats for the eight o’clock show. For a second, Greta considers doing a U-turn and walking straight back to her room. Or escaping to one of the outer decks and disappearing under a blanket again. Anything but ninety minutes of cruise ship entertainment. But then Davis Foster—towering over everyone else—spots her and lifts a hand.
“You all look nice,” she says when she reaches her unlikely crew, all three of them dressed up for the night. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” says Davis, tugging at his sports coat. “Just a totally arbitrary dress code for the dining room.”
“Gala attire,” Eleanor says with shining eyes. She’s wearing a sparkly black dress, and her hair is curled at the ends. “Todd already scarpered off to get out of his suit.”
Davis gives his wife—who looks elegant in an emerald-green dress—a mutinous look. “Lucky him.”
Mary shakes her head. “A couple more hours won’t kill you.”
“No, but a couple hours of musical theater might,” Davis says cheerfully.
The ship, which had been steady all afternoon as they lingered in the bay, has now begun to roil again. Even after only a few days on board, Greta can feel it like a metronome inside her; she’s begun shifting her weight from one foot to the other almost without realizing it.