“No more work talk.” My voice wobbles but my grip is sure when I raise my wineglass.

Eyeing me, Graeme clinks his glass against mine, the sound clear and piercing as a bell. “Agreed. What do you want to talk about?”

I glance around for inspiration. “How delicious dinner smells?”

“Buffet time?”

“Let’s hit it.”

We each fill a plate with food. Graeme gets held up at the far end of the buffet when a couple of guests begin chatting with him. He lifts his chin toward the tables in a go on ahead gesture.

I make it all the way to the table where Walsh is sitting before realizing that I forgot to put dressing on my salad. Pulling an about-face, I weave back through the throng of guests toward the buffet but get stuck behind a particularly stocky, slow-moving passenger. He digs a serving spoon into the tray of barbecued pork, scooping and rescooping until he has the perfect mound. Donna’s voice cuts through my irritation.

“Graeme, there you are.”

“Good evening, Donna. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

I peek around the edge of the guest, who is now resolutely poking around a plate of potatoes. Donna and Graeme are at the end of the buffet. They don’t see me. I jerk my head back and listen.

Donna harrumphs. “I have something I want to say to you. This request for donations…” she begins.

I brace myself for impact.

“I think it’s wonderful.”

My fingers go slack and I nearly drop my plate.

“Charles and I are so happy to have the chance to do something good for this place. Thank you for giving us the opportunity.”

“You’re welcome, although you really should thank my colleague, Henley. This was all her idea. She set all the wheels in motion.”

“Oh. Well. Be sure to tell her thank you from us.”

I’m almost at the end of the buffet now, and I slink away through the crowd before Graeme and Donna can spot me.

Tears burn behind my eyes and I have to take a deep, steadying breath. The fussiest passenger on the cruise loved having the chance to support conservation in the Galápagos. And Graeme made sure she knew it was my idea.

I’m still fighting back a wave of emotion when he joins me at the table not a minute later.

“What?” he asks, when he catches the look on my face. His expression is one of honest puzzlement; he doesn’t know I overheard him.

“Nothing.” I pick up my fork, but put it down a heartbeat later. “Thank you,” I add.

“For what?”

“For what you said to Donna just now. I overheard you talking.”

Reaching under the table, he gathers my hand in his and squeezes it. I don’t want him to ever let go. “You’re welcome.”