by Jen Malone
“Mr. Fenton, sorry if I’m disturbing you, but I was hoping I could talk to you a sec.”
“Of course, Lizzie. Is everything all right with Dolores?”
“Oh yeah, she’s fine. Actually, I was wondering if I could speak with you about something else.” I take a deep breath and force myself to sound extra sweet. “As you might imagine, one of my jobs as a tour guide is making sure everyone is super happy throughout the trip. So I wanted to check in. Are you happy, Mr. Fenton?”
He tilts his head to the side and looks confused. “Perfectly. Obviously I’m sorry to see one of our merry crew injured, but it seems as if she’ll be able to continue and we won’t have any delays. I’m just thrilled to be experiencing Europe again.”
“That’s good. That’s really good, Mr. Fenton. Of course, I’m new to this tour-guide thing and I really would like to go the extra mile to make sure everyone is even more than happy. I’m going for ecstatic, if you know what I mean.”
“All right . . .” Mr. Fenton now looks wary. Whoops.
I smile my most reassuring smile. “I couldn’t help noticing yesterday that you were especially happy—one might even say ecstatic—when you were sharing all of your knowledge about those castles. By the way, you were pretty amazing.”
Mr. Fenton looks embarrassed and shrugs. “Well, you pick up a thing or two teaching world history to high school students for forty-five years.”
“Ooooh. You’re a teacher. That explains how natural you were up in front of our group. And the fact that you remember all those dates and details. Well . . .”
He shifts his gaze to his slippers and smiles. “Oh, now. You yourself were a history minor. You must have developed some tried and true strategies for memorizing dates, am I right?”
His eyes slide back to my face.
Why on earth would I have possibly chosen history from among every single college minor out there? All I had to do was say any one that wasn’t Spanish. Applied economics. Astronomy. Underwater basket weaving. But nooooo.
“Right, right,” I say. “Of course. But enough about me. What I was wondering, Mr. Fenton, is if you would like to continue to share your vast wealth of knowledge and years and years of teaching experience with our little group. I could do it, of course, but I could also be convinced to step aside. To make you happy.”
Mr. Fenton leans against his doorjamb. “You don’t say? And to think, you’re only thinking of my happiness.”
“And that of our group, of course.” I smile again for good measure, but I have the sneaking suspicion he’s very much onto me. “I really think everyone loved hearing you speak so, so much yesterday, and I’m guessing it means that much more to them, learning about these places from a contemporary. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Fenton, you have a true gift for making facts and figures very entertaining. I think we would be depriving everyone if you didn’t at least consider it. You really did shine up there.”
“Well, thank you, Lizzie. What a nice compliment. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you making such a huge sacrifice on my behalf. To be perfectly honest, I did get a big kick out of my talk yesterday. It’s been years since I’ve been in a classroom and I miss it every single day. If you’re really, truly sure you wouldn’t mind too much, I think I might like to take you up on your kind offer.”
I keep my face straight while my insides bounce around. “It would be my pleasure to step aside.”
We stare at each other for a beat or two. I’m getting the distinct impression he might have read Tom Sawyer after all, because it sort of seems as if his lips are twitching like they want to laugh.
After a few seconds he says, “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I might like to get started on a little lesson plan for our drive to Salzburg tomorrow. The area we’ll be passing through is rich with history. But of course, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
“Right. No, of course not. Very rich. Yup. Well, um, fun planning. And I’m really excited for this.”
“Me too, Lizzie. Me too. You sleep well.”
I spin to face the hallway again and I’m one foot out the door when Mr. Fenton speaks again.
“Oh, Lizzie.”
His tone is friendly but it still sends a shiver up my back. I slowly pivot to face him and find his eyes on mine.
“Yes, Mr. Fenton?”
“I was just wondering. That castle you were telling us about, the one with the princess and the knight. Do you happen to remember the name of it? I wanted to research more about that story. It’s so sweet.”
“Um, the name?”
“Yes, Lizzie, the name.” His eyes are friendly as ever, but I don’t feel much like smiling. I gulp.
“Um, I can’t remember it offhand. I’ll have to review my information.”
“Uh-huh. I suspected as much. And what about your own name, do you recall that?”
“My own . . . ?”
Mr. Fenton just shifts to his other foot and continues to stare at me with his warm brown eyes. I blink a few times as I weigh my options. Obviously, I am completely busted. The question is, how busted? Will Mr. Fenton keep my secret or will he tell everyone?
“This can be just between us, Lizzie.” He says my name like it’s in air quotes, but he also kind of reads my mind.
When I still hesitate, he says, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you could confide the truth in?”
God, yes. But do I dare? Instead I stall for time. “What do you mean? What makes you think I’m not Lizzie?”
“Well, on the first day, you didn’t react any time I called it. Then, of course, there’s the not-speaking-Spanish thing, and I can’t imagine a tour company would have assigned you a Spanish-speaking bus driver without thinking you spoke his language. So they must be under the impression you do.”
He spares a look at me to see how I’m reacting, but I’m trying very hard to keep a poker face as I pick at a thread in my T-shirt. I’m not sure how well it’s working.
He continues. “And then there was the castle. The one you claimed—with some authority and a great deal of detail, I might add—was built for a knight. In actuality, that fortress was rebuilt as a summer residence for the Prussian king Friedrich Wilhelm IV between 1836 and 1842. Now, it’s understandable that you might not know the exact date or circumstances of each castle on that route, of course. But I would suspect someone with a degree in history to know that knights were a decidedly Middle Ages convention. As the Middle Ages spanned from roughly 400 to 1500 AD, I’d say it is quite unlikely one would still be kicking around in the 1800s, when you claim the castle was built, wouldn’t you?”
Um, whoops?
Mr. Fenton leans casually against the wall before saying, “So, what I’ve been able to piece together is that someone named Elizabeth, who speaks Spanish and studied history, was hired by the tour company to lead this trip.” He pauses for effect. “But that someone is not you.”
I spare a glance down the deserted hallway, then move another step into his room before saying, in a tiny voice, “My sister.”
“Pardon?” Mr. Fenton asks, though I suspect he heard me and just wants me to say it again. I look directly into his eyes, which, thankfully, are still kind. He doesn’t look angry, just curious.
“My older sister is Elizabeth. She was the one hired. But she couldn’t come—for reasons beyond her control—and she couldn’t back out because it would put her real, actual job in jeopardy. She’s supposed to start work with a congressman this fall and leading this trip was a favor to a big donor.”
“I see,” says Mr. Fenton. “And so we get Lizzie.”
I drop my hands to my sides and avoid his eyes. And then I crumble.
“I’m so sorry I lied to you. I swear I didn’t want to and I feel horrible about it every day. But please, please, you have to let me make it up to you. If I don’t get good recommendations from all the participants, Elizabeth might not get to work for the congressman and . . . she’ll hate me forever.”
&
nbsp; Mr. Fenton reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Lizzie. Or . . . what is your given name?”
“Aubree,” I mutter.
“Aubree. That suits you. Aubree, I’m not here to give you a hard time. I hoped to give you a shoulder to lean on. Your secret is safe with me.”
I lift my head slightly. “It is?”
He waits until I look him in the eyes. They are forgiving.
“It is. And Aubree?”
Wow, is it weird hearing my name for the first time in days. I raise my eyebrows.
“I’ll do anything I can to help you until such a time comes when you’re ready to confess to everyone.”
As if that will happen. Did he not listen when I told him what was on the line here? But I smile a genuine smile and nod.
“Thanks, Mr. Fenton.”
He nods too, then places a hand on the door and swings it gently shut behind me as I ease back out into the hallway feeling about a hundred pounds lighter.
FOURTEEN
We make the six-hour drive to Salzburg in just under eight and a half hours, which is a little miraculous considering how often we need to stop to stretch legs and how long Mary and Emma like to linger in the trinkets sections of every rest stop.
Mr. Fenton is the freaking boss. He seems totally at ease up in front, talking on and on about how the tiny country of Austria used to be a major world power and how the Austrian Empire, under Habsburg rule, dominated Europe, blah, blah, blah.
But he also points out cooler factoids. When we drive through Stuttgart, he drops in that the Porsche logo is modeled after the city’s coat of arms, a black horse on a yellow background. And in Munich he tells us all about the Black September assassination of Israeli athletes during the 1972 Olympics held there and, with the way he explains it, it’s like he was one of the spectators. Even though everyone else on board besides me was alive and remembers when it happened, they’re every bit as caught up in the story as I am.
I work on my bracelets and look out the window at the sights Mr. Fenton points to and feel only a tiny bit guilty that an elderly gentleman is now doing my job for me. At least I can tell he honestly is enjoying himself.
And then, before I know it, we’re arriving in Salzburg.
I have to admit, of all the cities on the trip, this is the one I let myself get a teeny tiny bit excited about back home (on any occasion I wasn’t fighting off panic attacks, that is). Salzburg is a small city in the Austrian Alps, and even though it was part of such and such empire and this or that revolution, most Americans, including me, know it for one thing only: as the real-life setting of The Sound of Music. I have actual fantasies of twirling on a mountaintop, singing “The hills are alive . . .” and skipping around the fountain in the middle of the city to the tune of “Do-Re-Mi” and possibly even climbing trees in clothes made from curtains. I’m not sure where I’ll get drapery, much less learn to sew an outfit, but that’s beside the point.
As our bus creeps down the city streets, I keep my eyes peeled for any sights that look movie-locale familiar. I’m so busy cataloging the buildings that at first I don’t notice the sort-of-skinny guy on the sidewalk beside us as we come to a stoplight, even though he’s jumping up and down and waving his arms around like he just stepped on a hornet’s nest.
But Dolores notices. “Oh! He’s here!”
I squint out the window at the guy, whose limbs now appear to be flagging down an airplane, then spin in my seat to face Dolores.
“You know that boy, Dolores?”
Her smile, which I realize I haven’t truly seen before now, stretches so wide that eight new wrinkles appear.
“Of course I do! That’s my grandson!”
I jerk back around and peer out the window. I thought Teresa was sending a home health aide. This guy sure doesn’t look like any nurse I’ve ever seen. I’m guessing he’s about my age, and on closer look he’s not so much skinny as just not bulky. His dark hair is wavy, with a few curls fighting their way in, and he’s dressed in a pair of just-right-fitting jeans, clunky brown shoes, and a short-sleeved white bowling shirt. When he slides his sunglasses off and grins at us, I can’t help but notice . . .
He’s cute.
Really cute.
In a cool-nerdy, hipster way I don’t usually go for, but there you have it. He’s also Dolores’s grandson. Which makes him Teresa’s son.
Which makes me S-C-R-E-W-E-D.
I mean, it was one thing to have Teresa’s elderly mom reporting back on me at the end of the tour, but now I’m in serious trouble. Teresa said she was sending someone, but I never expected it to be her son. He could blow this all up in my face at any moment.
And the strange thing is, even apart from the whole Elizabeth-would-lose-her-job-and-might-hate-me-forever thing, the idea of having to go home now kind of upsets me.
Cute Boy trails us down the sidewalk until we pull up in front of the hotel a half block away. As soon as the bus is in park, he’s knocking on the door, bouncing like Tigger’s long-lost relative as he waits. For a guy who must have flown all night to get here, he sure seems full of energy.
Bento slides the doors open and the guy bounds aboard.
“Hi there, party people! Gram!” He rushes down the aisle, maneuvers backward-facing into the empty seat in front of Dolores, then reaches over and pulls his grandmother’s head into a ginormous bear hug.
“Tell me if this is hurting the elbow,” he says with a laugh, even though he’s only cradling her head and her arm is well protected in its sling. Dolores’s squeals of excitement are louder than Emma’s I-just-spotted-a-windmill noises, which makes our jaws drop. I didn’t think Dolores had it in her.
He lets go of his gram and stands, tugging to straighten his shirt. When he catches my wide-eyed stare he gives me a small smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes before turning to face the passengers.
“So, how’s it going? I hope everyone is okay with me hitching a ride from here on out. Let me see now. . . .” He points to Mr. Fenton, who has returned to his own seat in the middle of the bus. “You must be our resident ladies’ man. Every bus tour has to have one.”
Mr. Fenton’s answering look is a cross between embarrassed and flattered, and he raises one eyebrow.
Emma and Mary giggle like middle school girls at a boy band concert as his attention is turned to them. He pretends to lift a hat off his head and mock bows to them. “Ladies.” Another gesture to Mr. Fenton. “If this guy isn’t pulling his weight, I’m at your service. I have a bit of a thing for older women.” They giggle even more when he winks at them.
Oh my God, who is this guy? I stifle a giggle of my own, but quick, before he notices me.
Hank and Maisy are cuddling, as usual, in the way back of the bus, and he turns to them next. “And you two must be our honeymooners. Mazel tov!”
Hank guffaws and Maisy hides her smile behind her hand as the guy turns around to face the front of the bus.
“Bento, my man. ¿Qué tal el viaje?”
“Ya me conoces, nunca estoy feliz a menos que me queje. Pero me alegro de ponerle una cara a tu nombre.”
“Tienes razón, Bento. Eres aún más guapo de lo que me imaginaba.”
He speaks Spanish. Someone who can translate Spanish. Oh happy day! No, wait, he’ll know his mom wouldn’t have booked Bento on a tour where the guide doesn’t speak Spanish fluently, so he’ll be expecting Elizabeth—that is, me—to speak it. Well, crap.
Dolores asks him a question that captures his attention, so I quickly catch Bento’s eye and tap tap tap my thumb and fingers together in a universal sign for talking, then move my finger between the two of us and finally to my lips in a shh motion. Hopefully he can piece together this means “please, please don’t tell this guy I can’t speak a lick of your language.”
He nods, so I think he gets it.
Maybe.
“Elizabeth.” The guy is suddenly right over me, then sliding down into the seat next to me with a gr
in on his face. “I’m Sam. As much as I’ve enjoyed our phone calls, it’s even nicer to meet you in person, Dimples.”
Sam?
This is Sam?
My Sam?
FIFTEEN
Well, not my Sam, but, you know. Sam.
Sam isn’t some kid on college break answering phones for Act Your Age? Well, he is. But he’s also the owner’s son? He might have thought to mention that! My mouth drops open as I try to process everything. Sam sticks out his hand and I shake it, trying not to notice too much that his grip is sturdy but gentle. He lets go and his expression is suddenly serious as he examines me.
He drops his voice. “Sorry I missed our call last night. It was chaos once we decided I was the one coming. Packing, booking a flight. Plus I wanted to surprise you.”
Oh, I’m surprised all right.
Sam doesn’t give me a chance to respond, just keeps right on talking. “Listen, I know we had our phone thing going on and it’s probably kind of weird that I’m now sitting here, but we don’t have to let it be weird, right? And I want you to know that I honestly and truly hope you won’t find my being on the tour too intrusive. Especially since, well, the irony.”
He waits for me to laugh with him, but I’m not exactly in on the joke. His eyebrows furrow.
“Oh, did you not know? This was supposed to be my tour to begin with. The reason you’re here instead of me—or you were here instead of me, anyway—is because I landed a spot on the swim team at my college for next year. Coach lined up a bunch of summer training sessions for those of us who could stick around and I figured it was my best chance to get him to notice me.”
He shakes his head and makes a little snort/laugh sound. “Enter Chad Harrington and one craaaaazy party. Keg stands on the roof of your teammate’s dad’s restaurant are never a good idea, for the record. Plus, having most of the swim team busted for underage drinking kind of pisses off a school administration. Enough to suspend all practices for the foreseeable future. My bad luck.”
I have to bite my lower lip to keep from smiling.
