by Jen Malone
“Of course, Lizzie.”
“Um, I know I asked you for a big favor before in having you fill in on the lectures, and then I switched things up on you yesterday, but, um, I was wondering if you’d be okay if I backed out of our deal today too.”
“Backed out?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I study the ugly carpet under my feet. It must be a rule or something that hotel carpet has to be hideous beyond belief.
“It’s just, I thought I might try to do some of them myself. I was able to borrow Sam’s iPad to do research—although technically he doesn’t know it’s for research, so please don’t tell him. Anyway, I covered Vienna last night, and, well, I just thought . . .”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Mr. Fenton gestures me on ahead of him.
When I look up and into his eyes he’s smiling. “I’m glad to see you taking some ownership over this tour, Aubree. It’s a very mature thing to do.”
Maybe it’s just because he’s a teacher and he has the kind of presence that makes you crave his respect, so that when you do earn it, it feels super sparkly. Maybe it’s because he remembers my name is Aubree after all. Either way, I’m feeling pretty good when I board the bus ten minutes later.
We roll out of Salzburg and toward our next adventure. Sam is sitting with his gram, helping her work through the arm exercises her doctors prescribed, and when I peek back a short while later, he’s sleeping on Dolores’s shoulder.
I haul out my jewelry kit to work on a Baltic amber-beaded necklace, but then I remember my new directive to myself to engage the other tour members whenever I can. I turn my neck and catch Mary’s eye.
“Would you be able to help me pick out beads for this?” I lift my arms to show her the necklace I’m knotting. I don’t mention that I’ve decided to make one for each of the women on the trip and this one is for her.
“Oh gracious. That’s lovely. May I?”
She holds up a hand and I pass the necklace back to her.
“What’s this knot thing you’re doing called? It looks a little like the macrame we used to do back in the seventies. Lord, all that macrame. Remember that, Emma?”
Emma’s head pops up from her book. “Macrame? Of course! I had hanging macrame plant holders, macrame wall hangings, a macrame lampshade, you name it. Couldn’t give that stuff away now, but it was fun to do. This looks a bit like it, but the knotting was somewhat different.”
I gather a breath. “Do you think you could show me? If the technique is similar, maybe it would work even better than what I’m doing.”
Mary and Emma grin at each other and gesture at the empty seat across the aisle from them.
“Oh, this is gonna be fun. I haven’t done macrame in decades. Lean over so you can see what my hands are doing,” Emma says.
The ride passes quickly and I love the way the knots hold my beads in place. I’m positive I can put a modern spin on what they’ve shown me and I almost wish I could burrow into my hotel room and work on new designs for the rest of the day.
Almost.
As we near the outskirts of the city, everyone is awake again. I move to the aisle and face my tour. I hold a notepad from last night’s hotel in my hands to glance at when I need prompting.
“All right, then, everyone. We’re now headed to the Imperial Palace, where the Spanish Riding School has resided for close to four hundred and fifty years and cultivates classical equestrian training using the famed Lipizzan horses, who are bred specifically for the purposes of dressage performances. It might interest you to learn that these pure white horses are actually born jet-black and turn gradually white over the course of five or six years. They are also bred from only the very elite of . . .”
I continue to talk right up until we disembark at the palace (another freaking palace! What’s so wrong with a three-bedroom colonial, people?) and, judging from Sam’s and Mr. Fenton’s grins, I do okay.
We follow the crowds into the most elaborate riding ring I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it looks like royalty could host a dinner party there. It’s three stories tall, with the rink in the center surrounded by second- and third-floor balconies on all sides. But even more impressive, it’s all white arches and columns and in the center of the ring dangle enormous crystal chandeliers that have seven hundred and eighty-nine lights each. Approximately.
It doesn’t even smell like farm animals.
We’re just getting settled along the balcony railings when the horses high-step it into the ring. Each rider salutes a portrait of King Karl, the founder of the academy, when he enters. Classical music fills the ring as they all prance about (literally) and line up in a whole kaleidoscope of configurations.
I try to think about what I’d be doing if I were at home. Ten a.m. on a summer weekday? Probably just waking up, maybe texting my friends Claire and Hayley to come hang at the pool. There’s a good chance they’d swing through the KFC drive-in for a bucket of chicken to eat before we claimed our lounge chairs and spent hours flipping through back issues of Us Weekly.
Instead I am listening to Mozart and watching horses a billion times better groomed than me.
I look around for Sam, thinking he might want to share my can-you-believe-this-is-our-life-right-now? epiphany, but he’s not anywhere I can spot. Everyone else is absorbed in the horses below, so I force my eyes back there and refocus on marveling at the riders’ ruler-straight posture.
Sam is in the very back seat of the bus when we wander outside. He’s talking intently into his phone in quiet tones, so I don’t bother him. We proceed to our hotel, where I take everyone inside as Sam still yammers away. I sure hope he has a good international calling plan.
Our afternoon is technically free time, but Emma and Mary ask me if I want to come with them on a horse-drawn carriage ride through the city and really, who in their right mind says no to that? We spend the rest of the afternoon visiting the crown jewels at the treasury (which also has a giant narwhal tooth everyone once believed was the horn of a unicorn) and even riding a giant Ferris wheel where the boxes you sit in are so big they hold seated wedding receptions in them. Um, can you say perfection? Vienna is, no surprise, beautiful beyond belief. It’s a thousand times different from anything in Ohio. It barely even looks like anything from movies I’ve seen. I’m in love. Again. How on earth do people pick a favorite travel spot?
We’re back at the hotel by three and I’m fantasizing about a long nap. I’m just stretching out on my bed when there’s a knock.
Sigh. This being-in-charge thing can really be a drag.
I swing open the door to find Sam picking at a tiny piece of peeling wallpaper in the hallway outside my room. It’s so not good how excited I am to see him. We barely got to talk at all today and, well, I sort of missed him.
“Hello. What’s up?” I hide a yawn behind my hand. Check me out, Miss Super-Casual.
“Sorry to bore you,” Sam says with an easy laugh.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I was just getting ready to take a nap. Is everything okay? You seemed pretty intense on the phone earlier.”
“Oh yeah, fine. My mom was just giving me a hard time about Gram’s elbow. She made me talk to a physical therapist she found back home so he could make sure I was doing all the strengthening exercises exactly right. I guess there’s a concern if it doesn’t heal properly, Gram will need surgery. Which, of course, puts pressure on me, but it’s all good.”
Hmm. So Sam knows pressure too? He hides it well.
“How was your afternoon?” he asks.
I smile as I remember Emma leaning out the Ferris wheel window to shout “How ya like me now?” to the world below.
“Great. You?”
“Good, yeah. Gram and I checked out the Kunsthistorisches Museum of Art.”
“Wow. Try saying that ten times fast.”
Sam takes a deep breath like he’s actually going to do it. But then he exhales and grins. “It was fun. Mr. Fenton wanted to tag along and I swear it was like
having a docent with us. He knows everything about everything, that guy.”
“Tell me about it.”
Sam doesn’t follow up my comment with one of his own, so there’s an awkward silence, which is the absolute worst.
“So, um, did you need something?” I finally ask.
“Oh yeah. I was swinging by to see if you wanted to grab dinner tonight. But if you’d rather do your own thing . . .”
Sam shrugs and glances at the carpet.
Say no, Aubree. You should definitely say no. Alone time with Sam is full of opportunities to slip.
“Sure, yeah.”
Sam’s eyes come back up and his smile is in place. “Cool! Just a heads-up, the restaurant I had in mind is a little bit dressy. But totally worth it, I promise. The food’s amazing. Are you up for a costume change?”
Dressy? Dressy means fancy, and fancy food and I do not tend to get along. But what am I supposed to say: “Hey, thanks, but can we find a pizza joint instead?”
“Uh, sure. I just need to make sure everyone else has dinner options sorted first.”
“Good thing they like to eat dinner at five, then, huh? Lobby at seven thirty?”
I nod, and he gives me a last grin before turning in the direction of the elevator.
So I’m going to dinner with Sam. And there really isn’t any way to spin this one as official tour business. Am I crazy? Maybe.
I just have to be sharp and on my game for Elizabeth’s sake, but I can do that. I know I can. I’ve been doing it so perfectly these last few days. Besides, the longer I’m on this trip and the more I’m handling things, the more I’m convinced the crazier thing would be saying no to a dinner in what has to be one of the most beautiful cities ever built. Even just the memory of a night dressed up and strolling through Vienna with an adorable guy should be enough to get me through a few future nights in boring old Ohio (gah! Since when am I thinking of home sweet home as boring?! What’s happening to me?).
TWENTY
When Sam sees me step into the lobby he whistles, which of course makes me turn bright pink. He just smiles and ducks his head. Speaking of whistling, he doesn’t look half bad himself in suit pants, a white button-down, and a polka-dotted tie.
I’ve changed into a black jersey dress Madison lent me. She insisted it was perfect for travel because it would never wrinkle and she was right. With a few bracelets of my own design and a pair of sterling wishbone-shaped earrings, I feel pretty and light and summery and ready for a night in this perfect city.
We head outside and walk side by side along the narrow sidewalks of Vienna. Sam’s shoulder keeps bumping mine, although neither of us acknowledges it. Eventually he turns us into a wide, pedestrian-only square paved entirely with cobblestones. Little red café umbrellas dot the street and the restaurants seem to spill out of their buildings and into the courtyard. Sam leads me toward one of the doors and we step out of the crowds and into the hushed gold-leafed entrance of a clearly upscale restaurant.
“I love when I get to introduce someone to something amazing. You ready for a fantastic meal?” he asks.
“Absolutely.” (Not.)
There was a period of time (from age two until, um, last year) that my dinner order almost always consisted of “plain pasta, only butter. No sauce, no cheese, no parsley, no foreign substance of any kind.” I’m way more adventurous now. By which I mean I tolerate the occasional fleck of parsley.
This is the main reason I’m a teeny-tiny bit stressed out when the waiter floats a napkin onto my lap and hands me an opened menu encased in a heavy leather portfolio. It’s ultra-fancy-schmancy.
I hold out hope there’s gonna be a burger listed somewhere on here, even as Sam is saying, “This place is where all the locals come for the best of the best in Austrian food.”
I’ve never even heard of Austrian food, which I’m thinking can’t be a good thing. I sneak a peek at the menu. Oh, just wine. I mean, not like I know my way around a wine list or anything, but it’s way preferable at this point to reading about weirdo food.
Sam says, “Great thing about Europe. Drinking age: eighteen. Although, what am I saying, you can drink back home too. Can’t wait for that day. My fake ID is the absolute worst.”
“Right, well.” I lower my eyes so I don’t have to look into his.
I am going to hell. This totally friendly, totally cute boy is being so nice, and all I’ve done since meeting him is lie to his face.
“So do you have a favorite vintage?” Sam asks.
“Um, not really, just red? I guess?” I would be much better at faking being a college grad here if I had the first clue about wine.
Sam’s eyebrows scrunch down a little, but he orders us two cabernets. The waiter nods and replaces the wine list with an even heavier menu.
I’m scared to open it, but Sam is studying me now. I prop it on my lap and peer down at it to avoid Sam’s gaze.
Vorspeisen / Starters
Item 1. Schafkäseterrine an Vogerlsalat mit
Kürbiskernpesto
I try not to gasp when I read the English translation just below. Sheep cheese terrine on lamb’s lettuce salad with pumpkin pesto.
What exactly is that? And who would order it willingly?
I move on to the next item, but there is NO CHANCE I’m eating smoked goose breast with horseradish and mango-ginger compote. Compote sounds waaaay too much like compost.
The waiter returns with our wineglasses. I’ve never ordered wine in a restaurant before, so I’m a little bit giddy about this, even though I’m not much of a drinker.
“What looks good?” Sam asks, peeking over his menu.
Um, a dine-and-dash, minus the dining part? Think, Aubree, think. I take a sip of wine to stall until an idea hits me. Then another sip, before one does.
“Um, I should have mentioned this before,” I say, “but I have some, uh, food-allergy things going on. I usually try to stick to simple items on the road, so I don’t accidentally eat anything, uh, dangerous.”
I avoid his eyes. What’s one more lie to heap upon the pile, especially if it lets me save face in front of this guy I really shouldn’t want to impress, but definitely do? What I really am allergic to, as it turns out, is the truth.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think to ask. How severe is your allergy? Do you need to carry an EpiPen and all that?”
“Oh, nope. I mean, no. I have . . .” I try my hardest to remember what Madison’s mom has. She’s always going on about stuff she can’t eat. Something to do with wheat or something. Gluten, that’s it! “. . . a gluten allergy.”
“You have celiac disease? My roommate does too. Wow, I guess I didn’t even notice what you were eating the last few days. I know meals out can be kinda tough with that one. Do you want to talk to the chef and see what would be safe for you?”
“I feel really stupid right now. I probably should have said something before we sat down.”
Although what I should have said was that I’m the least adventurous eater on the planet and could we please just dive into my stash of PowerBars instead? Why can’t I just be honest with him about this one stupid thing, especially because I can’t be about anything else? But he’s so in control and worldly and I’m so . . . not . . . and I can’t stand having him think I’m this sheltered little girl from the suburbs.
Sam is nothing if not sweet. “You know what, we don’t have to stay if you’re nervous about it. We’ll just finish our wine and venture out in search of something gluten-free. Sound good?”
I smile gratefully. “Sounds perfect. Thanks.” He holds my eyes as he lifts his glass to flag down the waiter. So sweet.
It’s true that the more time I spend with Sam, the more possibilities there will be for me to blow my cover, and that would be so very, very bad. It’s also true that if Elizabeth were here, she’d find some excuse to leave and head straight back to the hotel.
But I never said I was Elizabeth.
Well, that one’s not true. Alt
hough I never said I was as smart as Elizabeth. Which is why, twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in a booth at McDonald’s.
“This isn’t exactly the ‘meal’ I had in mind for us tonight,” Sam says.
He seems a little reluctant to term a #1 Extra Value a meal, but the knowledge that McDonald’s actually exists in Austria makes me happy for some unknown reason that probably has to do with the effects of a glass of wine on a total lightweight. It also takes away a little bit of the sting of having to order my cheeseburger without a bun. I really should have thought this celiac thing through, because it’s not like I can so much as nibble down a baguette in Sam’s presence from here on out. Thankfully he’s way more up to speed on celiac than I am because of his roommate, so he knows that McDonald’s fries are gluten-free. I am not prepared to sacrifice fries for the whole rest of the trip.
“Are you up for a walk?” Sam asks as we crumple our wrappers and deposit them in the trash before heading back into the square.
I tell myself I owe it to Sam to end the night on a high note after the lame meal I just subjected him to, but the truth is I don’t want tonight to be over yet either. The air is warm but not sticky and all around us people are outside enjoying the summer evening.
I nod and we’re both companionably quiet as he weaves us alongside churches advertising Mozart concerts (seriously, just try to go five feet without being reminded Mozart was Austrian. Total overkill) and beautiful white buildings with window boxes overflowing with flowers, until we reach a set of steps leading down to a walkway along a river.
“The Danube Canal,” Sam pronounces. “A little dingy by day, but perfect by night.”
It is perfect. Where we reach it, the pedestrian walkway is wide and there are restaurants lining its edges and, in the water, waiting riverboats. Sam gestures at one. “Now there’s a tour I’d like to take one day. No buses. Just a slow-moving boat cruising through Austria and down into Hungary. Have you been to Budapest? It’s unbelievable.”
Ha. Have I been to Budapest? I haven’t been anywhere.
I shake my head and pretend to be fascinated with the low, flat ship awash in lights. I step closer and Sam grabs my hand to stop me. “Careful. There’s no railing.”
