A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  And then the memories of her life outside of her private musical finally caught up with her. They had to get back to the tour. Her aunt would worry. And there was always Richard....

  She pulled away from Emerson, breathless for yet a new reason. “I like this,” she blurted. She swallowed, licked her lips and swallowed again. “I do. But I can’t do this now. I think you know why.”

  He’d pressed his lips together when she’d stepped away, but he, too, licked the corners of his mouth quickly and swallowed. “Your boyfriend.”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “But for the record”—he pulled out his wallet and removed several large bills, thrusting them at the Italian man—“that was a bloody fantastic kiss.”

  “I know,” she murmured, too low, perhaps, for him to hear her. She watched as he picked up both of their masks. Then he steered her out the door, not letting her stop for even twenty seconds to reimburse him for her part of the purchase.

  “Later, Gwen,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “We’re going to be late to meet the group as it is. And if I’m not moving—quickly—I’m going to want to finish what we started.”

  As it turned out, they made it to the hotel lobby with seven minutes and thirty-five seconds to spare. (Yes, they walked that fast.) Emerson disappeared from her view the moment they crossed the threshold, so she no longer had him to talk to, and she was afraid of being interrogated by matchmaking seniors if she stopped to chat with any of them. Instead, she waved with faux cheerfulness at her aunt and her aunt’s friends and briskly strode over to one of the express computer stations near the front desk. It had been two days since she’d checked her e-mail.

  She glared forcefully at the screen, trying to block out any distractions as she Googled her e-mail provider and punched in her password. Problem was, the distractions were more internal than external. She couldn’t focus them away.

  There were two pages of messages awaiting her, most of them spam. She took pleasure in deleting them. But one—one—was from Richard and, of course, she needed to read that:

  Hello, Gwendolyn,

  I’ve been thinking about you. And us.

  Just wanted you to know that I booked my plane ticket today. I got a good deal on a flight. So, don’t have too much fun without me (ha, ha!) and I’ll see you in London in two weeks.

  Fondly,

  Richard

  7

  A Prelude to the Music of the Night

  Saturday–Sunday, July 14–15

  Gwen could scarcely imagine a place more foreign-sounding than Budapest. Not that it looked vastly different from some of the other splendid European sites they’d visited already, she decided, as they crossed the famous Széchenyi Chain Bridge, which traversed the Danube River and divided the antiquated cities of Buda and Pest. But Hungary was really far from Iowa.

  Davis helpfully provided the exact distance from their hometown. “Four thousand nine hundred seventeen miles,” he told her. Not only was this not a prime number (as Matilda was quick to point out) but, for Gwen, as far as the outlandish and unfamiliar, the Hungarian capital city was on par with Cairo, Montevideo and Kuala Lumpur. Exotic locales she’d only heard referenced in history books or on World News reports.

  Their bus tour that afternoon had included stops at Heroes’ Square (“A World Heritage site,” Hans-Josef informed them), St. Stephen’s Basilica and the Millennium Underground Railroad, along with majestic views of Buda Castle and the Hungarian Royal Palace. They’d been guaranteed a visit to some iconic shopping boulevard (“We go to Andrássy Avenue next,” Hans-Josef promised), but Gwen doubted there would be anything to tempt her in any store. She’d already gotten a few very unique items, and every time she thought of her purchases in Europe, she naturally thought of Emerson.

  Of course, this was only a partial truth. Every time she thought—period—she thought of Emerson. His words. His touch. His kiss in Venice. And his cautious glances at her ever since.

  Gwen had never before been so eager to short-circuit her mental processes, but she was a woman who knew she lived too much in her mind. It was unimaginable for her to lose herself in sensory experience and forget about anyone. Certainly not Emerson.

  And not Richard either.

  She stepped carefully off the bus and glanced in either direction. Shops and more shops. This was going to be an exhausting hour of trying to contain her memories.

  Connie Sue nudged her. “Alex, Sally, Peter and I are going to sit down for a glass of lemonade at one of the cafés. Would you like to join us, sweetie?”

  Gwen smiled at her. She’d spotted her aunt zipping down the block with Colin and Hester, while Kamesh and Ani headed in a different direction with the Edwards brothers. Louisa and Cynthia were already through the doors of an upscale Bohemian boutique known for their crystal vases, and the rest of the tour members seemed otherwise occupied as well.

  “Thank you,” Gwen said, grateful for the gesture. “But I think it’ll do me some good to stretch my legs for a little while. There’s still the operetta tonight.”

  The older woman laughed. Hans-Josef had already warned them that their evening’s musical excursion would last several hours. “Just be careful, okay?” she said to Gwen before taking her husband’s arm and crossing the street.

  Gwen watched Alex and Connie Sue meet up with the honeymooners on the other side of the grand avenue, appreciating the decades of loyalty and devotion the married pairs shared. To agree to spend a lifetime with someone, an individual had to take a leap of faith. They could gather personal information, analyze the potential spouse’s behavior, logically predict—based on observations over the course of their dating history—how the other person would most likely act in a given situation, but there was no way they could know for sure. Not about the other person. Maybe not even about themselves.

  Take Richard, for example.

  She wouldn’t have guessed that his fondly would return so quickly to his e-mails. That he would’ve been thinking about their relationship quite so much. That he would’ve actually booked a flight. What an effort he’d been making, especially for someone so resistant to all things he deemed foreign.

  She stared without really seeing into the window of some luxury watch shop. Richard would be standing next to her in London. In two weeks. He and Emerson would meet. In person. What on Earth would that introduction be like? She tried to wrap her mind around the future moment and project it accurately onto the screen of her imagination, but it felt too much like a battle between matter and antimatter. They were such different men that they were likely to negate each other on contact.

  “Knackered already?” a male voice a few feet behind her asked. She recognized it immediately.

  “Hi, Thoreau.” She smiled. “I thought you were with your brother and Kamesh and his son.”

  “I was. They’re obnoxiously dwelling on some model train down there.” He pointed vaguely toward a block of shops. “I saw you still standing here, though, and had a question for you.”

  “Oh.” She thought back. Knackered was British-speak for tired. “I guess I am a little ... knackered, yes.”

  He grinned. “I did ask that, yes, but that wasn’t the question I had in mind.” He nudged her in the direction of the store Emerson was in. “Shall we walk around here for a bit?”

  She agreed and then asked, “So, what was your question then?” Thoreau cleared his throat. “What, uh, exactly, are you doing to my brother?”

  She blinked. “What am I doing to him? I’m not doing—”

  “He’s rather set on edge, Gwen.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “He’s been in a fight-picking mood for a week, and I’ve heard him mention your name more frequently than any other person’s on this trip. At first I thought it was just the obvious draws about you that had him interested, but after Venice ...”

  Gwen held her breath. He’d let that thought trail off, but she suspected Emerson may have told his brother about their kiss, which made her
cringe. She wasn’t sure what to say or how to defend herself. Emerson had been the one making all of the moves, hadn’t he?

  She squinted at Thoreau, remembering something else he’d just said that struck her as odd. “What do you mean by the obvious draws about me?”

  “Ah.” Thoreau held up one hand and started ticking items off with his outstretched fingers. “Well, you’re an American, for one thing. Emerson is fascinated by your country’s music, movies and pop culture, and he’s visited the States almost as many times as he’s visited Italy. I know he’s been to New York, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, Washington, D.C., Seattle, L.A.” He shrugged and touched another finger. “You’re smart but not smart-alecky. He likes that and wants to impress you.” Then another. “You’re pretty. Enough said.” He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh then tapped another digit. “You’re quiet. Emerson is absolutely intrigued by introverts. He has no idea how their minds work and likes to study them.” Then, finally, “You’ve been playing a tad hard to get. He really likes that game—usually.” He grinned at her. “I’m not saying any of these is a problem, just that there seems to be more to it all of a sudden.”

  “Why? Does he usually kiss and tell?” she asked.

  Both of Thoreau’s eyebrows shot up this time and the look he gave her was both surprised and speculative. “Do you mean that literally? He kissed you?” When she didn’t immediately answer he laughed. “Oh, now I see.”

  “Now you see what?” she said, unable to hide the sharpness in her voice. So, Emerson didn’t tell his brother? Perhaps she didn’t understand his behavior as well as she wanted to believe.

  “I see that he fears losing.” He laughed again. “And possibly, for once, he fears it for precisely the correct reason.”

  Gwen didn’t know what to make of this, only that Thoreau seemed awfully smug about it. She got the uncomfortable sense that she’d unwittingly given away a very important piece of information and that this would have some consequences in whatever war was being waged between the brothers. A battle that had started years ago and was still very much in progress.

  Her discomfort only intensified when Emerson, Kamesh and Ani came out of the shop and spotted them half a block away. It was an odd moment. Live gypsy music floated down to them from a side street, setting the soundtrack for their meeting. Even from a distance, the look Emerson sent her made her nerves vibrate like the voice of the gypsy singer. Like the rhythm of his acoustic guitar. Music was a pulse here. As prevalent on street corners as it was in concert halls. A part of the Hungarian way of life. However foreign Budapest might seem to Gwen, this element resonated with her. She could tell it resonated with Emerson, too. As the father-son pair waved to them, then headed in the other direction, Emerson moved in time to the song as he approached.

  Thoreau spoke first. “Had enough of playing with toys already, brother?”

  “It was a fascinating train system,” Emerson said with sniff. “Your loss.” He eyed his brother with wary interest for a split second before returning his attention to Gwen. “No boutiques for you this afternoon?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not really big into shopping.”

  The twist of amusement on Emerson’s lips was hard to ignore. He was about to say something else, but his brother jumped in.

  “You should join us,” Thoreau said to her. “We’re making a pilgrimage to Vajdahunyad Castle in the City Park. We’re going to ditch the bus ride back to the hotel and wander around down there instead.”

  Emerson shot him an odd look. “Yes, you should come,” he agreed. “We already told Hans-Josef we were adding in this excursion.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re all leaving in about ten minutes and we’ll be back to the hotel with time to have a sandwich and change before the operetta tonight. What do you say?”

  She’d heard about this castle. It was fake. Or, rather, it was a replica (parts of it, anyway) of a castle by the same name in Transylvania, Romania, which had imprisoned the infamous “Vlad the Impaler.” She shivered. “I don’t kn—”

  “Oh, come with us,” Thoreau said. “You’ll like it.”

  Again, Emerson looked at him probingly before turning to Gwen and seconding the offer. “There’ll be others with us, too, so you don’t have to worry about being ... er ... the only lady present. It’s a ... group outing.”

  Momentarily, she wondered why Emerson, of all people, was selecting his words so carefully. Why he felt he had to clarify this point. Did he think she’d be afraid to be alone with the two of them? Or did he have some other reason for warning her?

  She considered her options: pretend to shop by herself on Andrássy Avenue then go back to the hotel to take a nap before the concert ... or slip away from the tour with the Edwards duo and visit an unusual site in Budapest. Her friend Kathy back home would be thrilled to hear that Gwen leaned toward being adventurous.

  However, she’d no sooner said, “Sure, thank you,” when she realized why Emerson had been hedging on the invitation.

  “There you gentlemen are!” Cynthia called, emerging with Louisa from the Bohemian crystal store, several packages between them. “Let us drop these off at the bus—I’m sure Guido can stash them for us—and we’ll be ready to go.”

  Gwen pursed her lips. Of course they were coming.

  Thoreau pointedly avoided her gaze, but Emerson sent her an apologetic look. The question she asked herself, as she silently studied Emerson’s face, was whether he had been trying to protect her from the discomfort of being around the Britsicles or if, instead, he had been trying to safeguard his time alone with them. Furthermore, she wondered why Thoreau had been pushing to have her join their excursion, despite knowing for a fact how awkward she felt in the company of those two women. Regardless, she knew she couldn’t cancel now and felt even more like a lowly pawn in someone else’s game.

  After the flurry of a few minutes—entrusting purchases to the bus driver and informing their skeptical tour guide that they’d be back at the hotel and ready to go to the operetta on time—they took off as a fivesome, down Andrássy Avenue, toward the enormity that was the City Park.

  As they strode along the boulevard devoted to the worship of material luxury, Cynthia chattered mindnumbingly, describing the handbags she’d seen as if they were the Hungarian crown jewels.

  Emerson contributed a few price comparisons between men’s colorful silk ties and the best-crafted belts.

  Louisa moaned softly every dozen steps and complained about a bothersome strap on her leather sandals.

  Even Thoreau observed that the sterling silver versus platinum cufflinks he’d seen in one shop window were hard to distinguish from each other without closer inspection.

  In what appeared to be a never-ending discussion on clothing accessories, Gwen—in her simple T-shirt, knee-length shorts and sneakers—felt like a fifth wheel, and a badly dressed one at that.

  She pretended to glance at a store display, slowing her pace so the two couples could shoot ahead of her. Oddly, it was Thoreau who noticed first.

  He nudged Louisa forward so she could join the line leaders, Cynthia and Emerson, while he slipped back to wait for Gwen.

  “What’s with this dallying?” he asked lightly, as if he already knew. “Aren’t you anxious to get to the fake vampire castle?”

  She allowed a small grin. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  He rolled his eyes as they fell into step together, several yards behind the other three.

  “So, you’re deep in thought,” he said. “What big mystery of the universe are you trying to unravel?”

  A gust of wind caressed her face and she closed her eyes for a second, breathing in the still-humid city air. She had a number of mysteries she could ask about: What war was being played out between the Edwards brothers? Why had Thoreau insisted on including her while Emerson hedged? Who were these men, really, and what were her feelings for them ... and vice versa?

  But she didn’t ask any of these. Instead, she decided to turn the ta
bles. “What’s been happening with you and Amanda lately? Have you called her? Texted or e-mailed?”

  He blinked a few times in surprise, but he didn’t look shocked by her redirection. “She’s ... all right. I guess. I think.”

  Gwen raised her eyebrows at him. “You don’t know? ”

  “I know what she tells me. I’m not sure if it’s the truth.” He paused. “Look, I don’t really know how I am either. When I think about her, I miss her. I feel the absence that makes the heart grow fonder, rather than an out-of-sight, out-of-mind reaction. But I don’t know if my brain is playing a trick on me. I’m not sure if I’m remembering our real relationship clearly or merely my wishes for how I wanted it to be.”

  She could understand this. A part of her was questioning her memories of Richard, too. Had she been remembering him unfairly while on the trip? Either unkindly or too kindly?

  “What about when you see other, um, women? Like”—she made an almost imperceptible pointing motion with her index finger—“Cynthia,” she whispered, even though she was far enough ahead not to overhear. “Is she someone you find yourself attracted to?”

  “Bitchiness and all?” he murmured.

  She nodded.

  He squinted at the trio walking and talking half a block ahead of them now. “She’s not unattractive,” he admitted. “Nice legs and, when she’s in a mellow mood, a rather pretty smile. But no. Not seriously.”

  “Because of the age difference?”

  He shook his head. “Four years is insignificant. No, it’s more because of the ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ cliché when it comes to her—or, at least, exhaustion. She drains me because I can tell she doesn’t know what type of man she wants. She simply wants one.”