A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Emerson, as if sensing her pulling away, placed his arms around her, grounding them both in the same moment. She stiffened in his embrace, afraid to let herself relax into it. Afraid of what that might mean.

  “It’s quite all right,” he murmured. “I’m not making a move on you, Gwen. But I like being here with you. You helped me today. Helped me put some things in perspective with my family.” He snuggled a little closer to her as the coverlet of darkness fell and was, simultaneously, pricked with light. Clusters of illumination appeared in random but increasingly noticeable specks across the city. “Thank you,” he added, his words making it clear that—despite the vastness below them, around them, above them—she was visible to him. A pinprick of light in whatever darkness he was facing.

  And how wondrous that felt. To matter to someone! To be so very small and, yet, if only for an instant, to make a difference in another’s life.

  She finally settled into his arms, exhaled a breath she’d been long holding and watched—hopeful and aware—as a new cluster of hazy indigo was transformed by the golden shimmers of dancing electricity.

  Their final French adventure came in the form of a nine-and-a-half hour joint tour of Monet’s house and gardens plus a visit to the massive Palace of Versailles.

  Amidst the beauty of Giverny—Monet’s village—and the water lilies floating serenely in the River Seine, the artist in Zenia emerged full force and sparkling.

  “That’s right!” the older woman exclaimed. “This is what I’m talkin’ about.” She twirled in place, just off one of Monet’s walking paths, swerving a bit too close to the water for Gwen’s comfort. Gwen and Davis exchanged a look and moved forward so they could snatch her if she spun too near the sloping riverbank.

  “Nothin’ like Mother Nature for inspiration,” Zenia added enthusiastically, her arms flapping to each side like a brightly colored tropical bird who had just found the way back to her own private Amazon. “Artists need to go out into the world. See things. Let the global wonders sink into their skin and change them.” She breathed the country air in deep, smiling at the soft blue sky, the weeping-willow greenery, the tufts of grass and the sprays of flowers dotting the landscape.

  Hester crossed over to them from one of the bridges spanning the lily-covered waters, listing a bit from side to side in a manner that had Gwen worried. “These things are a little rickety,” she said, slapping the railings with each palm. “Bet it’d be easy to throw someone off here and into the water. Death by drowning.”

  “Or water-lily suffocation,” Davis added helpfully.

  “Good idea,” Hester declared. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  Zenia beamed at them. “What a great place. For artists. For writers. For musicians, dancers, actors. Whatever sparks your creativity, nature gives it fire.”

  “That’s very poetic of you, Zenia,” Hester said.

  Zenia grinned and twirled some more.

  Once assured that the elderly persons on the tour were staying clear of the water’s edge, however, Gwen could relax long enough to see Zenia in action.

  The woman lived as she spoke, reacting to the scenery as a gift of artistic discovery. Every natural object fed her creativity and gave her something new to contribute to her loom projects. Gwen could almost see the synthesis taking place. The splash of red and yellow petals lying against a patchwork of dark greens—how this image before them would someday combine with the threads in Zenia’s workshop and, quite literally, become woven into her craft. It was a form of alchemy.

  Gwen thought about her own relationship with the creative process. It was, perhaps, a bit different with music since, at most, she read the notes she played from a sheet of paper. She did not compose those notes. However, if she did ... if she did ... she, too, would have drawn inspiration from the natural world. Who would not be similarly touched?

  But the world within and the world without were, at times, at odds, and this was one of those times. She found it hard to relax and concentrate only on the beauty of the setting when she knew with certainty that two of the players in the scene at large were creating only waves of disharmony, and crashing them into anyone and everyone who happened to be nearby.

  Emerson had spoken with her, of course, this morning before they left the hotel and for part of the bus ride, but when he saw Thoreau approaching, Louisa by his side, Emerson disappeared. Thoreau, for his part, greeted her briefly as well, but he’d quickly sidestepped any attempt she’d made to find out what was going on. Cynthia was attached by invisible glue to Hans-Josef and appeared oblivious to all but her own happiness. Louisa, though, shot Gwen a “be careful” look from across the breakfast room and kept Thoreau safely sequestered in her own company so as to keep him away from his brother. Still, despite the absence of an actual fistfight during the day, this kind of antagonism had to stop. Gwen did not, however, immediately have the means to stop it.

  At Versailles, they toured the palace and its grounds and, for a while, she lost herself in the magnificence of it. As the group was herded through the famous Hall of Mirrors, she caught a glimpse of her reflection that, at first, was jarring if only because it took her a moment to recognize herself. For a split second she saw herself as a stranger might see her: medium height, slim, bronzed lightly by the sun. She didn’t stand out in the crowd. She didn’t look foreign or displaced. She belonged. What an odd sensation.

  She caught sight of Emerson’s reflection, too, amidst a conversation he was having with Ani and his father. The three of them had fallen into step with each other and all, likewise, looked confident and engaged in one another’s company. Although, from the lines of tension around Emerson’s eyes and lips, he looked far from tranquil.

  When, at last, they were released into the expansive gardens, she determined she would use the opportunity to hunt down Thoreau and pull him aside. As luck would have it, Louisa had just scampered away from him to convene with Cynthia over something, now that Hans-Josef was busy thanking their palace tour guide, and Thoreau was momentarily alone. Good.

  She strode up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He swiveled around and eyed her warily. “Hello, Gwen.”

  “Hello,” she said. “We need to talk. Right now.”

  He glanced around, scanning for Emerson, no doubt. “Listen, if you’re going to suggest that I owe my brother an apology, I’ve already offered one. He simply requires a bit of space from me today so, really, there’s no need—”

  She tugged him toward a garden path out of sight from most of their group. “Let’s stroll down this lane, okay?”

  He reluctantly strolled.

  She took a deep breath. “Back in Budapest, I remember you asked me ‘what I did’ to your brother. I think it’s time you answered the same question.”

  He half laughed. “Back in Budapest, I remember you hedged rather a lot in your response. I would have no trouble doing the same.”

  She glared at him.

  “Besides,” he continued, “it’s all a bit complex in our case.”

  “Seriously?” She halted in place, blinked at him and actually put her hands on her hips like she had when scolding her kid brothers as teens or giving a behavior lecture to a classroom of unruly eighth graders. “Are you implying I wouldn’t understand?”

  He sighed and nudged her until she started walking again. “Don’t get testy about it. It’s no reflection on your intelligence, but the family background involved is too lengthy to go into here. To understand the entirety of the issue would simply take too long.”

  “Fine,” Gwen said. “How about a few pointed specifics then, like, why did you tell Emerson that I didn’t know about your girlfriend Amanda? What strategy game were you playing when you insulted him at the Eiffel Tower yesterday? And where did you sleep last night, since your brother told me you weren’t in the room at all? Hmm?”

  Thoreau appeared incapable of disguising his amusement. “In regards to Amanda, I didn’t tell him you didn’t know about her. Er, not preci
sely.” He paused. “I merely asked a rhetorical question when he brought her up. I said, ‘Why would I need to tell Gwen about Amanda?’ and let him form his own conclusions. It’s hardly my fault if he didn’t think to ask the proper follow-up questions.”

  “You’re a very mean big brother.”

  He shrugged, unrepentant. Then, after a beat, “I spent last night with Louisa. That’s why I wasn’t in the room.”

  Gwen’s jaw dropped. “R-Really?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Really.”

  In spite of her shock, Gwen tried to wrap her mind around this statement. Louisa was not the happiest of wives and she certainly had been flirtatious on the tour, but Gwen had gotten to know her a bit better over the past couple of weeks and it didn’t seem fully in character for Louisa to go so far as to cheat on her husband. “Where was Cynthia?”

  Thoreau bit back a laugh. “In Hans-Josef’s room.”

  Gwen stared at him, assessing. “So, Cynthia and Hans-Josef were having a, um, romantic evening. And you and Louisa were up late in her room ... what? Talking about them?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And was there more to the evening than that?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened after you finished talking?”

  “Then we slept,” he said.

  “Separately?”

  “That’s right, Gwen. And that’s also a fine example of asking a series of very specific—if, perhaps, a bit too personal—follow-up questions. Emerson ought to take a few lessons from you.” He raised that arrogant eyebrow of his, and she slugged his bicep in response.

  He winced and rubbed his arm. “Ow. You’re stronger than you look.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What about the insult yesterday morning? Why were you trying to rile him up, Thoreau?”

  He exhaled, clenched his jaw and shook his head.

  “Do I need to ask you twenty questions before you tell me anything worthwhile?”

  “You could try,” he said. “But I could parry you on this one.”

  “Fine. Play your little games, but don’t be shocked if Emerson ends up hating you.” She crossed her arms and marched a few paces ahead of him. Behind her, he chuckled softly.

  “Gwen, you have the wrong idea. Entirely.” He reached out and snagged the bottom of her shirt so she’d slow down. “I love my brother. He’s a pain in the arse and, yes, I have been needling him on purpose during the tour. But my object has been to help him. You might not necessarily understand the strategy I’m using—it’s a sibling version of the Bishop Fork—but make no mistake, everything I’m doing is for Emerson’s own good. He’s not immortal, so he’d bloody well better get his act together. Soon. I’m just trying to nudge him along.”

  She gaped at him in pointed disbelief, all the while fighting her reaction to Thoreau’s words about his brother: He’s not immortal. No. Emerson wouldn’t live forever. None of them would. But even though she already knew this intellectually, she couldn’t help but feel shudders of fear and dread at the thought. She did not share these anxieties with Thoreau, however. “What’s a Bishop Fork?” she asked him instead.

  “A tactical trick in chess. A rather unusual one, actually. The object is to use a bishop to force two pieces into jeopardy at the same time.” He used his hands to create the dimensions of a chessboard in the air between them and then mimed picking up a piece in one corner. “Say you’ve got a white bishop moving from a8 to capture the black knight on c6. Not only does the bishop take the knight but he can simultaneously fork black’s rook on d5 and his king on e8. The black side has to respond by moving the king to e7 to avoid checkmate, so he loses his rook to the white bishop. It’s beautiful, really.”

  “Thoreau, why are you always in opposition to the black knight?”

  His lips twisted into a grin. “Because he can be dangerous—often without realizing it. Knights move so differently from every other piece. When the knight is the one who initiates a fork and threatens both the king and queen of his opponent, it’s called either a royal or a family fork. It’s a move that wreaks havoc on the board. So it’s better—always better—to take a strong offensive against the knights. We must minimize their potential for damage.”

  “So, you’re trying to remove the knight so he doesn’t ... wreck your family?” Gwen guessed, trying to piece together the meaning behind Thoreau’s explanation.

  “It’s not quite so antagonistic as all that, Gwen.” He laughed.

  “But, I’ll admit, I’ve been working to divide my brother’s attention. You see, if he gets angry and has to direct his energy and resources to do battle in one area, he’s much more likely to let his guard down in another. That’s the point of the fork. Emerson isn’t capable of letting in a new relationship—one that might put an end to his incessant moodiness and phony commit to bachelorhood—if he’s focusing his every strength on erecting walls thicker than those at Windsor. If I’m the enemy, there’s a chance he may open himself up to ... an ally.” He smiled at her. “Someone he might look to for solace and solidarity. In other words—you.”

  She swallowed. “Me?”

  Thoreau, only ten years her senior but acting the part of a shrewd old man to a naïve teen, gazed at her with a look that was half warmth, half benign condescension. His eyes twinkled as he took a step closer to her and leaned in. “Well, you do love him, don’t you?”

  Gwen coughed and, seized by spasms, wasn’t able to answer.

  “That’s quite all right,” Thoreau said kindly, patting her on the back. “You don’t have to admit it aloud. Yet.”

  10

  Games People Play

  Monday–Thursday, July 23–26

  Gwen felt the first wave of nausea hit just moments after they’d crossed the border into Belgium.

  She glanced at her aunt next to her—sleeping—and peered around the bus. There was, she noted, a line beginning to form at the back of the motor coach for the small bathroom. She slid carefully out of her seat so as not to wake Aunt Bea, and worked her way down the aisle to stand behind Davis.

  He was very fair skinned to begin with, but he looked ghostly white to Gwen’s eye that afternoon. She herself was queasy, but the roads they’d been driving on had been bumpy for a good hour at least and in dire need of repair. The few hills they’d encountered felt much to her like the uncomfortable dip and twist of a roller-coaster ride at an amusement park. Davis, however, looked infinitely worse than Gwen felt.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered to him as Hester tottered into the tiny bathroom and Louisa stepped out of it. The British woman waved faintly at Gwen as she passed by them.

  “Just getting a bad case of the nerves,” Davis admitted. “Tomorrow’s the big day, after all.”

  “That’s right. The tournament!” Despite the uneven feeling in the pit of her stomach, Gwen tried to show her enthusiasm. Of the seniors from Iowa, only Davis and Matilda had qualified for the big sudoku competition. It wasn’t as large or as competitive as the World Puzzle Federation’s annual World Championships, but it was still a big deal in the puzzle-solving world. On the Surrey side, Ani and his father were both entered (in different age divisions), and Gwen also discovered that the Edwards brothers—while potential contenders themselves—had jointly agreed not to try for qualifying times.

  As Thoreau explained it, “We discussed it this spring and decided it was wisest not to willingly invite that element of competition into our vacation.”

  Emerson told the story a different way. “He was scared I’d blast his game to bits because I’ve had more sudoku practice. Thoreau tries to act the big man about it, but he really doesn’t like to lose.”

  Gwen had just rolled her eyes (privately) and was glad she—along with most of the tour members—would just get to enjoy the event as a silent spectator.

  “Not as young as I used to be,” Hester grumbled as she got out of the bathroom and Davis went in. Gwen smiled at the older woman but gripped hard the cushioned seatbac
k of the empty chair next to her.

  “Me, either,” Gwen muttered to herself as she waited her turn. Zenia and Colin had joined the line behind her.

  Just as Gwen got in, the bus lurched to a halt, which did nothing to help her stomach.

  “We will make a rest stop here,” Hans-Josef said in his clipped voice into the microphone, his tone edging toward urgent. “We have many people who want a break now, ja?”

  Gwen heard the chorus of frantic ja’s from her fellow passengers, but she didn’t return to her seat. She locked the door behind her and promptly threw up.

  They were at the rest stop for a full hour and fifteen minutes.

  “Food poisoning!” Matilda cried, indignant, after she’d been sick twice herself. “What was the culprit? The fois gras? The vichyssoise soup? The shrimp croquettes? The custard-caramel flambé?” She paused. “It couldn’t have been the red wine, could it?”

  “Whatever the cause, that’s the price of being experimental,” Dr. Louie told her weakly. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief and collapsed onto a bench nearby. “We were too adventurous, perhaps.”

  Gwen wasn’t able to narrow down the villainous food item. At Emerson’s insistence, she’d tried all of the dishes Matilda mentioned at Le Buffet Français—their unfortunate roadside stop a couple of hours before. Emerson shot her an apologetic look as he stumbled into the men’s room for the third time.

  Only honeymooning Sally, who was a strict vegan, seemed unaffected by the meal. She, unlike the rest of them, had ordered a simple garden salad off the menu rather than select the easy buffet option. Her husband, Peter, however, wasn’t faring nearly as well.