Misfortune (and Gouda)

by Pierce, Blake

  But as London looked at her reflection in the shiny steel elevator doors, she wavered. Elsie hadn’t been kidding when she’d said London didn’t look “spruce and chipper and perky.” Her hair was a mess, and there were bags under her reddish-looking eyes. On the other hand, she wondered …

  Is Bryce likely to look his best right now?

  After all, he had probably put in as long and hard a day as she had. And if whatever was going on between them was the least bit real, it surely didn’t matter whether either one of them looked less than perfect.

  Looking at her reflection, she hastily pulled a comb through her hair and pushed the elevator button. She took the elevator down one short floor to the Adagio deck, then walked straight into the Habsburg restaurant.

  Her heart sank when she saw that it was completely deserted. The place was dimly lit, and all the chairs were turned upside down onto the tabletops. London glanced at her watch and realized she’d forgotten that the lounge stayed open later into the night than the restaurant. The restaurant had been closed for about half an hour now. Bryce had probably returned to his own stateroom.

  London briefly considered giving Bryce a call to ask if he’d like to meet her in the lounge or on the Rondo deck.

  But then her mouth opened into huge, weary yawn.

  It’s best to call it a night, she decided.

  She took the elevator down to the Allegro deck and went to her room. Sure enough, she saw a telltale dog-shaped lump under the bed covers. Sir Reggie was already asleep there. And a few minutes later, London lay curled up next to him, fast asleep as well.

  London stood on the bank of a canal, which was flanked by quaint, narrow old buildings. It was nearing sunset, so the color-streaked sky reflected playfully on the water. Small boats moved back and forth along the canal.

  They appeared to be motorboats, leaving small trails of foamy, bubbling ripples behind them. Eerily, though, the boats made no sound—nor were there any city noises on either side of the canal. The only sound to be heard was a breeze that whistled over the rooftops and across the water.

  London rubbed her eyes and wondered …

  Where am I?

  And how did I get here?

  As if in reply, a soft, whispering voice wafted over the canal.

  “You’re in Amsterdam.”

  London gasped as she recognized a voice that she hadn’t heard for years and years.

  “Mom?” she said in a trembling voice.

  There was no reply.

  “Mom, are you here somewhere?” London asked.

  “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?” the voice replied enigmatically.

  Now London saw a woman standing in one of the boats. Although the woman was silhouetted against the sunset, London was sure she recognized the halo of red hair and a face that was shaped much like her own.

  “Mom!” London gasped. “It really is you!”

  “Are you sure?” the same voice asked, although it seemed to come from elsewhere.

  Now London saw yet another silhouetted figure in another boat.

  “I could be anywhere,” the voice said.

  Then there was another figure in another boat.

  “I could be here.”

  Then there was yet another figure in yet another boat.

  “Or here.”

  Soon London saw dozens of boats with exactly the same figure standing in them. And now their voices echoed in a whispery chorus.

  “I could be anywhere.”

  “Mom!” London shouted.

  The sun set quickly now, as if in a time-lapse film. London kept shouting as the city and the canal and the boats and the figures were all plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Woof!”

  London’s eyes snapped open at the sound.

  Just inches away, two big brown eyes were staring at her. The fuzzy teddy-bear-like face looked worried.

  “Did I cry out in my sleep?” she asked Sir Reggie.

  Her Yorkshire Terrier let out an affirmative little whine.

  London began to recall scattered images—the glow of a sunset on the water of a canal, quaint buildings on both of the canal’s banks, and boats in the water, each of them with a similar standing, silhouetted woman’s figure. She also remembered how she’d called out to the woman.

  “Mom?”

  Yes, she remembered most of the dream now. She sighed deeply and sat upright in the bed.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, boy,” she said, scratching the little dog’s head. “I just had one of my ‘Mom’ dreams. You know. I have them all the time.”

  Even so, she realized she was trembling all over. This one had unsettled her more than the dreams normally did.

  Her mother had been on London’s mind a lot since she’d arrived in Europe. Many years ago, when she and her older sister Tia were still children, Mom had disappeared while traveling in Europe. There had been no sign of foul play, but no one had heard from her since. Growing up, London had appreciated their father’s dedication to raising his daughters well, and she thought that both she and Tia had come through that early trauma rather well. But it had affected them in different ways.

  Tia had settled into a conventional, secure life with a husband and three children, while London had become averse to rooting herself in any single place. But London spent time with her sister whenever she was in the States and kept in communication with her father wherever he continued to travel as a flight attendant.

  She had long ago accepted the likelihood that she’d never see Mom again. But then, during the tour’s stay in Salzburg, she’d spoken with a woman who had known Mom briefly—but recently. The woman had told London that Mom was still in Europe, working as an itinerant language tutor.

  Since then, London had been struggling with a desire to track Mom down, to ask her why she had walked away from her husband and two children, to find out what her life had been like since then. She knew perfectly well that it was almost certainly a hopeless quest—even if she had time to pursue it. And spare time was one thing that her job aboard the Nachtmusik didn’t allow much of.

  Still, London couldn’t help thinking she saw telltale clues to Mom’s whereabouts here and there. The night before last, standing alone on the Rondo deck, she had tried searching for information about Mom on her cellphone, hoping to find some sign of her in the Netherlands. And maybe, just maybe, she had found something—a webpage with three enigmatic lines of text.

  London reached over to the end table beside her bed for the sheet of paper where she’d written down those brief notes.

  The first line consisted of just two Dutch words: “Reis Lust.” Combined as a single word, they meant “wanderlust.” Back in Regensburg, London had found a posted ad for an English tutor named Fern Weh and realized that fernweh was the German word for wanderlust—a word that London strongly if maybe not quite rationally associated with Mom. Now her recent research had led her to the Dutch equivalent. Could it be that Mom was using those aliases as she traveled around and put notices up about her tutoring?

  The next line in London’s notes read “elke Europese taal,” which translated meant “any European language.”

  Was the website an advertisement for a multilingual language tutor—someone like Mom?

  If so, it seemed strange that there was no phone number or email address—nothing except a street address:

  65 Poppenhuisstraat, Amsterdam

  London groaned a little as she sat on the bed holding the paper in one hand and scratching Sir Reggie’s little head with the other.

  “I don’t know, pal,” she said to the dog, perusing the words. “Sometimes I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m losing my mind. Looking for Mom is crazy. How can I not know that? I mean, she must have reasons of her own for disappearing for all these years. She obviously doesn’t want to be found. So why can’t I leave well enough alone?”

  Sir Reggie made no reply.

  “Well, I definitely must
be out of my mind if I think the website had anything to do with Mom,” she said to her dog. “I mean, what are the chances of that? Why do I even think there might be a connection?”

  Sir Reggie remained silent.

  “I’ve got to face reality,” she said. “I’ve got a job to do. We’re only going to be in Amsterdam for part of a day, and I’m sure not going to waste part of it tracking down this address.”

  She wadded up the sheet of paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. Resisting the urge to reach into the wastebasket and take it out again, she looked at the clock on the end table.

  She’d woken up a little earlier than she’d planned, which wasn’t a bad thing. It gave her a bit of extra time to eat breakfast in the ship’s Habsburg Restaurant before she went about her busy day. And she hoped staying busy would help distract her from this foolish obsession with her long-missing mother.

  She got up from the bed and opened the curtains over her narrow window.

  The Nachtmusik was traveling through the Amsterdam-Rhine canal, the last leg of their journey into the Netherlands capital. The landscape outside her window was completely flat now, totally unlike the gorge that they had passed through yesterday.

  Going through canal locks was always slow, so they wouldn’t be in Amsterdam for hours yet. Then they would have the afternoon and evening to tour before leaving again.

  London took a clean uniform out of her closet, went into the bathroom, and got dressed and ready for her day. She ran her comb one last time through her short springy auburn hair, checked her bright blue eyes in the mirror, and decided that she appeared adequate for the day.

  When she came back into the bedroom, London saw that Sir Reggie was still stretched lazily over the bed, his eyes barely open.

  “Oh, don’t bother to get up, pal,” she said with a note of good-natured irony. “I’ll take care of your breakfast.”

  London always had plenty of doggie supplies in her closet. She had inherited the Yorkie when his previous owner had fallen victim to foul play when the ship had stopped in Gyor. The unfortunate elderly woman had left plenty of dog food for the trip, a variety of collars and leashes, and even a self-cleaning potty that the dog already knew how to use. London had only added a couple of doggie toys to the collection.

  By the time she had poured food and fresh water for Sir Reggie, he’d fallen fast asleep again.

  Poor little guy, she thought.

  He’d spent most of yesterday dashing around at her feet, faithfully trying to keep up with her during an especially hectic workday. London herself still felt tired and achy, even after a good night’s sleep. It was hardly any wonder that Sir Reggie was as exhausted as she was.

  Petting him gently, she murmured, “You just take some time off, pal. I can get along without your help. Sleep as long as you need. You deserve it.”

  She gathered up a stack of flyers with information about their visit to Amsterdam and put them in her handbag. While virtually all of the passengers had access to the same bundle of information on their cellphones, London knew from experience that some of them preferred to have that kind information in pamphlet form.

  Then she headed out of her room and took the elevator up to the Adagio deck. As soon as she stepped into the Habsburg Restaurant, a lovely large dining hall with tables elegantly set with white tablecloths and silver, she saw that a line of passengers was already waiting to be seated. And there was no sign of the hostess who always took care of seating during the mealtime rushes.

  Then London remembered that the regular hostess had requested the morning shift off because she was nursing a head cold. The ship’s concierge had been supposed to fill in for her. On a small riverboat like this, they all had to cover for one another from time to time, but Amy was nowhere in sight.

  Where’s Amy? London wondered.

  Had the ship’s concierge gone AWOL?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Am I wrong? London wondered.

  Although Amy didn’t have the most pleasant personality in the crew, she was usually dependable. Maybe the concierge hadn’t expected to work the hostess shift this morning.

  But no—London distinctly remembered their conversation about it. And she had made a note of the assignment in her schedule for today.

  She checked her watch again. Amy was supposed to have been at this post ten minutes ago.

  What could be going on with her?

  She hastily typed Amy a text message on her cellphone:

  You’re needed in the Habsburg Restaurant.

  Then London took over the hostess job herself.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” she said to a waiting couple who were looking a little impatient.

  “We’d like that table by the window.”

  When London began to lead them to the place she thought they had specified, the man interrupted.

  “Not that window,” he said sharply. “The one where we always sit, overlooking the water.”

  London smiled and changed course. Of course, the regular hostess would probably have known which table they meant, and this couple probably didn’t usually have to wait so long for their breakfast. It was no wonder they were a little prickly this morning.

  “The chef has some nice specials this morning,” she said, handing them their menus along with a tour flyer. Then she glanced around and saw that a line of other passengers waiting to be seated had formed. It didn’t look like she was going to get a chance to sit down and eat breakfast herself.

  Then, just as London was getting ready to seat Honey and Gus Jarrett, Amy burst through the door and rushed toward her.

  “I just got your message,” Amy said to London breathlessly. “What’s the matter?”

  Fortunately, the Jarretts went ahead, seated themselves at the nearest table, and began to peruse the breakfast selections. Gus was focused on the food, but London saw that Honey was peeking at them over the top of her menu, looking amused.

  She drew Amy away from the tables.

  “You’re needed for hostessing,” she said.

  “Really?” Amy said, looking around a bit nervously. “I don’t see why. It looks like you’ve got things under control.”

  London squinted at Amy curiously.

  “You’re scheduled to fill in here this morning,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this is awkward,” Amy said with a shrug, “But I’ve got other things I need to be doing. Just take over for me this time, OK?”

  London was dumbfounded for a moment. Yesterday, Amy had volunteered London to fill in for Emil to lecture about historical sights in the Rhine Gorge. That had been reasonable, since it was something that only London was equipped to do. But now Amy was trying to push London into taking her hostessing assignment.

  She sternly reminded herself that she was Amy’s boss, not the other way around.

  “Amy, this is your job today,” London said firmly.

  Amy’s dark brown eyes widened.

  “London, I’m surprised at you,” she said in a hurt voice. “It’s not like you to quibble about such things.”

  “I’m not exactly quibbling, Amy.”

  “OK, then,” Amy said huffily. “Give me those menus.”

  London took a menu for herself and handed the rest to Amy. Then she found a seat alone at a small table. As she sat watching Amy began to seat customers, London realized that the concierge kept glancing nervously all around. Then the image of Amy peeking out from behind the magazine rack flickered through London’s mind.

  What’s going on with her?

  London’s confused thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

  “Good afternoon, charming lady.”

  When she looked up, London pushed aside her concerns with Amy. She only hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  Bryce Yeaton had come to her table. The classically trained Australian chef always struck her as especially dashing in his white floppy hat and a double-breasted white tunic. But he was
handsome in any case, with sparkling gray eyes, strong dimpled chin, and carefully maintained stubble of beard.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, madam” he added, impishly playing the role of a total stranger.

  I guess I’ll just play along, London thought, smiling back.

  “I think not, sir. Odd, isn’t it? I’m London Rose, and I’m the Nachtmusik’s social director.”

  “Indeed? I’m Bryce Yeaton, and I’m the ship’s head chef.”

  His smile widened as he added, “I also happen to be a mind reader.”

  “Really?” London said with a chuckle.

  “Oh, yes. Allow me to demonstrate. I can tell you exactly what you plan to order for breakfast this morning. Would that impress you?”

  “I suppose it would,” London said, laughing some more at their little charade.

  Bryce pressed his forefingers to his temples and squinted for a moment in mock concentration.

  “Let’s see … It’s coming to me … you want … a lobster frittata … no, lemon poppy seed pancakes … no, Danish waffles with cardamom and ginger … no, cream-and-strawberry-filled crepes …”

  Then he snapped his fingers.

  “I’ve got it! Eggs Benedict!”

  “I’m astonished!” London said, laughing and clapping.

  Of course, there was nothing astonishing about this little make-believe performance. Bryce knew perfectly well that Eggs Benedict was London’s favorite breakfast—especially when it was made in his own inimitable style. She’d never been able to pin down exactly what made Bryce’s version of the rich and buttery Hollandaise sauce so special, but she found it a delicious way to start a day.

  “I will go to the kitchen prepare it at once, charming lady,” Bryce said.

  He took London’s hand and lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

  London laughed at his exaggerated show of gallantry. Then she felt herself blush.