Misfortune (and Gouda)

by Pierce, Blake

  Oh, dear, she realized. We’re surrounded by people.

  Bryce blushed too as he seemed to realize the same thing.

  As she gently drew her hand away, she and Bryce glanced around at the seated customers. Sure enough, a few of them had noticed the playful gesture. Some were gaping with surprise, while others—including Honey Jarrett—smiled with what seemed like approval.

  “Oops,” Bryce said.

  “Yes, oops,” London replied with a nervous chuckle.

  “I guess I’d better get back to work,” Bryce said.

  As he turned to go, London reminded herself that he was also the ship’s medic.

  “Bryce, wait just a minute. Are you aware that we’ve got a sick passenger?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Bryce said.

  “It’s Bob Turner,” London said. “Mr. Tedrow mentioned it to me yesterday. It’s only the sniffles, he said, but he’s confined himself to his room, and … well, it worries me a little.”

  “I’ll check up on him after the breakfast rush,” Bryce said.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  As Bryce headed back to the kitchen, London could still feel his kiss on her fingers. It wasn’t exactly the kind of kiss she longed for, but it would have to do until she and Bryce could share a more private moment.

  Whenever that turns out to be, she thought sadly.

  As a waiter came by to serve London some coffee, she glimpsed Emil standing in the restaurant entrance, apparently with the intention of eating breakfast himself. But then he glanced around the room, frowned, and ducked back out again.

  Because he spotted Amy, London realized. And yesterday he had apparently cut off the talk he was giving for the same reason.

  She was glad that the concierge was chatting with customers at a table and didn’t seem to have noticed the historian. At least, there was no dodging into hiding this time.

  What’s going on between those two? London wondered. This is getting ridiculous.

  On one hand, she supposed it wasn’t any of her business. On the other hand, it was starting to affect both of their work.

  This could get to be a real problem, she thought.

  She only wished she had some idea what to do about it.

  *

  “We’re here, Sir Reggie,” she said. “We’re in Amsterdam.”

  It was just a few hours later, and London stood with Sir Reggie in the open air of the Rondo deck, watching from the rail as the Nachtmusik’s crew went about their docking procedures. A short while ago the boat had passed the point where the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal converged with other waterways into this major water highway through the city. Then the Nachtmusik had bypassed the crowded River Cruise Port where larger riverboats were lined up three-thick along the piers.

  She was glad that the smaller, more maneuverable Nachtmusik had been able to pull in near the Westerdok. Here the passengers would have easy access to city streets and to smaller boats that traveled the fascinating web of canals.

  London picked up her doggie companion and told him, “The thing I keep wondering is …”

  She hesitated before she finished her sentence.

  “Have I been here before? Did Dad or Mom or both of them bring me here for a visit when I was little?”

  As young children, London and her sister had spent a lot of time moving around Europe with their flight-attendant parents. But after they’d reached school age, the family had put more permanent roots down in Connecticut. Of course, London remembered some of her early travels, but other memories were vague.

  Sir Reggie let out a critical-sounding little growl.

  “You’re right, I guess. Why should it matter? What difference does it make?”

  Anyway, she didn’t feel any sense of déjà vu. The view from the deck certainly didn’t look familiar, with its shores lined with industrial facilities, historical buildings, and some examples of incredible modern architecture.

  “And yet,” she said to Sir Reggie, “I can’t help but wonder. I wish I knew why.”

  As if in reply, that mysterious address popped into her mind.

  65 Poppenhuisstraat, Amsterdam

  London groaned aloud, remembering when she’d wadded up that piece of paper and thrown it away last night.

  Out of sight, but not out of mind, she realized.

  Her brain wasn’t like a wastebasket, after all. She couldn’t just empty it of thoughts she wanted to get rid of. She had an unusually good memory, which served her well at tasks like waiting bar tables and other aspects of her job aboard the Nachtmusik. But at times like now, it seemed more like a curse.

  “It’s no use pretending I don’t care about that address,” she said to Sir Reggie. “I just can’t help myself. I’m going to have to check it out. I’ll do it the first chance I get so I can focus on my job for the rest of the day.”

  Now that the docking was completed, London carried Sir Reggie down the stairs from the Rondo deck to the reception area, where passengers were already beginning to disembark. Sir Reggie nudged her purse—his signal for her to put him on a leash so he could go along with her.

  “I’m sorry, not this time,” she said, giving the dog a little kiss on the top of the head. “In a little while I’ll be visiting a big museum full of famous artworks, and they wouldn’t let you in.”

  She set the disappointed dog down and said, “You stay here and watch over things while I’m gone.”

  Sir Reggie ducked his head, but obediently turned and trotted away.

  London joined the passengers going down the gangway and onto a narrow dock that stretched alongside the boat.

  When they all reached the shore, she began to circulate among the passengers, passing out more flyers and answering more questions.

  Letitia Hartzer and Audrey Bolton, two women London had gotten to know during the Nachtmusik’s previous stops, came up to her.

  “Is it true you’re not taking us on our usual city tour?” Audrey asked with a note of slight disappointment.

  “No—not the whole city, anyway,” London explained. “Nobody expressed any interest in large group tours this time. Anyhow, Amsterdam lends itself better to smaller groups and individual exploration. But everybody is welcome to meet up in two hours for a tour of the Rijksmuseum.”

  “Will you be leading that tour?” Letitia asked.

  “No, that will be Herr Waldmüller,” London said.

  At least I hope so, she thought anxiously.

  If Emil was a no-show, she wasn’t at all sure she was up to the task of covering for him at the Rijksmuseum.

  Handing flyers to both women, London added, “You’ll find all the information you need right here about places to visit and how to get there—especially boat transport along the canals.”

  “Oh, the canals!” Letitia said, clasping her hands together. “They sound so charming!”

  “Like Venice, Italy!” Audrey added.

  London said, “Yes, Amsterdam is sometimes called the ‘Venice of the North.’”

  Then an elderly couple she’d gotten to know and like during the voyage came up to her—Agnes and Walter Shick.

  “I hear we can see great fields of blooming tulips here in Amsterdam,” Agnes said.

  “I’m afraid we missed the season for those,” London said. “The huge tulip fields bloom in the spring. But you’ll still see some greenhouse tulips in the flower stalls.”

  Walter said, “I suppose the best way around town is by boat.”

  “Yes, or on foot,” London said, handing each of them flyers. “Or maybe you’d prefer to rent bicycles.” Handing them copies of the flyer, she added, “You’ll find information about that right here.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun!” Agnes said. “I haven’t been on a bicycle for years.”

  In fact, there was lots of pedaling traffic in the bicycle lanes that ran alongside the pedestrian path next to the water. Although the Shicks were in their seventies, they wouldn’t be out of place here wh
ere riders of all ages were gliding by.

  As she continued walking, London pulled up a map and pinpointed the address that was nagging at her mind.

  65 Poppenhuisstraat, Amsterdam

  She saw that it didn’t look very far away. She felt sure she could go there by boat or on foot and then head straight to the Rijksmuseum and be there in time for the tour.

  But what was she expecting to find at the address?

  Probably nothing, she told herself.

  Or maybe something very important.

  All she knew was that she just had to try. If she left Amsterdam without finding out what—or who—was at that address, she might never forgive herself.

  She felt her face break into a smile when she spotted a familiar face up ahead. As the other passengers continued on their ways, Bryce Yeaton waved and walked toward her.

  “So, we meet again, charming lady,” he said, resuming his gallant little act from earlier in the Habsburg Restaurant.

  “So it would seem,” London said with a smile.

  “I wonder if you’ve got any plans for the next couple of hours,” he said. “Before our tour of the Rijksmuseum, I mean.”

  London’s heart sank a little. This seemed like exactly the opportunity she and Bryce had both longed for—a chance to spend some time together on their own. But now she had other plans.

  Then she wondered—why shouldn’t she just tell Bryce outright about her obsession with finding her mother? Opening up to him about it might do her good. And why not ask Bryce to come along on this peculiar errand? His company might be more than helpful.

  Taking his offered arm, she was about to start explaining everything to him.

  But then she was interrupted by a German-accented voice calling loudly from nearby.

  “Hallo-o-o, you two! Come and join me!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  London glanced at Bryce in consternation. She had been about to tell him something important about her childhood, about her mother leaving. They had been about to grab a chance to spend some time together.

  But now here was Emil, calling to them from a boat in the nearby canal. Could they just walk away and leave him?

  “I have hired a very nice boat, as you can see!” Emil yelled. “Come on, let us go exploring, the three of us!”

  The historian was standing in a red and white canal boat with an inboard motor. Although the boat looked large enough for ten or more people, Emil was alone except for a smiling, red-bearded man wearing a nautical cap who stood at the wheel.

  Both men were looking expectantly at London and Bryce.

  “Couldn’t we just say no?” Bryce asked London in a quiet voice.

  “Maybe, but …”

  London hesitated. As much as she wanted to go find that address … as much as she wanted to spend some time with Bryce …

  She didn’t want to hurt Emil’s feelings by rejecting his invitation, especially now that he seemed to be in better spirits than she’d seen him lately. And besides that, she thought it was probably not a good idea to let the historian go sailing around the canals of Amsterdam all by himself. Not if she wanted be sure he’d show up for his Rijksmuseum tour.

  “I’m afraid we’d better go along,” London told Bryce.

  Bryce shrugged a bit sadly, and they both climbed down a flight of concrete steps.

  As they got into the boat, London asked Bryce, “Did you check on Bob?”

  “I gave him a call, anyway,” Bryce said. “He said he didn’t want me to come to his room. He said he was afraid I’d catch whatever he had. Kind of an odd thing to say to a ship’s medic. But he says it isn’t serious.”

  Emil gallantly directed them to padded seats and sat down facing them.

  The engine made a surprisingly gentle sound as the boat pulled away from the embankment—more like a purr than a machine-like growl.

  Emil gestured toward the man at the wheel in the stern of the boat.

  “London, Bryce, I would like to introduce you to Kapitein Claes Stoepker.”

  “I am at your service,” the man said in Dutch-accented English with a tip of his cap.

  Emil said, “Kapitein Claes is the owner of this fine little ship with a fine little name—the Jonge Gouda.

  Bryce smiled and translated, “The ‘Young Gouda,’ eh?”

  Emil tilted his head, apparently slightly startled that Bryce knew at least a smattering of Dutch.

  “Very good, my friend,” Emil said with a slightly condescending smile.

  London now observed that the Jonge Gouda was rather charmingly painted to resemble a block of cheese, with a bright red hull and a yellow prow.

  Emil continued, “The kapitein says that he knows Amsterdam like—eh, like the ‘back of his fist’ is how you put in English, I think.”

  Although Emil’s English was quite superb, London knew that he sometimes tripped over little idioms like this.

  “‘The back of his hand,’” Bryce said.

  Emil smile clouded just a little at being corrected. London gave Bryce a little nudge with her elbow, hoping he’d take it as a warning to be careful not to question Emil’s oversized sense of his own authority.

  “Yes, like the back of his hand,” Emil said. “He and the Jonge Gouda are at our service for next few hours.”

  London felt a prickle of worry.

  “Uh, Emil,” she said, “you’re supposed to conduct a tour of your own in a couple of hours.”

  “Really?” Emil said, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes. We’re meeting some of our passengers at the Rijksmuseum, are we not? Thank you so much for reminding me. It almost slipped my mind.”

  London’s jaw fell slightly at Emil’s apparent forgetfulness. She clearly had made the right decision to come aboard and keep her eye on him.

  But what’s going on with him? she wondered.

  London was sure it must be something between him and Amy. They had seemed so enamored of each other at their last port of call, but now they were both behaving like flighty teenagers. Sooner or later, Emil and Amy were going to have to deal with whatever it was face to face.

  As the boat whirred its way across the Westerdok channel, London again asked herself that nagging question.

  Have I been here before?

  This view from the boat didn’t look the least bit familiar. Modern commercial boats smaller than the Nachtmusik were docked along the banks, and glassy buildings constructed from jagged, jutting rectangles flanked the broad waterway. London guessed that much of this construction must have been completed during the years that had passed since she might have visited with her family.

  The Jonge Gouda passed under a deep, tunnel-like overpass while a high-speed passenger train roared above their heads. When the boat emerged from the shadows into the sunlight again, a very different scene awaited London.

  She gasped aloud at the sight of quaint Dutch-style buildings with ornate facades and gables flanking the water. As they moved into one of the canals that networked throughout Amsterdam, for a moment she thought she heard a child’s voice—a little girl expressing her amazement at the scene.

  “What a pretty river!”

  She also imagined she heard a woman reply with a musical laugh.

  “Not exactly a river, sweetie. It’s called a canal. There are lots of them in Amsterdam. They’re like streets.”

  Now London knew that she really had been here before. She’d come here with Mom back when she was maybe six or seven years old. Her older sister, Tia, had been here too. Tia would have been nine or ten years old.

  Her childhood enchantment came back to her in a rush. Again, she was delighted by how the whole scene seemed to be dancing happily all around her. Both the shore and the water bustled with movement.

  All kinds of boats moved effortlessly through the water. Some were little motorboats even smaller than the one they were in right now. The largest were long touring boats with awnings and canopies over their outdoor decks. Boats of all kinds of shapes and sizes tr
aveled the canal, but they were all short and stubby enough to pass beneath a low arched bridge with room to spare.

  The banks, lined with trees and lush bushes and flowers, were alive with pedestrians, cyclists, small cars, and sidewalk cafes.

  Just as she had been all those years ago, London was especially delighted by the stationary boats docked along each of the canal’s stone banks.

  Seeming to follow her gaze, Kapitein Claes spoke to her in excellent English.

  “I see that you are interested in the houseboats.”

  “Yes, very much,” London said.

  “Woonarks, we call them in Dutch,” Claes said. “I believe in English it means ‘house ark.’”

  “What can you tell us about them?” Bryce asked.

  “Oh, whatever you could possibly want to know,” man said with the chuckle. “I know every inch of this canal …” He finished his sentence with a sly wink. “Like the back of my hand, I think is how you just put it.”

  Pointing to the nearest vessel, he said, “That one used to be a seagoing freighter, back around 1910. Years ago, before I was born I am sure, it was stripped of its engine and fuel tank and other functioning features in order to remodel it into a comfortable home. The cargo hold is now a living room, and the wheelhouse has been turned into an office.”

  Pointing to another boat, he said, “That one used to be a fishing trawler. When the weather was bad, fishermen used to fix their nets under that covered bow. Now that area has been turned into a cozy little guest room.”

  Pointing to another, he said, “And that one was once a steam tugboat. Although it has been here for years, it is very up-to-date. Look, it even has solar panels for power. You will find all the necessities of life on these boats.”

  As they passed by other houseboats, London was even more charmed by them. Kapitein Claes waved at some of the inhabitants, and they waved back. Some of them were taking in the sun on spacious decks. Children were jumping from the sides of some boats into the canal for a swim. As Claes had said, some of them had clearly once been in use as practical work boats. Others were just large floating box-like structures that would obviously never navigate open waters.