Before Ever After

by Samantha Sotto

  The wind whipped in the tunnel. Her train was approaching. She pulled off the rest of the leaflet just as the train came to a stop. She stuffed it into her handbag and read it on her way home.

  THE SLIGHT DETOUR

  Veer away from the expected and lose yourself in the back roads of history on a road trip across Europe. Not for the prissy or the daft. Nutters most welcome. Good fun and excellent egg breakfasts included.

  It was exactly what she needed—the chance to postpone reality. The fact that the tour was leaving the very next morning was even better. She needed to get out of London as fast as humanly possible. She dialed the number listed on the yellow paper. The phone rang six times.

  “Hello! The Slight Detour Company.” The man at the end of the line caught his breath. “Max Gallus here. Sorry to keep you waiting. Was chasing after some chickens. How may I help you?”

  “Er, hi. This is Shelley Sullivan. I know this is rather last minute, but I was wondering if I could still join the tour tomorrow?”

  “You’re in luck, luv. It will be tight, but I think we can squeeze you in the boot. Log on to our website for details. You can pay by credit card.”

  Pack bags. Lock up flat. Escape. Check.

  Shelley craned her neck to catch sight of the tour bus. Her hope that it would ever show up flickered along with the streetlamp she was standing next to. The website had said that the pickup time was 1:30 A.M. That was twenty minutes ago. She shivered in her light coat. A vintage electric-blue Volkswagen van sputtered around the corner and put the brakes on her dismay. It stopped at the curb. Its driver stuck his head out of the window.

  “Ms. Sullivan?”

  Smiling at her was the scruffier, though no less charming, version of the fairy tale she had dreamed up when she still believed in happy endings and had married a hundred times over in her wedding finery of crocheted doilies and her mother’s high heels. Her heart, without any consultation with Sister Margaret, leaped. Shelley chewed her lip. This was dangerous. She stuck her hand in her pocket and fumbled for her list. Meet. Date. She couldn’t remember what came next. She vaguely remembered it sounded like “fun.”

  “Er, are you Ms. Shelley Sullivan?”

  “I do. I mean, yes, I am. I am.” Shelley hoped her collar was pulled up high enough to hide the blush creeping up her neck.

  “I do apologize for being late. The old girl was feeling her age this morning.” The driver patted the side of the Volkswagen. “But she’s raring to cross the continent now.” He stepped out of the vehicle. He towered over Shelley’s five-foot-four frame. “I’m Max, your humble servant for the rest of the tour. We spoke on the phone.”

  Shelley shook Max’s hand as firmly as she could, battling the visceral human impulse to stick her tongue down his throat and have his children. “It’s, um, lovely to meet you, Max.”

  “Likewise.” Max took her luggage and headed to the back of the van.

  She followed him, admiring the ease with which he carried her suitcase.

  He loaded her bag and took a step back. “Watch your step, luv.”

  “Huh?”

  “It took a bit of clever space management, but I managed to find a place for you next to the toolbox.”

  Shelley willed her mouth to close. It would not.

  “Joshing, luv.” Max chuckled, putting his arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. “I apologize. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Is this a preview of the rest of the tour?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Good. Shelley smiled to herself and hopped aboard the van.

  The inside of the van was roomier than Shelley had expected, though she still had to duck to avoid the disco ball hanging from the ceiling.

  “Good morning” came a chorus from the back.

  She twisted around. An elderly couple waved at her from the backseat. A gangly red-haired man was squeezed in next to them, his long legs tucked at an angle that made her heart go out to his knees.

  “Oh, hi. Good morning,” Shelley said. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “We’re the Templetons. I’m Jonathan and this is my wife, Rose,” said the bear-size man. His thick white mustache and beard gave Shelley the distinct impression that he was of the polar persuasion. The way he circled his lips around vowels, however, placed his roots south of the Arctic Circle. Cardiff, perhaps.

  “We’re on our honeymoon.” Rose twittered like the canary Shelley’s grandmother used to own, and was only marginally larger.

  The young man seated next to Rose tipped his Red Sox baseball cap at Shelley and flashed a toothy grin. His smile was wide and came easily enough, but there was something about the way it was cast across his freckled face that made her wonder if it was boyishly lopsided or … broken. “I’m Dex,” he said with an accent to match his cap, “and not on my honeymoon.”

  Shelley nodded back, undecided about Dex’s grin despite the lilting humor in his voice. “Hi, I’m Shelley. Recently unemployed and avoiding reality.”

  “That’s lovely, dear,” Rose said. “We all need to take a proper break once in a while. Life’s too short.” She smiled and grew ten inches taller in Shelley’s eyes.

  Max strapped himself into the driver’s seat. “Shelley, did you happen to see two other Americans around? They’re supposed to be meeting us here.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “It will just be us five happy campers then.” Max turned the key in the ignition.

  A tall figure appeared in the dark street. His sandy blond hair flopped over his forehead as he sprinted toward the van. A chestnut-haired man ran alongside him, his glasses jostling on his nose. Prada suitcases rattled behind them.

  “Max, wait!” Jonathan said.

  Max looked in the rearview mirror and grinned. He put the Volkswagen in reverse and met the two men halfway. He hopped out of the van and slid the dented passenger door open.

  “Thank God!” The blond man slipped in next to Shelley. A Nikon camera swung from a black strap around his neck.

  His companion took the seat beside him and closed the door. He panted as he nudged his glasses higher on his crooked nose. “Thanks for waiting.”

  A wisp of peppermint drifted Shelley’s way.

  “Wouldn’t dream of leaving without you,” Max said. “Didn’t think you’d fancy the swim across the Channel. The water can be rather nippy at this time of day.”

  “I’m Brad and this is Simon,” said the man with the camera.

  The group traded handshakes and hellos.

  “Campers, may I have your attention, please,” Max said. “There’s a standard little speech I need to make before we get to the point of no return.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his khaki shirt. It was his little yellow leaflet. He flipped it around and cleared his throat. “ ‘Greetings, campers,’ ” he read out loud. “ ‘I do hope you read my little leaflet before you signed up for this trip; otherwise you might be in for a very, and I mean very, long trip. But just in case you did manage to do the unfathomably stupid feat of blindly signing up, allow me to give you one last chance to salvage your holiday. We don’t give refunds, but if you decide to drop out at this point, I want to leave you with the warm and fuzzy feeling that you will be making a young Cambodian orphan very happy with the generous donation that I will be making of your payment. For anyone who thinks they are climbing the Eiffel Tower, cruising down the Danube, or climbing the Spanish Steps, little Seng Kong Kea would like to say “Awkun ch’ran” from the bottom of his heart and hopes you can visit him on your next holiday.’

  “As clearly stated in my leaflet, we will not make any stops of popular historical significance. For that, you can dust off your old history books or watch those highly informative BBC documentaries. Or, better yet, you can make a mad dash for the Go Europe! coach parked across the street.” Max looked around at the group. “So, does anyone have that cold knot of panic in their stomach yet? Ah, good. Looks like increasing the font size to fou
rteen paid off this year. I formally welcome everyone then to Whips, Welts, and Wenches, the U.K.’s premier sex tour. You can call me Master Max.”

  Rose squeaked. She clutched her little peacock-blue handbag to her chest. Jonathan bundled her close.

  Max grinned. “Anyway, for those of you who really didn’t read the leaflet and are now trying their very best to put on a brave front and make a go of this trip, I’m proud of you. I’m counting to ten before I turn the key and we reach the point where you’re stuck with me.”

  The group stole glances at one another as Max counted out loud.

  “Eight, nine, ten. We’re off!” Max restarted the van. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll still be making a donation to the Cambodian orphanage on your behalf even if you are joining the tour.”

  Brad leaned toward Shelley’s ear. “I wouldn’t trade the Eiffel Tower for this guy’s buns, would you?”

  Shelley giggled, agreeing fully.

  Max tilted the rearview mirror to look at her. “What’s so funny, luv?”

  “Oh, er, nothing,” Shelley said. The edges of her mouth were still twitching.

  “Already we have secrets between us. Well, let’s see what other secrets await us on this trip, eh, campers?” Max turned a knob on the stereo and filled the Volkswagen with the falsetto of the brothers Gibb. “First stop, Paris.”

  The mirrored ball showered flecks of sunlight across her eyelids. Shelley stirred from a dream about French carbohydrates. The warm buttery scent grew stronger, teasing her awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned out of the van’s window. The wind tousled her hair and carried with it a sonorous pleasure: the ensemble of croissants calling her name.

  “Bonjour, campers!” Max said. “We are now in gay Paree. We’ll be making a stop at our accommodations so we can have some breakfast before we begin our little adventure.”

  An assortment of yawns, grunts, and crackles of joints answered him. Dex sounded particularly creaky.

  Shelley caught Max’s eye in the mirror and smiled. He gave her a wink.

  Max drove the van through the Right Bank and down a cobbled street lined with grandes dames decked in their finest wrought-iron lace. He parked in front of one of the regal buildings. He stepped out of the van and rang the doorbell. A round old lady answered the door and bounded onto the sidewalk.

  “Maximilian!” The woman kissed both of Max’s cheeks.

  “Marianne, comment ça va?”

  “Ça va très bien, merci!” Marianne’s ample chest heaved with delight.

  “Et les poulets?” Max asked.

  And the chickens? Or at least that’s what Shelley thought he asked. Her French wasn’t as good as she had thought.

  “Très bien! Et toi, Maximilian?” Marianne’s eyes darted over Max’s face. “You look the same as always,” she continued in French.

  Max smiled. “There are seven of us who will be bothering you this time,” he said, reverting to English. He signaled the group to join him.

  “You no zat eet ees nevah a bozzer, Maximilian.” Marianne’s accent coated each syllable of her English like a layer of marzipan. “Welcom, evreewon. I am Marianne, zee caretakah ov zeez hom. Please com eenside.”

  Unless the local YMCA had done some major renovations, Shelley thought, this was not the budget hostel she had expected to be staying in for the price she’d paid for Max’s tour. The building she walked into had fallen out of step with time, preserving an elegance more likely to be seen cordoned behind the Louvre’s velvet ropes. She couldn’t help feeling that her jeans and red Chuck Taylors were an affront to the parlor’s gilded ceiling, silk-covered walls, and crystal fixtures. “Are we washing dishes to pay for this?” she asked Max.

  “Yes, but you’ll need to wear your French maid’s uniform first,” he said. “Marianne will show you where you can change.”

  Marianne giggled and took Shelley’s arm. “Come. I weel show you to your rums.” Her cheeks puffed as she led the group up a carved staircase.

  To her credit, Shelley managed to behave like an adult long enough for Marianne to close the door of her room behind her. She shed all such pretense when she heard it click shut. The room was a jewel box. She guessed it had once belonged to the dark-haired girl whose faded portrait hung on one of its walls. The quiet smile in the girl’s amber eyes made Shelley feel welcome. She launched herself onto the canopied bed and sank into a sea of pillows and silk. Highly inappropriate thoughts of a certain tour guide stirred inside her. She fiddled with the button on her jeans and considered locking the door. She closed her eyes.

  “Amore,” Max whispered in her ear.

  Shelley bolted upright, then heaved a sigh of relief. Max was not there. His voice had drifted in from the small garden below her window. She peeked out.

  Max was singing—opera—impressively. Shelley watched him sing as he collected brown eggs from a small henhouse tucked in the corner of the garden. Two clucking feather balls darted around him like puppies. Smug satisfaction curled in the corners of her mouth. She had not forgotten her French after all.

  A whiff of strong coffee lured the group from their rooms, but it was the warm, savory scent that made them scamper down the staircase. They bounded into the kitchen.

  “Feeding time at the zoo.” Max pulled the oven door open and flooded the white brick kitchen with promise. “Rooms all right, campers?”

  “Boudoirs, Max, boudoirs,” Brad said. “Between your donations to orphanages and setting us up in this palace, I can’t figure out how you’re making any money on this tour—not that I’m complaining. I love being on the receiving end of charity.”

  “The owners of this home are friends of mine, mate. They like that I drop in and keep an eye on the place for them once in a while.” Max drew a large earthenware dish from the oven.

  The group followed Max and their noses to a rustic wooden table. It groaned under the weight of freshly baked bread, croissants, jams, coffee, and fruit. Max set the dish at the center of the table, revealing a golden crust of cheese topped with a sprinkling of fresh herbs. It bubbled an invitation.

  “I only had time to whip up some baked eggs and cheese this morning, but it should be enough to sustain you through our adventures today,” Max said. “I was worried that I might find you chewing one another’s appendages off if I attempted anything more elaborate. To be honest, it was a bit of a mess to clean up the last time that happened.”

  “If your cooking is as lovely as it smells, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about any of us snacking on body parts today.” Shelley was lying, of course, since nibbling on Max seemed like a perfectly good alternative to breakfast—at least that’s how she felt before her first forkful of his baked eggs.

  She sank her teeth into melted cheese and summer, unleashing a silk stream of eggs and cream in her mouth. A buttery earthiness lingered on her tongue. She gulped orange juice to keep from moaning from the world’s first egg orgasm.

  Rose gave Shelley a knowing look. “I came as well, dear. Twice.”

  Jonathan sputtered, turning a shade brighter than the raspberry preserves on his baguette. “Ah … um … yes, yes, wonderful eggs, Max. Très magnifique.”

  Shelley did not recover quite as elegantly, and was still choking on the juice that had spurted out of her nose and onto Max’s shirt. Max came to her rescue with a couple of solid pats to her back, a napkin, and a grin.

  Shelley watched Jonathan mop up the last of his eggs. She sipped her coffee and made a mental list of what she knew about her traveling companions so far:

  Dex was a freelance writer, chewed slowly, and had a wheat allergy.

  Jonathan was more than happy to save Dex from his croissants.

  Rose was not, and religiously reminded her husband to take his anti-cholesterol pills.

  The honeymooners argued about Jonathan’s diet but agreed on the care of hydrangeas—so much so that they got married at the flower club where they met.

  Brad and Simon did not belong to a g
arden club, were not allergic to wheat, and did not have high cholesterol, but were thrilled about their new wedding-planning business.

  That about covered it except for Max.

  Shelley set her cup on the table. It was the second she had drained while waiting for her guide to volunteer information about himself. She decided to take matters into her own hands. “And how about you, Max? Is this what you do full time? I recall that you were chasing after some chickens when we spoke over the phone. Married? Um, happily?”

  Max smiled. “Maximilian B. Gallus. Tour operator by profession, chicken farmer by passion, and single on account of the vow of celibacy required by the Poultry Club of Great Britain. It is a curious fact that jealous chickens do not lay as many eggs as their emotionally secure counterparts, you see.” He turned to the group. “And now, campers, if you’re done with breakfast, it’s time we made our way to the first of our two destinations in Paris. Let’s meet in the parlor in ten minutes, shall we?”

  The group gathered beneath the ornate Metro sign at the top of the steps leading to the subway.

  Dex eyed the sign and pulled a small Lumix camera from his backpack. He adjusted his baseball cap and took a deep breath. “Um, can I take your picture, Shelley?”

  Shelley obliged by default, too lost in her own thoughts to manage anything more than a blank stare. She was busy relishing the breakfast that had settled lazily in her stomach and the fact that, celibate or not, Max was single. She smiled to herself.

  Dex angled his camera and framed Shelley below the subway sign’s green art nouveau arch.

  “Now listen, campers,” Max said. “Take note of this place in case you get lost during our field trip and need to find your way back home. If you don’t think you can remember where we started from, you can purchase a baguette and leave a trail of bread crumbs. Oh, and before we head off, there are three things you must remember. First, don’t talk to strangers. Second, you need to be aware that your travel insurance does not cover acts of stupidity or alien abduction. Please do your best to avoid them. And third, hold on to your mates.”