by Jen Malone
“However will I manage?” Mr. Fenton replies. Then he looks over at me.
“Three lovely women and a night at the baccarat tables. See what a clever man I am, Lizzie? Almost makes you think I know what I’m talking about, doesn’t it? Almost makes you think you should take my advice about everything.”
He doesn’t win points for subtlety, that’s for sure. If only he knew how much I do want to tell Sam. How much I want him to kiss me. The real me.
I watch Sam fuss over his gram. Yup. I definitely want this guy to know the real me. Whether or not he’ll want to do that after learning about all the lies I’ve been telling him, and his mother, and his grandmother, is something I don’t even want to think about. Whether or not he’ll feel the need to confess to his mother is something I can’t think about.
I push the thought away. For now, I made a promise to Elizabeth. Blood thicker than water and all that.
I take pictures as Mr. Fenton and his harem head out the door, then turn to Sam. “Guess we’re on our own. What do you want to do?”
Sam smiles wickedly as he takes my hand. “Pretty sure we’ll come up with something.”
Despite Sam’s suggestive comment, he steers me away from the elevators and toward the hotel exit, where we find dinner and wander around the marina, ogling all the luxury yachts that are part of a lifestyle I can’t begin to imagine.
However, we do end the night in the hallway outside Sam’s hotel room, kissing against his door. Sam’s lips trail up my neck and he whispers, “Do you wanna come in?” I nod against his shoulder.
Sam’s next kiss is tender and sweet and makes my heart sigh. He fumbles with his key card, then drops it. He curses under his breath and it hits me that he’s nervous. I melt.
His trademark confidence slips back into place as he tugs me gently inside and takes my face in his hands, kissing me deeply. With his lips on mine, he walks me into the room. This is new territory for us; up until now I’ve been too paranoid about the seniors who might need attention at any moment. The backs of my legs hit the edge of the bed and Sam continues our kiss as he eases me down onto it.
“This okay?” he murmurs.
“Definitely okay,” I whisper against his lips. He nods and his kiss grows more urgent. I lose my breath in it.
Sam is perched above me, one arm propping him up and the other by my waist, but now he rolls to the right and brings me with him so we’re lying pressed up against each other, on our sides. I lose track of time as we kiss. And kiss. And kiss. His hands run along my torso and mine grasp the belt loops on his jeans, pulling him closer.
Except I accidentally knee him in the leg and he yelps.
“Oh God, are you all right?” I ask.
Sam buries his face in my neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
I laugh too. Steamy, with a side of laughter. It’s so us. It’s perfect.
Sam kisses me again but pulls back a moment later, and the humor fades from his eyes as he looks at me. “Dimple?” he says. All traces of laughter are gone from his voice. Instead it’s husky and quiet and it makes my pulse thrum in my ear.
“Yeah?” My stomach does cartwheels.
He traces a finger down my cheek and runs his thumb along my lower lip. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says softly. “Really, really glad.”
I don’t know if he means here in Europe or here in his room, but either way my answer would be the same. “I’m pretty glad I’m here too.”
“It’s . . . Okay, this is gonna sound corny, so bear with me, huh?”
Oh, I’m bearing. I’m totally bearing.
Sam smiles, but then his expression grows serious again. “I didn’t really have a lot of expectations for this summer, ya know? I thought I’d spend most of it swimming laps. I didn’t expect to be here. I didn’t expect to feel—” He sighs softly. “I didn’t expect you.”
I didn’t expect him either. God, did I not expect him. And as much as this trip has opened my eyes, getting to know Sam has opened my heart. I want to tell him all of this, but I don’t trust my voice. Not with the way he’s looking at me like I’m one of the crown jewels.
“Sam . . . ,” I whisper, and my voice catches.
He smooths my hair and smiles gently. It twists my heart like a wrung-out towel and I bite my lip. Sam leans over to kiss me and I try to put everything I want to tell him into my answering kiss.
He hooks his leg through mine and I pull him in. His kiss deepens and we’re right back to steamy and all of a sudden I can’t get close enough to him. I don’t want even an inch of space between us. Our breaths are coming out in gasps and I shimmy up against him, aligning myself along his body.
“God, Lizzie,” Sam whispers against my mouth when I fit my hips to his.
Hearing him say a name that is not my name feels exactly in this moment the same as the ice cubes sliding down my shirt in Cinque Terre and snaps me back to reality fast. I’m completely falling for this guy and he doesn’t even know something as incredibly basic about me as my freaking name! How messed up is that?
I jerk upright, trying to catch my breath and process the thoughts in my head at the same time. I leap off the bed. Sam sits up too, obviously confused, and trying to control his own breathing.
“Dimple. Hey. I didn’t mean to . . . I mean . . . what just happened?”
I look at him, his palms up and an expression of such sweetness on his face it about breaks me in two. How did I let things go this far with our relationship? Why am I letting myself have so many feelings for Sam when there are all these lies between us?
But I can’t tell him any of those thoughts, so I sink down next to him and say, “I’m really sorry. That was kind of intense and I . . . would it be okay to . . . could we just hit the pause button for a bit?”
Sam puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close, my face nestling against his shoulder. When I peer up at him, his expression is gentle and protective. “Anytime at all. You call the shots.”
I smile weakly. I really could cry right now over how much I like this guy. He smiles back. “Wanna stay awhile?” he whispers. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”
He puts his arms up like he’s being held at gunpoint and I giggle. He lowers one and pats the empty space on the bed next to him. I lie down and tuck my legs under me. Sam lifts my head and slides a pillow underneath it before setting his own head right next to mine, so close our foreheads nearly touch and our breaths mingle. In the small space between our bodies, we hold hands.
He smiles but doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand and stares into my eyes for what could be five minutes or could be an hour. I get lost in it. All I know is that it feels like I’m under a spell, my recently expanded world narrowing down to just this boy and this bed and everything our eyes are telling each other. It’s easily the most intimate thing I’ve ever done, letting my face show him everything I’m feeling for him. We stay like that for the longest time and I can’t even believe how much passes between us without either of us uttering a single word. And yet I don’t feel self-conscious at all.
I feel safe.
I feel seen.
I wake up a few hours later with my back cuddled against Sam’s torso and his arm draped over me. I smile. We’re fully clothed, on top of the covers, but completely entangled. I savor the sensation of Sam’s chest moving up and down and smile even bigger when I realize he’s on the right side of the bed. I make a note to give Mr. I Can Only Sleep on the Left a hard time about it when he wakes up. For now I savor his warm breath against the nape of my neck, and the memories and the feelings from last night come rushing back. The frustration over Sam only knowing me as Lizzie is there in the background, but overriding all of that is the intensity of staring into each other’s eyes the way we did. It sounds totally cheesy to say it like that, but when it was happening it wasn’t cheesy at all.
At all.
Outside the sky is just beginning to brighten and I stare out the window at the y
acht lights in the harbor below, lost in my thoughts.
I replay my conversation with Elizabeth and wish I’d said everything differently. I made her think my wanting to be honest with Sam was all about my feelings for him, but as it turns out, it isn’t. Not totally, anyway. It’s about me.
The thing is, this trip is forcing me to get to know myself more than I’ve ever had to at home, where everything is comfortable and easy. And what I’m learning is that the kind of person I want to be isn’t the kind of person I am right now. I hate being a liar and a fraud and a fake. Even beyond telling Sam, I want to be honest with all the people on my tour. They’ve trusted me to take care of them these past couple weeks and I really, really want to be the kind of person who’s earned that trust.
Elizabeth’s logic was that waiting a little bit longer when we’ve already come this far couldn’t hurt anyone. But it is hurting. It’s hurting me. I’m worried about Sam not forgiving me, but what if I can’t forgive myself?
And I know Elizabeth is my sister and Sam is just this guy I barely know, and that should make my loyalties clear, but Sam doesn’t feel like just some guy. It doesn’t feel like I’ve only just met him either. Something happened last night.
The way I feel about Sam . . . the way I think he feels about me . . . can I trust him? And if not, what does that say about us? If I believe my gut, which says Sam will keep my and Elizabeth’s secret from his mom, and I end up wrong, I’ve lost Sam and my sister.
Why can’t I figure any of this out for myself?
Mr. Fenton thinks it’s so black and white and that of course I should tell Sam, but he doesn’t know Elizabeth’s perspective.
A seagull streaks by the window and I blink.
Mr. Fenton.
Of course. He’ll help me make heads or tails of this. He’s a mostly neutral party (despite the fact that he and Sam have bonded pretty hard ever since their Aubustus Caesar moment) and he’s already proven trustworthy. He’s got years of wisdom. I’ll tell him all the details he doesn’t know yet and then he’ll tell me exactly what I should do.
It takes thirty full seconds to slide out from under Sam’s arm. That’s how careful I am not to wake him. Instantly I miss his warmth next to me. Slipping out of his room, I ease the door closed with the tiniest of clicks.
I take the elevator to Mr. Fenton’s suite. Yes, suite. All part of the high-roller package we put together. I reach it just as a uniformed waiter with a room service cart stops in front. Oh, phew. I was worried about knocking at such an indecent hour, even if I know by now that Mr. Fenton is an early riser.
“Good morning, mademoiselle,” the waiter says.
“Good morning,” I answer. We both wait for the door to open.
He turns to me. “Would you like me to bring up another place setting? The monsieur placed his breakfast order upon check-in yesterday and it only included service for one.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” He nods and we both shuffle our feet a bit as we listen for signs of movement on the other side of the door.
“He did request five-thirty a.m.,” the waiter says when a minute stretches to two.
“Do you have a key?” I ask. “He had a big night last night, so he may be sleeping it off.”
Please, please, please do not let me walk in on Mr. Fenton and Emma.
Or Mary.
Or Dolores! I imagine if I told Sam that tidbit, he wouldn’t care if my name was really Chewbacca.
Shrugging, the waiter pulls a key card from his pocket. He swipes it through the reader and when it beeps twice, he steps aside to allow me to enter before rolling his cart in behind me.
“Mr. Fenton?” I call. Good Lord, this suite is HUGE! The living room is brightening from the rising sun through the open curtains and the bedroom door is ajar enough that I can see an unmade bed. Maybe Mr. Fenton is in the bathroom. I call out extra loudly from the doorway, not daring to venture farther. Hank in a towel was quite risqué enough for me.
Behind me, the waiter makes himself busy, removing silver domes from plates and pouring coffee into a rattling cup. Inside the bedroom, it’s eerily quiet.
Something isn’t right.
I can’t put my finger on it, but the air is too still.
I step into the bedroom and turn toward the bathroom, but my eyes rest on something by the foot of the bed. It’s a slipper. With a foot attached. I race over and cover my mouth with my hand.
Mr. Fenton is on the floor, one arm splayed out. The other lies across his chest. His legs are crumpled, and the right one is at an awkward angle. He’s unnaturally still. I take a step backward and collide with the waiter.
“Is everything all right, mademoiselle? You gasped.”
I did?
“I think . . . I think he might be . . .” But I can’t say the words. Instead, I brush past the waiter to race out the door and down the hallway, down the stairs next to the elevator, not stopping until I reach Sam’s door, which I bang on with all my might. Then I slump to the ground. When he answers, his smile falls from his face as he sees me on the floor. He drops to his knees beside me so he can look into my face.
“Lizzie? Lizzie, what is it?”
I stare at him and then burst into tears.
“I think Mr. Fenton is dead.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mr. Fenton is dead.
Mr. Fenton is dead.
I still can’t comprehend the words, even after returning to his bedside with Sam and waiting until the paramedics summoned by the waiter burst in and started checking for vital signs. I already knew what they’d find.
He’s gone.
Sweet, kind, wise Mr. Fenton. I’m sure I can’t have any tears left in me, but every time I picture his face or think of him standing at the front of the bus all aglow with his facts and stories about things that happened a million gajillion years ago, I lose it all over again.
The paramedics tell us they suspect a heart attack. He’d complained of aches several times yesterday, but always in jest at his old age and always attributing them to his hike in Cinque Terre. But maybe something had been happening even then. Dolores mentioned he’d had several drinks after dinner, and that plus his age plus the excitement of the trip and the day yesterday . . .
It’s not fair. I don’t care how “long and full” his life was. It’s still not fair. I just . . . he was so . . . he was alive. Hours ago. And now he’s not.
Thank God for Sam. He’s a rock. When he’s not holding me and wiping my tears away with his fingertips, he’s on the phone with his mom, and giving statements to the hotel manager and the police they called, and making sure everyone else is checked in for another night and settled into their rooms. I don’t know how the rest of the group is passing the morning, but I hope they’re all together somewhere.
Mr. Fenton’s suite overlooks the harbor with its dozens of luxury yachts bobbing in their moorings, and I can’t even comprehend that there are people out there enjoying a beautiful sun-filled day on the French Riviera. It should be dark and gray and stormy out. It shouldn’t be cloudless blue.
He was just here. He was smiling and helping Dolores out of a ridiculously expensive sports car. He should be standing in front of me, telling us all about, well, I don’t really know about what because we’re headed to Barcelona next and I haven’t researched much about the history of Spain yet.
“Lizzie?” Sam’s touch is gentle and so is his voice as he brings me back from my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“The hotel is sending up some breakfast. You should probably try to eat something. And then we need to go to the embassy and work out the details for getting his . . . his . . .” He stumbles a bit and I hear a tickle in his voice. “His body home,” he finishes.
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
We have to go to Marseille now. Well I do, at least. Marseille is the closest office of a US consulate and I need to fill out the paperwork necessary when an American dies abroad. Or so we learn from Mrs. Bellamy.
She’s been nothing but caring and concerned, much like her son, despite being woken with the news in the middle of her night.
The only issue we’ve had has been an argument between Sam and his mother over whether or not he could accompany me to the consulate. His mom wanted someone to remain with the other group members and Sam refuses to leave my side. Given that he’s on this continent and she’s not, he won that one; we compromised by leaving Bento and the bus behind and allowing the hotel to arrange a car for us.
I was prepared to go on my own—it is my duty, after all—but I’m glad Sam insisted on coming too. I’m not so worried about everyone else. Emma and Mary have organized a shiva of sorts in their room, despite the fact that neither one of them is Jewish. Even Hank and Maisy seem to have acquired some decorum; when we stopped in to say good-bye, they were sitting a perfectly respectable distance from each other on the couch. Mr. Fenton probably would have made some joke about dying earlier if he’d known that was all it would take to separate the horndogs. I stuff my hand in my mouth to keep from giggling at such an inappropriate time, but it’s either that or cry more.
Emma squeezes my hand. “You be brave,” she says. I choke back more tears. I don’t deserve a group like this.
We arrive at the embassy just after lunchtime and we’re taken to a quiet office by an American dressed in a fancy suit that fits in well with all the French fashion. He gestures to seats and faces us across a desk.
“First, let me say that I’m so sorry for your loss.” His accent is a southern drawl and seems out of place.
Sam and I answer with tight smiles.
“I understand there’s some paperwork I need to fill out?” I ask.
The man passes a form to me. We’ve already spoken on the phone, so he knows which hospital has Mr. Fenton and what the circumstances of his death were. This part is just a formality.
“This is a consular report of death of an American citizen abroad form. It’ll be for our records, but will also serve as official documentation to settle any legal and estate issues back in the United States. I understand his next of kin is his niece?”