A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  She thought about that look often for the rest of that day and throughout the next, especially since Emerson seemed at last to respect the hands-off signals she’d been sending him and did, indeed, give her some space. The moment he followed directions, of course, was the very moment she found herself missing his company and conversation—not that she intended to admit that to him or to her meddling aunt.

  “Gwennie, I like seeing you with these energetic young people. Don’t feel you need to hang around me all the time. Go off and be with them.” She pointed toward the unbreakable foursome.

  “Who could be more energetic than you?” Gwen replied, smiling. “And, besides, I love spending time with you.” This skirted the edges of truthfulness, yes, but far less so since they’d been in Europe together. Gwen was finding new things to appreciate about Aunt Bea every day. The dynamic between them had changed in this parallel universe, and since no one—not even her aunt or the Dubuque S&M members—could challenge her as much as Emerson, Gwen appreciated her aunt’s company all the more.

  Aunt Bea squinted at her in disbelief but elected to say nothing. Internally, Gwen sighed, her relief tinged with just a few speckles of guilt, and she tagged along with her aunt and her aunt’s friends for the rest of the day.

  Tuesday proved to be a packed cornucopia of touristic delights, beginning with reservations to the Uffizi and seeing Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and Primavera, along with an early da Vinci, a Michelangelo panel painting and a string of work by artists she could only jot down in a notebook. Her eyes were soon swimming with them: Titian (just like Emerson promised), Giotto, Vasari, Raphael, Canaletto, even a couple of pieces by the Spaniard Goya and a Flemish section featuring Rubens and Van Dyck.

  Caravaggio, the baroque master of a painting style called “chiaroscuro,” that forced extreme contrasts by the use of harsh light and deep shadows, even had his version of Bacchus on display, but that wasn’t the only one they saw.

  A few hours later at the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence’s premier sculpture museum, Emerson, his smile matching the mischievousness of Donatello’s Cupid, zipped past the famous sculpture to archly point out Michelangelo’s version of Bacchus to his brother and their friends. Gwen was beginning to get the idea that between the triumvirate of Caravaggio, Michelangelo and the Vettius brothers, Emerson himself would soon be channeling the spirit of the partying god and would, undoubtedly, become a living replica of him. This particular sculpture, carved by Michelangelo when he was only twenty-two, was clearly inspired by the classical works the young master studied in Rome, but it was also imbued with the Renaissance artist’s sense of realism. The god of wine and revelry was portrayed as a young man, holding his cup unsteadily and reeling back on his knees as if literally tipsy.

  “He’s drunk,” Emerson said to her, his tone amused, indulgent. Then, more softly, “Having fun is part of the human experience, you see? For centuries, people celebrated it.” He nodded again at the sculpture, beautifully crafted in Italian marble. “They honored good food, good drink and each other. It’s not a bad thing to want to enjoy the light as well as the shadows. The sweetness as well as the bitterness.” He swallowed. “It’s part of being alive.”

  Then he strode away, and she was left wondering if it was his intent to disturb her equilibrium or if he, in fact, thought he was being helpful while creating these unsettling feelings inside her. All she knew was that, since coming to Europe and meeting him, she felt less like herself than ever. He’d thrown her off balance and it would take a serious readjustment to right the scale. No one person should have so powerful an effect on another.

  Their busy day wound down with a visit to the famous Medici palace (the Palazzo Pitti), the Boboli Gardens and, finally, concluded with a bus ride to Piazzale Michelangelo for a panoramic view of the city at sunset.

  Hans-Josef said, “This is one of the most popular squares in Florence, and it offers the best view of the city.” He waved his palm at Fiesole’s green hills in the distance and pointed to the most notable landmarks as they watched the sinking sun bathe the ancient city in glittering light.

  He nodded at the famous cupola that dominated the city’s skyline, reminding Gwen of their visit to Brunelleschi’s dome just the day before. Hans-Josef told them that Brunelleschi had died in 1446, knowing he’d created an awe-inspiring masterpiece of both art and engineering, one that was still much admired in their present generation. And that Giorgio Vasari, who wrote The Lives of the Artists, said that Florentine artists and architects excelled because they were hungry. That their fierce competition for commissions against each other kept them hungry.

  “ ‘Competition, ’ ” Hans-Josef said, quoting Vasari, “ ‘is one of the nourishments that maintain them.’ ”

  “Yes. Competition is a good thing,” Emerson murmured to his brother, his tone one of mocking.

  “Particularly when you know you’re stronger than your opponent,” Thoreau shot back.

  Although their tour guide and most of the trip members didn’t hear them, Gwen was close enough to listen to every word the Edwards brothers said to each other and to watch their reactions closely. They were good-natured men, yes. They loved one another, also true. But their sense of competition was very real. And, in an odd way, she understood she could easily be made a pawn in their game. Whose side did she really want to play on? Both? Neither? Would it be better to wait to see what they did next or to take a position of offense?

  She also eyed Louisa, whose glance was fixed on something in the distance, and Cynthia, who was staring back at Gwen with the oddest expression of speculation.

  Gwen looked away.

  But, as the sunset lingered, splashing the buildings with golden waves, she came to the utterly logical conclusion that, if she were to err greatly, it would most likely be on Emerson’s side. She couldn’t go too far wrong with her friendship toward Thoreau. It lacked almost every worrisome element. Besides, men and women could become friends at any time and stay friends—so long as one person didn’t try to transform the friendship into a romance. Thoreau was too hung up on that Amanda person in England to try anything inappropriate. This certainly could not be said of his brother.

  She took a step toward Thoreau, but Louisa, who appeared to have finally emerged from her hypnotic state, turned to him and asked a question. And Cynthia, who’d spotted Gwen moving in their direction, wasted not a single second in hooking her arm through Emerson’s and literally jerking him away toward some other corner of the piazza.

  Gwen blinked after them, her posture oddly off balance since she’d been ready to spring into action just the moment before. She let herself down easily. Let herself relax back to the ground again. Told herself it was better this way. And tried to recover by turning her attention once and for all to the scenic vista that was spread buffet-style before her.

  Like a spray of summer showers, the last ray of sunshine sprinkled Florence with droplets of liquid gold, then dried quickly and evaporated into the night air. With the coming of the evening there was the new brightness of houselights and street lamps. This was not a city that would dwell in darkness for long, although, like one of Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro paintings, there were distinct areas of deep shade. Secrets hidden in the shadows.

  “We go out now for gelato,” Hans-Josef announced, clapping his hands, breaking the spell and herding them all onto the bus. Gwen recognized the name of the place right away since Emerson had already mentioned it.

  At Vivoli’s, “perhaps the world’s most famous gelateria and one that has been in existence since the 1930s,” or so Hans-Josef informed them, Gwen bought herself and her aunt double scoops of ice cream and, privately, she judged the merits of this cone against the one she’d had at Festival del Gelato. (She selected the same flavors for proper comparison purposes.) While Vivoli’s cioccolato all’arancia and fragola were very tasty, she noted slight differences as well. There had been larger candied orange chunks in Festival del Gelato’s version of the c
ioccolato all’arancia and there were simply more strawberry bits in Vivoli’s fragola.

  But, though she appreciated the taste sensation of both versions well enough, she had to admit she’d enjoyed her former gelato experience more. Most likely not at all on account of the ice cream, but only because she’d been at Festival del Gelato with Emerson. Just the two of them. Alone.

  She watched him laughing about something with Ani and his father, the three of them standing in the ordering line. The boy looked up at Emerson, obvious admiration in his young brown eyes, and a respect that Gwen knew was hard to elicit from a teen.

  All day Gwen had spent trying to escape the allure of the man. But that night, sitting across the room from him, she realized this wouldn’t be possible while they were still together on the tour. Despite her wishes to the contrary, it was undeniable how much more fun she’d had when in his company. And it wasn’t only his conversation she craved. His energy was what moved him to be fascinating, in her opinion, even without words spoken.

  She frowned and studied her cone.

  Aunt Bea, Matilda and Dr. Louie were debating the strengths and weaknesses of their chosen flavors.

  “This caffè gelato is like coffee-lite,” Matilda complained. “I was hoping for a stronger hit of caffeine.”

  “It isn’t supposed to taste like your morning espresso,” Dr. Louie said around a mouthful of amarena. He paused, licked and grinned. “Oooh. Got a big cherry this time.”

  Aunt Bea thoughtfully tasted each of her two new flavors: lampone and fico (raspberry and fig), a combination that had Gwen a bit baffled, but it was what her aunt had wanted. “I really like the tartness of the lampone,” Bea said, “but it’s the sweet creaminess of the fico that would make me order this one again.”

  Quite a tribute in her aunt’s book. Bea hadn’t ordered the same two gelato flavors (or was it more correct to use the plural—gelati flavors?) since they’d set foot in Italy.

  For a few minutes more Gwen mimicked their dialogue, commenting on the taste and texture of her gelato, listening to Aunt Bea and her friends rave about Tuscany’s foodie splendors and tolerating their ribbing about her being a potential object of interest for Hans-Josef, Emerson and Thoreau.

  At first she tried to laugh it off, but they wouldn’t allow for an easy denial, even though Gwen knew the truth of the matter and it was as simple as a Venn diagram: Circle One contained the single women on the tour. Circle Two contained the women within the general age bracket of the three thirty- or forty-something men. With Louisa being married (not that she acted like it), Zenia being decidedly single (but over sixty), the only women in the intersecting segment of those two circles were Gwen and Cynthia. Three available men. Two available women. And one group of pesky seniors determined to get a pair or two of them together. Not that it would work.

  Additionally, she was starting to feel an uncomfortable sensation that, at first, she’d thought was indigestion—but, instead, it was her ire rising. There had to be more to this trip for her than just letting herself get scripted into some relationship drama for the amusement of her aunt and her club pals. Was this what being on a tour reduced life to? A hyperfocus on relationships? What about big-picture things—art, history, culture, the meaning of life? Why did male-female attraction intrude upon these loftier ideals and supplant higher intellectual interests with the pursuit of base desires?

  Gwen had promised herself she’d embrace the travel adventure and, yet, here she was stepping away from it again. Hiding in plain sight behind the wackiness of a bunch of elderly gamesters. She’d gotten close to being in the whirl of excitement when she was alone with Emerson, but had shied away again the minute he’d propositioned her.

  She touched her Mouth of Truth pendant. Could she be honest with herself? Maybe the problem was that she’d let Emerson control their interactions and lead their conversations. Maybe what she needed to do was be bold enough to take the reins away from him and direct their discussions and their activities to her liking and comfort level. Heaven knew, with him, there were bound to be surprises enough, even if she was as assertive as possible.

  She saw Hans-Josef strolling toward them, and Matilda nudged Gwen’s side in delight. It was enough to bring Gwen to her feet at last and get her to finally make a decision, however small, that supported the handling of her own destiny.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to ask the Brits over there a couple of questions.”

  Dr. Louie’s eyes twinkled as he nodded at her, Matilda grinned and Aunt Bea emitted a little squeal of encouragement.

  Gwen slipped away before they could actually form embarrassing sentences and verbalize them, taking daring strides toward the circular table where Emerson, Thoreau, Louisa and Cynthia were seated. There was one empty chair available—between the two women. Her breath caught in her throat when she reached it.

  But then Thoreau said, “Hello, there. Wish to join us?”

  Louisa (although not Cynthia) shuffled her chair over a bit to make room.

  And Emerson, whose cocky gaze ping-ponged between Gwen’s face and her ice-cream cone, raised a dark blond eyebrow. “Tell me those are not the same two flavors you got last time? The chocolate-orange and the strawberry? Hmm. Not too adventurous of you,” he chided.

  She slid into the seat, aware of Cynthia’s resentful glance to her right, Louisa’s mystified one to her left and Thoreau’s general amusement in front of her.

  “They are the same flavors,” she admitted to Emerson, “but I won’t make that mistake again. I was just testing a theory this time.”

  “I like theories. And your conclusion?” he asked.

  “It’s the company not the cone,” she shot back, watching as he analyzed her remark in an attempt to determine whether it was a compliment or an insult.

  He opened his mouth, no doubt on the verge of asking her directly, but Gwen was prepared to seize the conversation as she’d intended. This was a competition, after all, even if there would be no romantic intrigues between her and any of the men. The boys could play their games in whichever openly abusive manner they wanted, but it was high time Gwen came to understand the psychology of her opponent.

  She took a breath, swiveled to face Cynthia and smiled. “So, tell me about yourself. How did you get to know everyone here?”

  The next morning at breakfast, by the coffee bar, Thoreau murmured, “Delightful chess match, Gwen. Well played.”

  Gwen blinked at him. “What are you talking about? I haven’t played anyone in chess.”

  He raised both brows at that. “To me, it looked like white pawn to e4 in a covered attack against the black queen at d5, threatening her into backing away from the center squares so you could cleverly capture the black knight at f5.” He crossed his arms and regarded her smugly. “Thank you for letting me assist last night, if only as a poor white bishop on g2.”

  She pretended innocence at his insinuation. “I don’t really know how to play the game.”

  He laughed. “Bollocks. I’m impressed. If you’re not formally trained, then you’re an intuitive player and far better than you think. Not sure my brother stands a chance against you in a live chess match—although I doubt he knows it yet.”

  She shook her head. Sure, she’d used a strategy of sorts, but it wasn’t quite as calculated as Thoreau seemed to suggest. “I just asked a few questions. I was trying to be ... conversational.”

  “You asked Cynthia enough questions to make her think she was the cover story in the next issue of People. And it was a very clever opening move because she liked the attention. Quite a lot. Your interest caught her off guard and it distracted her from noticing she’d lost her controlling position in the center of the board.”

  He glanced around the room. The Britsicles were chatting in a far corner. Louisa glanced over at them and raised her hand in a wave. Cynthia looked, too, and actually smiled at Gwen.

  He lowered his voice further. “Plus, you may have even made a couple of new friends.�
� He grinned. “Let me know if you ever want to learn the board-game version, Gwen. It would be great fun to teach you. A few more moves like that and you’ll find yourself at the backline becoming a new white queen.” With a parting nod and a cup of Italian espresso he was gone.

  She knew enough about chess to understand what he’d meant about the pieces and the positions, but his analogy had her worrying her bottom lip, not at all certain if she should be flattered or insulted that he considered her such a crafty pawn, even if it were just for the duration of one game. She couldn’t help but feel the powerlessness of her position. Interesting, too, that he tagged himself as a bishop—an adviser of sorts on her team—and Emerson as a dashing knight on the other team that’d gotten cornered between her and Cynthia (the overly attentive yet easily sidetracked queen). Thoreau hadn’t bothered to give Louisa a position. Perhaps he considered her irrelevant in the chess match.

  But if Gwen thought she’d finished with all game-playing exercises for the day, she was mistaken.

  It was the Fourth of July and, at long last, she received her first e-mail from Richard that morning:

  Dear Gwendolyn,

  Sorry I wasn’t able to respond sooner. My home computer got a virus, so I haven’t been using it. And at work the server was down this week, and I couldn’t access my e-mail until it was fixed. Glad to hear you’re having fun in Italy, though. I’ll be thinking of you when I’m at the picnic.

  Richard

  Just “Richard.” Not “Love, Richard,” “Fondly, Richard,” “Yours, Richard” or even his most formal “Sincerely, Richard.” He pretty clearly was still upset with her for leaving.