She groaned. “Oh, please. Save the acting for when you’re putting on another show with your brother.”
He feigned a stab to the heart. “I am struck.”
“No, you are insane,” she shot back. It was impossible to take anything that man said about emotion seriously. She glanced at her watch and carefully hung up the celestial mask she liked. “We have less than an hour before we need to meet the tour, so we probably should get something to eat now.”
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “So be it. I know where to go for that as well.” He tossed her a playful look. “You would be quite lost without me. Admit it.”
“I’d get by,” she said, the bolt of stubbornness strengthening.
He shrugged. “It’s possible. But you would scarcely see as much and you would have far less fun.”
She refused to admit this was 200 percent true.
They stopped for lunch at a little café with a daily special that included linguini in a choice of meat sauce or a white sauce with something called calamaretto. A kind of cheese, maybe? There were samples of them behind the counter, and they both looked tasty. She wasn’t sure which one to order, so Emerson said, “You’re not allergic to seafood, are you?”
She shook her head. Before she could ask where on Earth he saw seafood, he said, “Good. We’ll get one of each and share.”
When the plates came they were heaped with pasta. Gwen stared at them both, trying to figure out a way to split the meal into two so they could share without noodles spilling over onto the table. She was just about to ask their server for a couple of additional plates when Emerson stuck his fork right into the center of his pasta mountain—the one in front of him had the meat sauce—and swirled.
But, instead of devouring this forkful, he lifted it to her lips and said, “I would like you to take the first bite.” And when she didn’t immediately open her mouth because she was staring at him in shock, he added, “Really, Gwen. Taste it. You should savor it, like a fine Tuscan wine.”
So she opened for him ... and let him feed her.
She chewed slowly, dutifully at first, but then she pulled her eyes away from him and let herself actually relish the combination of flavors, textures and scents. “Mmm,” she murmured as she swallowed.
“Good. Now take a sip of this to clear the palate.” He poured her a glass of sparkling water with a hint of lemon. She followed directions, curious to see what he’d do next. He reached across the table, swirled his fork in the white-sauce linguini and brought this to her lips, too. “All right. Time for the second act.”
She let him feed her that forkful of pasta as well. She chewed. Savored. Swallowed. And thought about how very, very ... intimate it was to share a meal like this with someone. Especially with someone like Emerson.
It was, in fact, a novelty. Not so much the meal, though it was very well prepared, but the being fed aspect. By a man. Richard might order fine food on occasion, but he had never—not in the entirety of their two years together—ever fed her so much as a morsel of anything from his plate.
Emerson was watching her, tilting his head. Clearly, he was musing over something, too, but she wasn’t sure what. “Which do you like best?” he asked, still not having taken a bite of either type of linguini himself. His careful attention to her reactions was unsettling, but in a heightened-awareness sense rather than in an awkward one.
“I—I’m not sure,” she mumbled, trying to blink away this new odd vibe between them. She needed to take some immediate action, so she plunged her fork into the pasta closest to her and swirled it just the way he had done. Then, when she was sure there would be no dripping sauces, she reached across the table and presented it to him in the same manner that he’d given it to her. “Your turn,” she said, trying to sound bold. “Taste this.”
He opened his mouth—his expression serious, sincere—and took it from her.
Gwen learned something new, swiftly and powerfully: If being fed by a man created the sensation of intimacy, feeding him in return exponentially increased that emotion. Not only was Emerson crossing all of her borders, invading her personal space and treating her with unprecedented familiarity, but he was letting her traipse into his private world, too. And there was something almost intoxicating in that gesture.
She fed him from the second plate as well. “Which is your favorite?” she asked, after he’d had a chance to swallow.
He wrinkled his forehead as he stared between the two heaping dishes. “I’m not certain either. Probably means we need to try both of them again, yes?”
He didn’t smirk when he said this. He looked at her with the earnestness of a teen boy waiting for permission to make the next move. To put his arm around her, perhaps.
She nodded and, in response, he fed her a forkful of each type of pasta all over again. Then she did the same for him. And they repeated this—feeding one another and watching as the other one savored each bite—for so many times that Gwen lost count. She didn’t even freak out (too much) when he finally confessed what calamaretto meant.
“I’m eating small squid?” she said.
He replied with his usual nonchalance, “Naturally. Venetians live off the sea.”
But there was nothing nonchalant about any of this to her. In Gwen’s opinion, this dining experience was the single most erotic thing she’d ever done without physically touching—or being touched by—someone.
When they finally got up to leave, he took her hand in his, out in public this time, and held it gently as they reentered the Venetian crowds.
“Right. Let’s get you back in time to meet the ghosts of Doges past,” he said.
She laughed and glanced around them. Not that she had any intention of admitting this to Emerson, but she was utterly lost—as if in a cornfield maze intended for Halloween revelers. He, however, knew just how to get them back to Piazza San Marco, not letting go of her hand until they reached the bustling square. They made it with only eight minutes to spare for the afternoon tour of the Doge’s Palace, the viewing of the famous Titian painting Assumption of the Virgin, the infamous Bridge of Sighs and a dozen other sites on Hans-Josef’s carefully planned agenda. As much as Gwen tried to focus on the history, though, and on the stunning artwork and architecture around them, she found everything blurring together after a time, like the oil paints on a novice’s first attempt at Impressionism.
He fed her linguini. Her mind and body still hadn’t quite assimilated this romantic, intentional, affectionate act. This sarcastic, dramatic, incredibly bright man ... was also tender. She tried to swallow away her feelings of attraction toward him, but she could still taste the sauce on her lips from their meal, and her fingers still tingled from when he’d held her hand.
He also didn’t believe in long-term commitments, she reminded herself, if only to keep from slipping into some kind of adolescent reverie. Plus, he lived in another country.
But he liked her. She knew that for sure.
That was something.
For their final day in Venice (a Friday the thirteenth, no less, but Gwen had never been superstitious that way), they were instructed to pack up their bags right after breakfast. They could keep their luggage in the hotel baggage area, but they needed to check out of their rooms because the tour group was going on a morning glassblowing excursion to Venice’s sister island, Murano.
She was sitting next to Aunt Bea on the vaporetto as they pulled up to the workshop and could see the glassblowers sheltered inside as they approached. It was strangely picturesque. Much like her first impression of Venice on the day they arrived, Gwen had no problem sensing an immediate connection to the history of the region.
The sound of happy chitchatting in the water-bus, combined with the swish of the waves and the call of the seagulls, made for a lyrical entrance, but not necessarily a twenty-first-century one. In staring at the working glassblower and his assistants framed in the open doorway, Gwen could almost make her vision of them shift and blur in her mind, much the w
ay kids stared at those optical-illusion cards until the images swirled and blended and emerged from their flat 2-D form into watercolory 3-D, right before their eyes. For a brief moment, with the musical tones of her surroundings and the distorted view she created, Gwen felt again as though she’d been given a motion-picture-like window into the past.
When they disembarked, she had a chance to witness the act of glassblowing itself—a perilous occupation if ever she’d seen one—but she couldn’t help but admire both their craft and their courage.
Zenia, who responded to any performance in the artistic realm with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old in the Magic Kingdom, watched with rapt attention the process of creating just one, thin, red vase, rimmed with gold. “I can’t weave the red glass into any of my projects,” Gwen overheard her whispering to Hester. “Too dangerous. But I can replicate that color. And I can add some gold ribbon to mimic the visual effect.”
“Bet that’d look beautiful,” Hester said appreciatively.
A half hour later, after they’d had a chance to inspect the gift shop and purchase Murano glass of their own (Cynthia was in raptures over the jewelry), Gwen found herself near Hester and Zenia again, this time on their way back to the vaporetto. On the dock, looking out at the canal, Gwen tried to see the collection of islands the way the people of the past must have viewed them. She spotted some gondoliers in the far distance and smiled. Her fantasy Venetians were mental mannequins, stand-ins for the humans who’d once sailed these waters. And being here, walking where they had once walked, seeing what they had once seen, made her feel as though they were a part of her. Their daring in conquering this amphibious land allowed her to stand here today. Even though they died decades or centuries ago ... in her experience, trailing their footsteps, they lived on.
“I know what I want the sequel of my Pisa book to be called,” Hester informed Zenia, who was clutching a carefully wrapped replica of the red-and-gold vase she saw the glassblower make. “Death in Venice.”
“Wasn’t there already a novel called that?” Zenia asked.
“Yeah,” Hester said, stepping into the vaporetto. “But it’s high time there was another.”
Gwen smothered a smile at this, and Aunt Bea, who couldn’t help but overhear, too, as they all boarded the water-bus, shot her a cheerful grin.
“Live every moment of your life, Gwennie,” Bea said, nodding in Hester’s direction. “The years zip by faster than any of us think.” She threw her head back and laughed at the rays of sun warming her pale skin. “You should dance. Sing. Buy extravagant things every now and again. Make time for love and good food. And take a nap when it all gets to be too much.”
With that, her aunt took her own advice and slept the whole way back to the hotel.
“We have just one hour and forty-three minutes before we must leave Venice,” Hans-Josef reminded them upon their return. “We depart for Budapest at two o’clock sharp. So, have lunch or a snack. Buy any last souvenirs. See San Marco’s Square one more time, but be back here by two. You all understand this, ja? ”
“Ja!” everyone chorused dutifully in response.
The mask shop. Gwen had almost forgotten about the celestial mask she’d liked so much. Somehow, it seemed more important to her than ever to go back for it.
She pulled Emerson aside to ask him directions. “I remember it was called Il Carnevale, but I was hoping you might draw me a map.”
“No.” He crossed his arms and waited.
“No, that’s not what the shop is called, or no, you won’t draw the map?”
“The latter. When will you learn that I like to spend time with you, hmm?” he chided. “Besides, we don’t have hours available. It would take me longer to draw the map than it would to just take you there myself. I don’t want to be the one responsible for getting you lost in Venice. Come with me.” And before she could blink he was already three yards ahead of her.
It took a solid thirty minutes of walking—she hadn’t realized just how far they’d meandered the day before—to get back to that little place, but that wasn’t what increased her pulse or made her feel breathless.
“It’s gone,” she whispered, scanning the wall frantically for any trace of the mask she’d held yesterday. “Oh, no.”
Emerson squinted at the wall display and then, apparently not seeing it there either, he began to inspect the various pieces on the tables and near the window in search of it. He shot her a regretful glance. “Maybe if we ask the man over there?”
It was a different person working in the back this time. A guy. Someone not as friendly or as welcoming as the lady artisan from yesterday. But, nevertheless, Emerson approached him and described the mask Gwen was looking for.
The man scowled and kind of shook his head. Gwen’s heart clenched. It was her own fault. She shouldn’t have waited to buy it. Some things should be snapped up the moment they’re seen. Or, like a saying her father was fond of, “Good things come to those who wait, but not to those who wait too late.” She sighed, disappointment seeping deep inside her. She took a step toward the door.
“Gwen, wait,” Emerson said. He pointed in the direction of the now-empty chair. Where had the man gone?
The Italian emerged from the backroom a moment later ... holding her mask!
“Oh, thank you!” she cried. It was as lovely as she remembered, perhaps even more so because she thought she’d lost the chance to have it. The sun, moon, stars and comet sparkled on the face of the mask like the night sky on a cloudless night.
The guy shrugged, gave it to Gwen and said something in brusque Italian to Emerson, who chuckled lightly. Then the man returned to ignoring them.
“He said that the lady who was here yesterday is the owner of the shop. And she’d set aside the mask for you.” Emerson smiled at Gwen. “I guess she overheard our conversation.”
Relief and delight collided within her. How grateful she was to that woman for her thoughtfulness and, perhaps, for her romanticism—however unfounded. “That’s so kind.” She lifted the mask by its handle and held it up to her face. “How does it look?”
“Excellent,” he said with enthusiasm. “Now I need one.”
They looked around the shop like giddy children for a minute until another Phantom-like mask caught her eye. It was similar in the simplicity of the design to the ones they’d seen on the Rialto Bridge, but it was clear that the craftsmanship of this mask was superior. And there were little distinctive touches that gave it an unusual elegance.
He saw her staring at it, so he picked it up. “You do realize we have the option to go to see The Phantom of the Opera when we get to London, right?”
Oh, yes, she knew.
“Aunt Bea told me.” She watched as he fastened the mask to his head.
If anything had tipped Gwen over the edge as far as going on this trip, it was that. But she was afraid to so much as think about seeing the musical live for fear she’d jinx the experience. She didn’t want to be as acutely disappointed as she knew she would be if they ended up going to see another theatrical production instead.
“Should I tell you to sing for me, my Angel of Music?” he asked, looking very much like the Phantom, indeed, in spite of wearing a T-shirt and khakis instead of a black cloak.
She held her mask firmly to her face. “I do not sing in public, Emerson. Not ever.”
“Well, what’s stopping you? Your voice can’t be that bad.”
How to explain? It wasn’t really about her voice being bad. It was more about being vulnerable. About showing her love of the music to the world. That love wasn’t for public consumption or display. It was ... personal.
Before she could even try to stop him, he began humming the first few ominous bars from the musical’s title track. Now he looked and sounded like the Phantom. “Come. Hum the notes with me at least,” he said.
She was behind a mask and there was no one in the shop, save for an Italian man, who was determinedly ignoring them, and Emerson, who was her fr
iend. She managed a few notes, which were oddly amplified by the acoustics of singing directly into lacquered papier-mâché.
“Very good,” Phantom Emerson said. He hummed some more and made her join him in that, too. Just when she was starting to get into it a little and lose a touch of her self-consciousness, though, he paused.
“What?” she asked. He was staring through his mask and hers, deep into her eyes. “Did I hit a wrong note?”
He shook his head. “Tu sei una stella ... la mia stella,” he murmured. “You are a star ... my star.” He took a couple of steps closer to her, never breaking eye contact, and slowly unfastened his mask.
She lowered hers and watched as he removed his and placed it gently on the table next to them. Then he slid her mask out of her hands and set it beside his.
In her mind, the air around them still vibrated with their music. The humming of those notes harmonized with their environment, and every object in the shop pulsed silently along with them.
Even with their façades on the table, the song seemed to continue.
He took another step forward, and then another, until there was nothing between them but the abrasiveness of fabric. With his right hand, he brushed a few strands of her hair behind her ear and didn’t let his fingers come to a stop until they rested at the base of her neck. Then he hummed, soft and low—a soloist this time. His lips were still quivering with the notes when he brought his mouth to hers and coaxed it open. She heard herself gasp.
A kiss with Emerson ... What could she say about it?
A poet would try to use flowery phrases to describe it—and would never succeed in capturing the warmth and strength and passion of it.
A mathematician might be able to quantify how long it lasted, but that would be all.
A physicist, with some state-of-the-art equipment, perhaps, would be capable (at most) of determining the force their bodies exerted upon each other.
But in that moment, Gwen was herself a musician. Notes danced in the air between them. And the only words she could think of were snippets of lyrics from a different Andrew Lloyd Webber song—one of her favorites—“Love Changes Everything.” To her, kissing Emerson meant that nothing in the world would ever be the same.
A Summer In Europe Page 19