A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Gwen and her tour mates watched in utter silence as the competitors filled up their grids. To Gwen’s eye, Matilda looked exhausted but determined. With her fluid handwriting and mental precision, she put a digit in every empty box. Three of the men finished before her—their finishing times written by the timekeeper on their boards—and the last man finished just after her. Each turned to face the crowd and cap their marker when they were done. No matter what her placement, Matilda was smiling, obviously gratified to have achieved what she did.

  Everyone in the audience waited patiently for the organizers to carefully check the accuracy of all five puzzles before declaring the winning order. There were whispers when, after examining the dry-erase board of the number two finisher from Germany, it was revealed that he’d made a few errors due to a numeric reversal. He was moved to fifth place, which put Matilda at third! It was decided that the man from Denmark, who finished in the fastest time, was winner. The new second-place finisher from Thailand was next, then Matilda, then a man from the Czech Republic and, finally, the German. At last the crowd could show their support with enthusiastic—even downright boisterous—cheers.

  Zenia had been forced to contain her zeal for far longer than was natural. She was squealing, shrieking, clapping and bouncing up and down in her seat. “You’re amazing, girl! So proud a’ you. Whoo-hoo, lady!”

  Aunt Bea was half cheering, half consumed by laughter over Zenia’s reaction. And Dr. Louie whistled and pumped his fists a few times in between claps. Matilda was grinning at him.

  He turned around to high-five Emerson and Gwen. “She’s something, isn’t she?” he said.

  “Something wonderful,” Gwen replied, willing him to really look at Matilda and see the love streaming from her toward him.

  Emerson readily agreed. As soon as Dr. Louie turned around, though, and the contestants had a chance to shake each others’ hands and congratulate their fellow finalists, Emerson leaned forward, just inches behind Dr. Louie’s right ear, and said loudly. “You know, Gwen, Matilda is a most amazing lady. Look at how those younger, international men are hovering about her. She might be an octogenarian, but she’s still quite a catch.”

  “I know. She’s beautiful,” Gwen said, slanting a look at him. What was he up to?

  Emerson smothered a grin. “I’d wager one of those other contestants is going to ask her out for tea tonight unless she has other plans. How long has she been a widow?”

  Before Gwen could answer, Aunt Bea swiveled toward Emerson and, with a devilish glint in her eye, said, “Over twenty years. High time that woman had a hot date.” Then she winked at Emerson and turned back.

  Dr. Louie had finally stopped clapping and was staring at Matilda, who was laughing onstage with the rather attractive seventy-something Danish winner. Gwen could hear Dr. Louie say to her aunt, “Has it really been that long?”

  Emerson grabbed Gwen’s hand and pulled her out of the row. “We can congratulate Matilda later,” he whispered. “I suspect she’ll be kept rather busy this evening.”

  When they were safely out in the hall, she laughed aloud. “Who knew,” she told him, “that you’d be playing Cupid? I never would’ve guessed that!”

  He caught her gaze and held it for a moment as tenderly as he held her fingers in his. Then he stepped back, let go of her hand and glanced down. “You haven’t uncovered all of my secrets yet, you know. I still have a few left.”

  They made quick work of leaving Brussels the next morning. After a brief stop at the hospital to say goodbye to Sally and Peter, who were going to stay put just a few days longer before returning to the U.K., Guido drove the rest of them up to Ostend, a Belgian city on the coast. There they bid farewell to their wonderful Italian bus driver, too (Gwen had to brush away a few tears when she hugged him), and Hans-Josef ushered them onto a hovercraft for the two-hour ride across the English Channel to Dover.

  Then, voilà, they were in England.

  “Normally, we would travel to London directly,” Hans-Josef said on the short bus ride they took from Dover to the city of Guildford in the heart of Surrey—home to an impressive twelfth-century castle, a modern university and a legendary cricket club—located about twenty-seven miles southwest of London. “But, as county Surrey is the residence for half of the members of this tour, we arranged to make a one-night stop here so our English friends”—he looked directly at Cynthia and smiled—“can show us the beauties of the region.”

  With a population of nearly 70,000, this “little suburb” of London, which was what Emerson and Thoreau kept calling it, had over 10,000 more people than Dubuque, which Gwen had always considered to be the big city. If nothing else, this trip had certainly given her a few lessons in perspective.

  “Some of our English travelers may wish to end the tour here. To go home, rather than stay at the hotel,” Hans-Josef added, as they pulled up to a lovely bed-and-breakfast, large enough to accommodate all of them. “If that is the case, please see me about final arrangements or let me know which London excursions you still wish to participate in. We have a big group signed up for the theater outing on Friday night, but we do have a few extra seats available, if needed. And there are also reservations required for our final tour dinner on Tuesday.”

  They stepped off the bus and collected their luggage.

  “Right,” Emerson said, glancing from side to side and taking in the current state of his hometown. Overall, he looked pleased. He inhaled deeply, turned to his brother and said, “How long do you think we can be in the area before Mum rings us?”

  Thoreau consulted his watch. “You gave her a copy of the itinerary before we left?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hmm. An hour, then. Possibly two.” Thoreau scrunched up his forehead. “There’s something I ought to, er, take care of before she demands our appearance tonight. If she reaches you first, will you tell her I’ll see her later?”

  “Will do,” Emerson said, then added, “but do try to avoid proposing to anyone for at least forty-eight hours, all right?”

  His brother flashed him a rude hand gesture but then smiled, waved and walked away with his bags.

  “Something to do with Amanda?” Gwen guessed, when Thoreau was out of earshot.

  Emerson nodded. “It was a bloody miracle he didn’t call her from the White Cliffs this morning, just as soon as we set foot on British soil again.” His tone was snarky but Gwen couldn’t mistake the notes of affection that had slid into his voice again. Not that all was forgiven or forgotten—on either side—only that they both seemed to have remembered, after Peter’s heart attack, that there was something deeper between them than competition and old grudges.

  “Here, let’s take your bags to your room. Then I have an idea.”

  Emerson’s idea involved going on an excursion of his creation through Guildford, Woking, Farnham, Ashford, Egham and the surrounding cities to give her a decent sense of county Surrey. Gwen told him this sounded like fun and asked if there was a bus that drove in a circuit to all of these sites.

  He looked at her as if she were speaking in a foreign tongue. “Gwen,” he said slowly. “Guildford is my hometown. I live here.” He paused and enunciated extra carefully to make sure she understood. “I have a flat two miles down the road. And a motorcar.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Come. We can walk there.”

  Emerson’s flat was about the size of Gwen’s condo in Dubuque, but more cluttered. He had a framed poster of some star cluster or galaxy or something on his wall—“Andromeda,” he informed her when he caught her staring at it—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were overflowing with novels and various textbooks, a maple desk half covered with paper on one side and, on the other, a computer with Post-it notes stuck to the edge of the screen.

  A spinning four-sided shelf sat within arm’s reach of the desk, stuffed with CDs and DVDs. She went over to take a look at the music: classical, jazz, theatrical soundtracks, R&B, hip hop. She turned it to find more: world music, Top 4
0, rap, opera, country western, even some stuff in Spanish, German, Japanese.

  “What, no Gregorian chanting?” she teased. “No Celtic dance tunes?”

  “It was a busy term. I haven’t added to my collection in a few months, but I’m pretty certain I’ve got some Celtic music somewhere.” He paused. “Not sure about the Gregorian chanting, though.”

  She laughed. “Why don’t you live in London, Emerson? Nearer to your university? Or why not teach here instead?”

  “It’s too expensive to live in London and, besides, my mum lives here. Easier to be nearer to her. And to my brother.” He shrugged. “Getting to the uni is very easy—it’s just up the A3—but I rarely drive in. Not when we have such reliable trains. If I need to stay late in the city, I have friends I can bunk with for an evening. As for teaching here, I might do that someday. Now, though, I like the variety of being part of both places. I like that you don’t have to get too far out of London to find some nice rolling countryside.” He motioned for her to follow him outside. “May I take you to a few of my favorite spots?”

  She agreed, of course, so, they hopped in his car—a dark red Vauxhall Corsa.

  “It’s so cute and tiny!” she said, not realizing until she saw his reaction that he might take offense at her description.

  “Energy efficient,” he countered stiffly, as he zoomed like a racecar driver on the wrong side of the road. Gwen held her breath and hung on to the armrests.

  They made several stops at a number of historically significant places, like Runnymede, near the city of Egham, where the Magna Carta was signed; scenic views overlooking the Wey River; a picturesque drive that included Guildford Castle in the panorama; pretty Box Hill, a place she remembered reading about in some Austen novel, in the area just north of Dorking; and the city of Farnham, which had some ruins of an abbey that Emerson wanted her to see.

  “How old is it?” she asked, noting the crumbling stones and marveling at how a structure could survive so many centuries. “The fifteenth century? The fourteenth, perhaps?”

  “Waverley was founded by the Bishop of Winchester in 1128, so a bit older than that,” he explained.

  All the summers these rocks had seen. All the winters. All the people that had wandered through the abbey’s hallways. “Interesting. Wait—what was it called?”

  “Waverley Abbey,” he said, looking surprised when she suddenly laughed. “What’s so humorous about that?”

  “Just that Waverly is the name of my hometown.” She asked him the spelling. “The very same except for that second ‘e’,” she added.

  He smiled. “So, it feels like coming home to you, as well, yes?”

  She glanced around some more and nodded. The abbey and surrounding grassy lot didn’t resemble the Iowa landscape overly much, but she did feel strangely at home in this English place. Maybe that was on account of the peacefulness of the area. Maybe that was due only to her standing next to Emerson. He was so familiar to her by now. It felt as though they’d been friends for years, not weeks.

  His cell phone rang. “That would be Mum,” he said before he even looked at it.

  His side of the conversation proved comical:

  “Yes.” Pause. “Yes, of course.” Pause. “I’d be happy to, Mum.” Rubbing eyes and grimacing. “Absolutely. I’ll be there.” Pause. “Oh, yes. Yes. He’ll be there, too.” Pause. “How about seven?” Pause. “You’d prefer six? Right. That’s fine ... oh, he will? He said what? ” Exhaling heavily and biting his lip. “Yes. Yes. Naturally, I’ll tell her.” Pause. “I will not ‘manufacture’ an excuse ... I’m quite certain.” He hung up and regarded her apprehensively. “Er, seems while we were on the continent, Thoreau had already given Mum a detailed, uh, report on you. She is anxious to meet you.”

  Gwen raised her eyebrows. Their mother wanted to meet her? Why? Before she could ask, however, Emerson answered her question.

  “She’s very curious about you. She has a way of seeking out people she finds interesting and, really, it’s futile to try to thwart her or she might just contact you in the States.” He sighed. “Thoreau and I need to be there tonight at six. You, however, have tonight off on account of ‘possible travel fatigue,’ according to Mum. But there will be no such excuses tomorrow. She’s a bit like the Queen in that regard—what she demands, she gets. And, Gwen, she’s demanded to see you.” He ran his fingers through his sandy hair. “Hope you don’t mind coming to tea.”

  The next morning, while Aunt Bea was off with Colin doing something in town, Emerson picked Gwen up in his red mini car and drove her to his mother’s house. He looked a bit on edge.

  “How did last night go?” she asked him. “Everything okay?”

  “Erm, well ...” he began.

  “Well, what?” Gwen’s stomach flipped, wondering what Thoreau had said, exactly, to his mother about her while they were still traveling, and what Emerson might have mentioned to the woman the night before. She felt a definitive zing of nervousness at the prospect of arriving at the Edwards house. It was really only intended to be a two-hour visit, but two hours of sheer awkwardness could be a really long time.

  Emerson cleared his throat. “Mum is not what one might call ... subtle. She’s rather dramatic, actually. She may ask some very bold, very direct questions of you.”

  In spite of her anxiety, Gwen laughed. “In other words, she’s just like her sons.”

  He grinned. “I suppose that’s, indeed, the case. Or, rather, her sons are like her.”

  Gwen first spotted Mrs. Edwards in the back garden. Emerson had brought her some bakery scones and Gwen had picked up a couple of jams to bring as a gift, but they’d barely had a chance to set down their offerings on the wrought-iron patio table before she glided over to Gwen and enveloped her in an overpowering hug.

  Hardly a negative opening move, Gwen thought hopefully, as she struggled to get a lungful of air.

  “Hello, darlings!” the woman said, her voice like a wind chime. She released Gwen and stepped back to survey her. “I’ve heard such lovely things about you.”

  “Likewise,” Gwen said.

  At sixty-five, Lucia Edwards was strong—Gwen was still a bit short on oxygen after that hug—but Lucia was also very gazelle-like in her movements. She resembled what Gwen always imagined a British flower child might look like, with her shoulder-length pure white hair, bright fuchsia sleeveless camisole and long, flowing, rose-print skirt. She wore bifocals on a sterling chain around her neck, leather sandals on her feet and an expression on her face that Gwen would describe as impish.

  Turning to her son, Lucia stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Orange and cranberry?” she asked, pointing to the box of still-warm scones.

  “Your favorite,” he said.

  She chuckled. “I love how you’re trying to bribe me. Smart, smart boy,” she said, her tone proud. After thanking Gwen for the jams, she studied her youngest son with very shrewd dark blue eyes. “Emerson, your brother is hiding out in the parlor, trying to avoid you for a few extra minutes. Go inside and talk to him until Amanda gets here.”

  He blinked several times. “Amanda’s coming? Really? Does he know that?”

  “He will—in ten minutes. Now’s your chance to either warn him or wait it out and watch him squirm. Your choice.” She shooed him toward the back door, over his objections and despite the worried looks he kept shooting at Gwen. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emerson. Stop looking so terrified. I’m not going to eat her. Not when I have a nice sausage-and-egg scramble for our tea.” Her eyes glittered with a look Gwen recognized from having been around her sons: speculation and strategy, mixed with a dash of mischievousness. “Leave us alone for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, Emerson walked inside and Gwen could tell that, despite the kindness in her expression, his mother was not a woman whose word one disobeyed.

  Lucia sighed happily. “Oh, this is delightful. Now that we’re finally alone, I have an important question or two to ask you.”


  Gwen nodded, steeling herself for an onslaught of intensely personal and most likely embarrassing queries. She couldn’t have guessed more wrongly.

  “I’m planting pink hydrangeas and white baby carnations on either side of the patio door,” Emerson’s mother informed her, pointing at the two sides. “The two planters on the left are turquoise-glazed pottery, rectangular, with the dimensions of one foot by two feet each. The three flowerpots on the right are brick-red ceramic tile, circular, with a diameter of eighteen inches each. Now, if I have more carnation plants than hydrangeas, on which side should I plant them?”

  Gwen calculated. “The baby carnations should be on the right,” she answered, almost immediately.

  “Why?” Lucia asked.

  “Two reasons,” Gwen said, shifting into logic mode. “I know you’re an artist. From a color standpoint, you wouldn’t pair pink with brick red. Pink would go with the turquoise and white with the brick red. But, also, from a mathematical standpoint, the total area of the round pots is larger than the area of the planters. So it would make sense to put the carnations on the right side, where the colors would be a better match and they would have more space to grow.”

  Lucia, giddy with some internal source of mirth, licked her bottom lip like a cat and grinned broadly. “I like you, Gwendolyn Reese. Not only is your assessment of the colors correct, but your math is impeccable as well.” Then, as if to prove she was very much Thoreau and Emerson’s mother—not only in math and strategy, but in high drama, too—she added, “In the game of life, I think people are a lot like plants. Figuring out what type of flower someone is helps determine where they’d be happiest. Where they’d grow best. What nutrients they’d need. Which pot would be the most appropriate fit, so to speak.”