A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  The three older women said good night and, as the elevator doors closed in front of them, Gwen could hear Zenia shouting, “Shake it, shake it, shake it, yeah!”

  She laughed and turned back to Richard, who relaxed visibly after Aunt Bea and her friends were gone. The two of them meandered to a relatively quiet spot in the restaurant, ordering a pot of hot decaf between them. Then they held hands across the table and smiled at each other. It was lovely and so, so familiar.

  “How was the picnic?” Gwen asked eventually.

  He frowned. “Not as nice as it would have been with you there.” He cleared his throat a time or two. “I take for granted how much I’ve gotten used to spending time with you, Gwen. I got to talk with my colleagues and their families, but I’d wished you’d been with me,” he added wistfully. “Oh! I didn’t have anything to do a few weekends ago, so I watched parts of a few old movies. One of them was this musical, The Sound of Music. There was a nun, I think, and a whole bunch of children. They were dancing and singing in the mountains somewhere—”

  “Austria,” Gwen interjected. “Mostly Salzburg.”

  He nodded. “Right. I figured you’d know the one. I probably watched a good fifteen or twenty minutes of it.” He yawned. “It was kinda long, but the scenery was nice.” He yawned. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep on the plane.”

  “It’s okay. I know jet lag is tough.” She remembered how she’d felt after landing in Rome. And, oh, she was pleased he’d watched any part of the musical on his own. That was progress! “I’m glad you saw some of The Sound of Music, and you reminded me of something, too. Tomorrow night we’re scheduled to go on an excursion to see The Phantom of the Opera. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I can get a ticket for you from our tour guide if you do.”

  He yawned again. “Sorry. Well ... to get to spend a little more time with you, I’d be willing to give it a shot. How long is it?”

  “About two hours and twenty minutes.”

  He rubbed his forehead, sighed and then smiled at her. “Sure. And, um, maybe in a day or two—once I get used to the new time zone—you can join me in my room ...” He let that thought trail off but raised his eyebrows, indicating that he’d missed their hanging out time. “Would you like that?”

  She smiled back at him. “Sure.”

  The whole of Friday was spent sightseeing in London.

  Richard was still not quite acclimated the next morning, but he was clearly trying to be a good sport. He joined her for visits to Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly Circus and the Globe Theater—rebuilt to honor William Shakespeare.

  Neither of the Edwards brothers were in attendance on these excursions, but Davis picked up the quoting torch they’d left behind. After a significant look at Matilda and Dr. Louie walking side by side near the Globe’s stage, then a glance at Hans-Josef and Cynthia talking privately by some theater seats in the corner, he turned to Gwen and Richard and said, “ ‘Can I go forward when my heart is here?’ ” He patted his chest. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  Richard looked at him with a baffled expression, but Gwen smiled. It was funny how quickly she’d grown accustomed to these quirks. How rapidly she felt herself to be a little less naïve, a little more knowledgeable ... and after just these few weeks in Europe. Nothing like Emerson or Thoreau, of course, but she sensed the differences between her and Richard in that regard immediately. He’d always been the more worldly of the two of them when they were back in Iowa, so this burgeoning feeling proved an interesting reversal.

  That evening, the two of them went to a neighborhood pub for an early dinner alone before getting ready to go to the play. Richard had yet to try traditional English fare, so Gwen wanted to introduce him to fish-’n’-chips and shepherd’s pie. In spite of a few protests, he let her order these for them.

  “You can have most of the shepherd’s pie, if you like that best,” Gwen said, unable to keep from thinking that such a meat-and-mashed-potatoes dish could hardly be distasteful to him. “I think you’ll love them both, though.” She’d tried it for dinner in Surrey, the night before she met Emerson’s mom, and she’d really enjoyed the flavors. Thoreau, however, claimed their mother made the best version ever. Gwen doubted she’d ever get to try that one.

  Richard yawned. He was beginning to drag again after such an active day. “I’ll taste it,” he said, which was very adventurous indeed for him. It was not his usual baked chicken after all. “I’m getting a bit tired, though. Did you say the play is going to last for over two hours?”

  She nodded, getting that sinking feeling. “Look, if you don’t want to go tonight, Richard, I’d understand—”

  He yawned again. “Oh, I do. I do,” he insisted, but he didn’t come across quite as convincingly as he had the night before.

  When their meal arrived, Gwen picked up one of the large “chips,” which looked like what Americans called steak fries, and held it up to Richard’s mouth.

  He backed away. “Um, what are you doing?” he asked.

  She grinned at him. “Take a bite.” She brought it closer to his lips again. “It’s good. Sometimes my British friends will dip their fries in vinegar, which is different but, also, kind of interesting. Very tangy.”

  He shuddered and backed away again, leaving her holding the large fry in the air between them. “Just put it on my bread and butter dish, Gwen. I’ll try it in a sec.”

  She swallowed and slowly put it down on the small white plate.

  He smiled tightly. “Thanks.” He then fished something out of his pocket. Hand sanitizer. “Can’t be too careful these days. Lots of, you know, foreign germs,” he explained.

  She didn’t say anything, but she watched him clean his hands. He offered a dab to her, too, which she took reflexively. It smelled of citrus and antiseptic. As she slowly rubbed the sanitizer between her fingers, she watched as he picked up the fry and took a tentative bite from the side she hadn’t touched.

  “Not bad,” he said pleasantly.

  “Would you like some fish?” she asked, motioning with her fork at the platter nearby. “Could I hunk off a piece for you and give you a bite? I haven’t touched my fork yet,” she added hopefully.

  “Oh, I can do it myself,” he said, using his knife to cut off a section and his own fork to stab into it. Then he took his clean spoon and put a few scoops of shepherd’s pie onto his little bread plate. “This is good,” he said, after tasting it.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Gwen murmured, but she realized there would be no feeding of English pub food to each other that night. She couldn’t help but feel that this left something lacking in the meal. It was just eating together. It wasn’t a romantic dining experience.

  A couple hours later, they disembarked from the bus hired to take them to and from the Haymarket section of the city’s West End. Richard, always impeccable with his clothing, earned a rare nod of approval from Hans-Josef as the tour guide handed them their theater tickets and ushered them all inside. He nodded at Gwen, too, and added a smile.

  “We will be sitting all together in a block on the first level,” Hans-Josef informed them. “Several of the British members of the tour will be joining us for this performance and may already be seated. For anyone going back to the hotel afterward, we will meet in the lobby following the show. So, if you want to buy some souvenirs then, you will have a chance.”

  Next to them, Hester was growing impatient with excitement. Her eyes grew wide as they entered Her Majesty’s Theatre, where Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera had been running since October 1986. Four levels. More than 1,200 seats. Rich and ornate in every detail. “Ohhh, this place is better than a haunted house for a misadventure,” Hester said in awe. “Just look at all those heavy railings up there.” She pointed. “Could bash someone’s head in real easy on those.”

  “What?” Richard asked, overhearing this comment.

  Hester turned to study him for a second. “You clean up awfully nice, young man.
” She winked at him then flashed a grin at Gwen. “Bet’cha he’d make a great murder suspect.” She poked her bony index finger into the middle of Richard’s chest. “Do you know how to use fencing foils by chance? Ever fight in a duel?”

  Mutely, Richard shook his head and stared at Hester in alarm.

  “Too bad,” the ninety-year-old woman said, ambling down the theater aisle several steps ahead of them.

  “What was that all ab—” Richard began, but Gwen stopped him.

  “Just step over here and look at this theater for a second,” she urged him. “It’s so, so beautiful.”

  Aunt Bea, who’d come in a few people behind them, squeezed Gwen’s arm and smiled joyfully at her. “I know you’ve been waiting for this, Gwennie. Enjoy it.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Bea!” She couldn’t get the shimmy of excitement out of her voice, and she didn’t care. Oh, this was going to be incredible!

  Richard peered around at the cavernous theater, seemingly impressed by their Victorian surroundings. Certainly, he would know enough not to sneer at the classic beauty of the interior, but Gwen sensed he wasn’t as mesmerized by every luxurious detail as she was. The gold filigree. The thick, velvety red of the curtain. The enormity of the hall itself. The set displaying the show’s famous chandelier, sitting like a limp collection of crystals onstage, awaiting the start of the production when it would be put to use. And no one could be more anxious than she was for it to begin.

  They reached their row and found their seats. Richard was to Gwen’s left and there were a number of empty spots to her right. A few minutes later, Gwen heard a few recognizable voices and caught sight of Kamesh, Ani and a lovely woman in her late forties who looked to be Ani’s mother. They waved hello to Gwen and to several members of the tour in the rows ahead and behind, checked their tickets and sat down, leaving just one seat available next to Gwen.

  She glanced around the theater again, taking in its magnificence and, also, if she were fully honest (she touched her Mouth of Truth pendant as a reminder of that), looking to see where Emerson was seated. She caught sight of Thoreau and Amanda. He’d brought her—good! They were a few rows ahead, but there was no sign of the younger brother.

  Just as the house lights dimmed, though, she heard some shuffling at the end of the row, and there he was. Emerson. Coming to sit beside her. Her heart paused for a second, like a 4/4 rest in the middle of a song, and then pounded suddenly—in a crescendo—at simply the sight of him.

  “Hello,” he whispered, scooching around Ani and his parents and settling into his seat. His face broke into a devastating smile as he looked at her.

  “Hi,” she whispered back, almost breathless from her racing heart.

  “It was a long twenty-four hours,” he murmured.

  “It was,” she agreed.

  Richard cleared his throat and leaned forward, peeking around her to glance down the aisle at the new arrivals. He looked at her questioningly. “These are your tour mates, too?” he asked, surprised.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, realizing she hadn’t told him much about the British contingent of the tour group yet. It hadn’t really come up via e-mail and, anyway, she and Richard had only been in correspondence a handful of times over the past month.

  Emerson leaned forward, too, his smile fading as his eyebrows rose. He glanced a time or two between Gwen and Richard before politely extending his right hand to the man on Gwen’s left. “Emerson Edwards,” he said. “And you might be?”

  Richard shook his hand firmly. “Richard Banks. Gwen’s boyfriend.”

  Emerson nodded slowly and Gwen saw him swallow a time or two before speaking. “I’ve heard rather a lot about you,” he said with a civil, if somewhat tight, smile.

  There was something in his tone that—while pleasant enough—set off a few warning bells in Gwen’s ear. She glanced sharply at Emerson, then at Richard, who’d tilted his head to one side and wore an expression of caution.

  “Good things, I hope,” Richard said, pulling his hand away and sitting a little taller.

  Emerson bit down on his bottom lip and, again, forced his mouth into forming an awkward smile. “Naturally. And Gwen wouldn’t lie, would she?”

  While Richard processed this, Emerson smiled rather dangerously at Gwen and shot a pointed glance at her necklace. She felt her cheeks heat up.

  He turned his gaze to Richard again. “How fortunate that you’re able to join us. That’s a pleasure I did not expect.” Then, to Gwen, “I don’t recall your having mentioned that possibility.”

  Which, of course, she had not. In her defense—not that she could say this aloud—it hadn’t occurred to her to bring up the subject with Emerson, although she did remember, somewhat guiltily, having mentioned it once in Budapest to Thoreau. In many ways, however, she’d put all thought of Richard’s visit out of her head until he actually showed up. She’d half expected him to change his mind, and she’d been as startled as anyone when she’d first heard his voice in the hotel lobby.

  Richard regarded her strangely, Emerson mockingly.

  “I, um ...” was all she managed by way of trifling apology to them both before the lights dimmed the rest of the way and she was saved from having to offer an explanation. As the orchestra struck the first few powerful notes, Gwen and the men on either side of her sat back in their seats and faced forward. She had never appreciated Andrew Lloyd Webber more.

  From the magnificent opening notes of the overture and the rising of the chandelier to the trademark songs that made this musical legendary for a quarter of a century, Gwen was riveted. She knew every note and every verse of “Music of the Night,” yet, it was so much fuller, so much more spine tingling to hear it performed live. The Phantom invited her—almost personally, it seemed—into his dark and private world. It was an intimate seduction, luring her deep into a hazy dream. Only she began to wonder which was the dream state ... and which was reality. They blurred together—the fantasy before her so tangible that it felt as if it were the only truth.

  She suddenly understood the euphoria Hans-Josef had experienced when he’d heard the operetta in German. These were Gwen’s songs. They spoke to her—not just because they were performed in her native tongue, but because the music itself was the language of her soul.

  When Raoul and Christine sang “All I Ask of You” as a duet, followed by the Phantom’s hurt and angry reprisal, Gwen couldn’t keep her eyes from watering. Tears streamed down her face and splashed carelessly onto her blouse. She wasn’t even aware of it at first, not until Emerson pressed a clean tissue into her hand.

  She pulled her gaze away from the stage for an instant and met his eye. Even in the relative darkness of the theater, she could see the golden glow of his hazel irises and the way his expression softened the longer they looked at each other.

  Richard stirred beside her. “You okay?” he whispered, seeing the tissue, then the tears.

  “I am,” she whispered back, dabbing her eyes and mouthing a soundless “thank you” to Emerson.

  He rested far back into his chair and, out of Richard’s view, he gently rubbed her right shoulder for the last few minutes until intermission. She understood the gesture for what it was: a shared communion with the music.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” Emerson said during the twenty-minute break. “Was it what you’d expected?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. It was much, much better. It was incredible, amazing and so unbelievably beautiful.” She glanced over at her boyfriend. “Right, Richard?”

  He blinked a few times and tried to stifle a fresh yawn. “Oh, yes,” he agreed readily, if not completely sincerely. Gwen had caught him yawning or stretching or in some small way distracting her every five minutes of Act One. She kept hoping his fidgetiness and difficulty concentrating was on account of the jet lag.

  Act Two was just as good, although seventeen minutes shorter, than the first. When it was over and the curtain calls had been made (Gwen clapped until her palms were chapped), t
heir group milled around the lobby for a while, chitchatting with one another and buying T-shirts, CDs, program booklets and other promotional items.

  Thoreau and Amanda walked up to where Gwen, Richard and Emerson were standing. Upon being introduced to Richard, Amanda was exceedingly polite, but she glanced at Gwen curiously, and Thoreau, though he managed to keep his voice level, responded by narrowing his eyes speculatively and then embarking on a match of Twenty Questions with her American boyfriend. No doubt, this was the preliminary round in one of his psychological games.

  Emerson dealt with the tension by pacing back and forth between where Thoreau was grilling Richard and where the vendor, who was selling soundtracks from the musical and a few piano songbooks, stood.

  “So, what do you do in America, precisely?” Thoreau asked, generously allowing Richard to answer. “And your family comes from where in Iowa?” He listened. “Hmm. So near our Gwen,” he said dryly. “How delightful.” He collected some more information and sniffed. “Tell us, Richard, what are your first impressions of London society?”

  At this, Amanda rolled her eyes at Gwen and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Gwen could take little more of the inquisition either, but Richard seemed to be really enjoying himself for the first time that night. She hesitated pulling him away and, instead, slid over to talk with Aunt Bea and Connie Sue for a few moments.

  However, once she was out of Richard’s view (he had his back to her) and it was just the three guys standing there, Thoreau’s devilishness escalated a notch. He winked at Gwen on the sly and asked Richard conspiratorially, “So, what did you really think of the performance? You can tell me.”

  Gwen heard Richard laugh. “Not as bad as I’d expected, I guess. It was long. All of these musicals are so long. But”—he shrugged—“we gotta keep the womenfolk happy, right?”

  Emerson sent Gwen an inscrutable look and stepped away to examine the vendor’s display again. Thoreau pursed his lips together in triumph and Richard, sadly unaware that another Edwardian game was in progress, added, “I would’ve rather been watching a baseball doubleheader, wouldn’t you?”