A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Gwen decided that, perhaps, she wouldn’t rush in to rescue Richard from Thoreau’s psychological examination.

  “Mmm,” Thoreau said. “I say, I’m more inclined toward cricket myself, but my brother is a hearty fan of American things—aren’t you, Emerson?” He glanced around for him, pretending innocence.

  And Emerson, several paces away but still within hearing distance, shot a dagger-look at his brother, then waved good night to Gwen as he disappeared into the crowd and was gone for the evening.

  It had been after midnight when Gwen and Richard stumbled back into the hotel lobby, so they just went to their respective rooms and slept. Late.

  By contrast, Aunt Bea was up with the larks of London—off on some Saturday-morning excursion with Colin. Gwen saw the note her aunt had left when, finally, she crawled out of bed. She decided to use the down time to pack anything she wouldn’t need between now and Wednesday noon, when her flight left Heathrow for home.

  Home.

  It would be good to get back. To be in a routine again. To do her daily exercises, eat her healthy meals, plan her regular school-year schedules. It would. Really.

  She made the bed, taking care to do it neatly (she was so out of practice), and spread out everything she needed to repack onto the thin comforter. Some things were easy to put away, like the dirty laundry she’d collected since Paris (she and Aunt Bea had done a quick load of wash there, so she still had plenty of clean clothes) and her Viva, Roma! guidebook. She folded the still-clean items and put them in one hotel drawer—just enough remaining outfits to finish the trip—and made sure her toiletries were contained to her one small cosmetic bag. She might need to grab that quickly if she spent the night in Richard’s room soon....

  As for the rest, it was mostly souvenirs, but each item held so many memories. She laid them all out on the bed and studied them. Against the navy-blue coverlet they dotted the mattress like a constellation in the night sky. Like seeing the Dippers and Polaris in Budapest. There was the gypsy music CD Emerson had given her. The Venetian celestial mask she’d gotten on that one memorable day in Italy. The statuettes of Venus de Milo and Winged Victory from the Louvre. Her The Phantom of the Opera ticket stub and program from the show last night. And, on her nightstand, reminding her of both Florence and Rome, the golden Mouth of Truth pendant, which was like the North Star these other souvenirs were pointing to. She recalled Emerson touching it once, and, quoting his namesake, he’d said, ‘The greatest homage we can pay to truth is to use it. ’ ”

  There was a knock on her door. Richard.

  “Good morning,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “Good morning. Feeling a little less groggy today?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, a bit.” He took a few steps into the room and spotted the things she had out on the bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Just packing.”

  He looked surprised. “Are you thinking of leaving early? Your flight is not for four days.”

  “Oh, no. I just didn’t want to wait until the last minute. You know what I mean, right?”

  He nodded. “Of course. That sounds totally reasonable.” And he just accepted her explanation at that, which—oddly—had a strange effect on her. She should have been pleased that he understood her need to create order and organization, but she’d felt so different in the presence of her aunt, the S&M friends and, especially, Emerson. None of them would have let her get away with packing up early like this. They would have chided her. Poked fun at her until she’d loosened up a little and had gone out to enjoy the day sooner. Forced her into eating an unhealthy meal or to visiting a karaoke club or some such thing. It should have been a complete relief that Richard didn’t make her do any of these.

  Why, then, did she get the sense that it wasn’t out of acceptance that he ignored her old control-freakish ways? That it was, instead, because of a rigidity of his own or, perhaps, mere inattention?

  She began to wrap up some of the treasures she’d gotten on her adventure.

  “What do you think of this mask?” she asked, showing him her prize from Venice.

  “Nice,” he said with a pleasant tone but little real enthusiasm. “Glittery, isn’t it?” He picked up the two statuettes before she had a chance to wrap them. “Oh, honey. These are broken.” He glanced in the direction of her suitcase. “If you kept the pieces, maybe we could superglue them back on when we get home.”

  She chuckled and explained that, no, they weren’t broken. They were replicas of the real statues and were supposed to look like that.

  Richard did not appear taken with the sculptures. Though he didn’t say anything more than, “It doesn’t look a lot like art to me,” it was clear by his quick dismissal of them that he wouldn’t have wanted the miniature Winged Victory she’d gotten him. That he wouldn’t display it himself. That if they ever shared a house together, he would very likely be against placing it and her Venus de Milo on the mantel or anywhere publicly visible.

  This realization distressed her. Even though Richard was here, he couldn’t really share in the earlier part of the trip with her. He’d be polite, of course, but the things that had surprised and touched her in Europe wouldn’t be beloved by him. Not the breathtaking scenery, the classical artwork or the beautiful music. It had taken her a while to get into the spirit of being an overseas traveler, she had to admit. It had taken her aunt to begin her introduction to European wonders, someone as charismatic as Emerson to open her eyes even further and “a village” of fellow adventurers to assist them both in their mission. Gwen knew she’d had the benefit of expert help, something Richard couldn’t claim. But, he also didn’t seem eager to learn. He was merely tolerating his traveling experiences, and she didn’t know what she could offer to him that would pierce through his reserve.

  They spent much of the day lazily strolling around through downtown London—taking the Tube for a few stops in either direction of Victoria Station, laughing when they heard the distinctly British phrase “Mind the gap” and buying Cadbury bars from the underground vending machines so near the main tracks.

  Away from her aunt, the Edwards brothers and the hotel, conversation between Gwen and Richard was less restrained. Still, a budding element of discontent and unease made it past Gwen’s filters when she tried to merge her relationship with Richard with the world of the tour group.

  It won’t be a problem, she thought, once we’re back home again.

  The parallel universe of her travel adventure would fade from her mind upon her return to Iowa; she was sure of it. And, while that saddened her, the lure of normalcy and the seductive dream of the life she’d always expected waited in the wings for her return.

  “So, will your aunt miss you if you spend the next few nights with me instead?” Richard asked as they rode the hotel elevator up to Gwen’s floor.

  Gwen knew for a fact that Aunt Bea was out pub hopping with Zenia, Matilda, Dr. Louie and Davis. If Bea got in before two a.m. and even noticed Gwen’s absence, she’d be surprised.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Richard smiled—one that effused his entire face with joy. He looked enthusiastic at the prospect of spending the night ahead with her. And Gwen, though tired, had been without physical companionship for over a month ... if she didn’t count Emerson’s one kiss in Venice and the few times they’d held hands.

  She knew she should have felt guilty about those moments, but she just couldn’t bring herself to regret them. Wasn’t telling Emerson they couldn’t be together proof enough of her commitment to Richard? Certainly there would be no point in confessing these tiny indiscretions to Richard—not if it would serve no other purpose than to hurt his feelings. She’d made her decision long ago, and Richard was her man. Emerson had initiated that one kiss, but she’d told him to stop. End of story. And as for the way they’d held hands ... well, that was almost like friends. Wasn’t it?

  She nodded at Richard, very decisively.

  “Good,” he
said. “Let’s get your stuff then.”

  Sleeping together did not go well.

  Richard, with only one eye partially open, grinned at her from the next pillow over. “You’re up,” he murmured.

  “Yes.” She’d been up for five hours.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “All right,” she lied. “You?”

  “Oh, great! It’s so nice to be with you again.” He reached out and stroked her cheek.

  “Nice?” she asked, then chuckled softly. She couldn’t help it. She remembered Emerson questioning her at the Accademia when she called Michelangelo’s work “nice.” It wasn’t a bad word. It just wasn’t the right word to describe the masterpieces of a genius Renaissance sculptor. She sure didn’t want her lovemaking “until death do us part” to be nice.

  Of course, Richard’s overenthusiasm at being together after so long a time had made things go really quickly. Too quickly. And jet lag had claimed him right afterward. And there was the little matter of her comparing Richard’s kisses to Emerson’s—something that both surprised and disturbed her.

  He laughed. “Sorry, Gwen. I meant very nice.”

  “Hmm. Thanks, Richard.” She sighed, flipped to the side facing away from him and his one open eye and pretended to fall back asleep until she was sure she could hear his soft snores beside her again.

  However, things improved somewhat after they both, finally, rose for the day. They spent the next several hours sightseeing and strolling again. They visited Kensington Gardens and St. James’s Park, which Gwen had only seen from the double-decker bus that first day. They ogled Buckingham Palace, along with a hundred other tourists. And they stopped for tea and biscuits at a little sidewalk café and visited a new pub for dinner.

  “I’m really not in the mood to be experimental tonight,” Richard confessed. “I’ve had some unusual meals a few times now. I’m gonna go for something a little more normal,” he said, ordering the baked chicken and mashed potatoes dinner. “Mmm,” he said, complimenting their waitress after his meal came. “Tastes just like home.”

  Gwen ordered the cottage pie, but she didn’t bother trying to feed Richard any of it.

  That night when they returned to Richard’s hotel room, Gwen—who was exhausted from lack of sleep the night before and drained for reasons that were just beginning to simmer on the edges of her consciousness—suggested that, maybe, she should check in on Aunt Bea that night.

  “You and I are both really tired anyway,” she said, smothering a yawn. “We could probably both use a good night’s sleep.” She didn’t add that they weren’t a couple that had sex on consecutive nights anyway. At least they never did when they were at home. They were more of a twice-per-week couple.

  “I understand what you’re doing, Gwen,” Richard said kindly, “but you really don’t have to worry. I’m not ever going to take you for granted again.”

  This was encouraging to hear, but she didn’t understand his thought process. “What?” she asked.

  “I’ll admit, I was kind of stalling on your birthday. Not getting you a ring right then and all, even though we’d been together two years.” He shrugged as if brushing off that little mistake. “But then you were gone from home for so long. It was really frustrating not to get to spend the summer with you. I hadn’t realized how much I missed you until after you left. But I’ve learned my lesson, okay? You don’t have to leave tonight to prove a point. I know what’ll make you happy.”

  She squinted at him. “What, exactly, will make me ... happy?” Gwen herself wasn’t entirely clear on this—although, after Zenia’s suggestion to try to “find her art,” Gwen had given it some thought. Not enough, however. But, perhaps, Richard had a more astute insight into her personality than she had into her own.

  He laughed. “A marriage proposal, of course. Don’t worry, Gwen. I’ve got it all planned out perfectly. And I’m not going to wait until October or November, so you don’t have to stay with your old eccentric aunt tonight just to make sure I’ll miss you.” He laughed some more, apparently having attributed her hesitation to sleep in the same room with him as part of some coquettish game she’d masterminded to keep him interested in marrying her. Hmm.

  “Aunt Bea isn’t really eccentric—” she began, feeling her defensiveness rising.

  “She is. And her friends are just bizarre. You know you’ve always thought so.” He shot a smile at her so confident, warm and secure she felt almost embraced by it. Embraced ... or was it restrained? “Seriously, honey. Just relax,” Richard continued. “I know you don’t like surprises, so that’s why I’m telling you now, okay? There’ll be no more wondering about it after tomorrow, I promise. By midnight tomorrow night, you’ll be able to tell your aunt and all of her, uh, unusual friends that we’re engaged.”

  12

  A View with a Room

  Monday–Tuesday, July 30–31

  She’d wanted to be the wife of Mr. Richard Sidney Banks for one year and three months. At the British Museum, standing in front of the Rosetta Stone late Monday morning, Gwen remembered precisely when this had become a conscious desire.

  It had been near the end of her first year teaching in Dubuque, and she’d given her math students number codes to decipher, just for fun. When solved, they spelled out phrases for various summer activities, like “Sleep late!” and “Go swimming!” She and Richard had been dating casually for the duration of the school year, but a long, lonely summer stretched out before her. Richard, having seen her cryptography assignment for her class in advance, picked her up from school at the end of that second-to-last week with a pretty pink carnation and a note he’d laboriously written in the same number code she’d given the kids. She solved it and it read: “Only one week until your vacation. Let’s have fun this summer!” And she’d been so grateful to him.

  Grateful someone wanted to spend time with her.

  Grateful he’d worked to communicate with her in the precise language of numbers.

  Grateful not to be so very alone.

  She felt she’d had a partner against the slings and arrows of the world and, in that moment, had decided Richard was the man she should marry.

  But she wondered now: Was gratitude, though a very important quality, enough of a reason to marry someone? A strong enough reason to last a lifetime?

  “You done looking at that yet?” Richard asked her, motioning for her to join him in moving to a less crowded room.

  “I suppose so,” she said, stepping away from the famous stone and wishing she had its decoding ability.

  Richard, not surprisingly, wasn’t interested in staying at the museum for long after that. At first she thought it was because he was anxious to declare himself, as he’d promised. But, as they zipped past exhibit after exhibit, Gwen realized that, no—he just wanted to get through it faster. To say he’d seen it. To check it off his list.

  “So, what else is left to do in London?” he asked, glancing at his watch as he pushed open the museum doors to exit.

  She tamped down her irritation and recognized at once the irony. She must have driven Aunt Bea insane in Rome.

  She touched his arm gently, trying to get him to pause long enough to really look at her. “We could spend months in London. Months in just the British Museum, I think, and still not see everything.” She smiled. “Let’s slow down and really take in the few things we can see today, okay?”

  He shrugged. “Fine. But I’m not looking at any more paintings or art stuff. I just don’t really ... relate to it.”

  In a flash of clear-eyed vision, the kind that only came from experience, Gwen saw something important: She and Richard were a lot alike. One might argue too much alike. Richard needed done for him what had taken tremendous effort and teamwork to do for her—a kind of adventure intervention along the lines of what Aunt Bea, the S&M friends, Hans-Josef and, of course, Emerson and Thoreau had contributed to her life’s education.

  Of course, there was one other part to that: her desire to co
nnect. She’d taken steps—literally and figuratively—when she raced down those stairs in Capri and melded with the island’s natural beauty, walked through endless miles of Italian museums and saw masterpieces like the David, ate gelato at eight a.m. in Italy, hiked up to touch a Swiss glacier, raced through the Louvre in Paris and went to see Phantom in London. These experiences, both large and small, had changed her. The difference between her and Richard was that, though she’d been scared of most of it, she wanted to be changed. She didn’t know if she’d be touched by Europe, but she hoped she would be. She was afraid of everything, but she’d actually wished on coins she’d thrown in the Trevi Fountain that she’d stop being afraid of life, know for sure if she was in love and someday return to the Eternal City—even though she’d been so sure that day that she’d already “seen” Rome.

  Gwen tried to hunt down evidence on Richard’s face that he felt similarly. That he actually desired personal change and growth. But she couldn’t spot it. And, without that, there was no way she could ever give to him that gift of European discovery that her aunt and Emerson had given to her. Though maybe someone else could ...

  “What’s your art, Richard?” she asked him suddenly.

  “What’s my what?”

  “Your art. The thing you love to do most. The activity that, while you’re doing it, it feels like time is flying. Or, maybe, you don’t feel time at all. Everything else is on pause.” She nodded at him, encouragingly. “You know, for some people it’s a hobby, like scrapbooking or playing a certain sport or some specific thing they love about their job.”

  “Oh, sure, I get what you mean now,” he said. “Spreadsheets. I love creating spreadsheets. They’re just so organized and logical and easy to read. When I’m building one at work, an hour can disappear like nothing.”