by Doug Walsh
I’m gonna lose her, he thought, his earlier fears rushing back, kicking down the flimsy blockade built upon distraction. Edward’s eyelids fell shut, the silk bunched in twin fists against his forehead as he struggled to recall the last time they were intimate.
Had sex or made love?
He ached as months of bedroom memories swirled in his mind. Fragile recollections of Kara lying beside him, spooning, Edward pumping away for a minute or two before falling asleep. Their passion no hotter than a November drizzle. More partners in life than lovers on a journey.
It wasn’t always like that. The sex used to be great. Then came the promotions. And the late nights, and the weekends spent with clients instead of Kara.
“I’m such an ass,” Edward said, his voice muffled by the crumpled underwear he held to his face. He breathed deeply, siphoning off the detergent scent, hoping to detect a trace of her essence, a single molecule to remember her by.
Awareness rushed in, reminding him where he was—and how pathetic he was acting. He laughed at himself, hoping nobody was watching, then took a deep breath and blinked away the last of his emotions, gaining the clarity he sought. They had a fight. That was all. And Kara would forgive him.
This time.
He couldn’t worry about that now; he could only make it up to her and hope he didn’t have to hijack the route again for several months. By then, he suspected, even Kara might want to fast-forward to home.
Edward returned her stuff sack to the pannier then scooped the pile of dirt with his hands, relieved to be as free of the grime as he was the burden of his misgivings.
“It’s bad luck to wear that indoors, ya know?”
Edward spun, tearing the helmet from his head as his pulse quickened. He’d just finished mounting the mirrors to the other side of the helmets in preparation for British roads. “You came back.”
“Yeah, sorry it took so long—” Kara began, pausing as a curtain of concern descended on her face. “Are you okay?”
Not really, he thought. He looked away as he spun the helmet in his hands, not wanting to sound pitiful.
“Of course I’d come back.” Kara moved quickly, wrapping her arms around him. A small shopping bag slapped against his back. He felt himself melt into her as she whispered words of compassion into his ear with the tone of a woman honored to see a man’s weakness on display.
“I’m so sorry, Kara.”
She nodded slowly. “I know.”
“I was so selfish. It wasn’t fair,” he said, feeling his resolve crumbling. He hated the lies, the secrets, the guilt. “There’s something I need to—”
She silenced him with a kiss—a lifeline—and for the briefest moment he was convinced she knew about the contest. The impossible thought flashed like lightning, replaced instantly by the pressure of her lips against his, and the crackling realization that he’d nearly said too much, given up the dream he had for them. But no. He had her forgiveness, her blind permission to keep his secret. To go for it.
Edward returned the kiss with the fervor of a man brought back to life.
Edward woke before dawn the next morning, still in the clothes he wore to dinner, with a wrinkled sightseeing map unfolded across him. Confusion set in as he forgot where he was, a side effect of life on the road. A dog-eared travel guide thudded to the floor as he stretched, jogging his memory. He’d borrowed the book from the lobby of the inn, a cramped guesthouse in west London’s Hammersmith area. Nowhere near the tourist attractions, but easy to reach by bicycle from Heathrow. And with a proper English breakfast included.
Kara lay beside him, an angel in repose, every muscle at peace save for her lips, which seemed to curl at the corners, pursed in secret delight. Edward kissed her forehead, hoping he’d remember to ask about her dream, but knew she seldom remembered them. Whatever it was, he was happy she had it.
He gathered the map and guidebook, switched the bedroom’s electric kettle on for tea, and freshened up as quietly as he could. Not wanting to wake Kara, he settled onto the floor nearest the bathroom light and set about planning the day’s itinerary. He knew he had to make it good.
Two hours later, down three flights of narrow, twisting stairs, Edward sat pushing sautéed mushrooms around his plate, wondering why anyone would want beans and mushrooms for breakfast.
“You eating these?” Kara asked, stabbing a tomato with a fork.
He crinkled his nose in disgust, wishing for a plate of pancakes and bacon. Real bacon, he thought.
“So, what’s the plan for today?”
Edward warmed at the question. “It’s a secret,” hoping he sounded as confident as he wished. It was risky, but he was determined to treat her to a special day. After Cape Cod, he needed to nail this.
First came the macarons. A pastel spectrum of airy decadence at the Chelsea Farmer’s Market where he and Kara sipped cappuccino beneath an oversized umbrella. Edward couldn’t take his eyes from her as she sat cross-legged opposite him, swinging her foot hypnotically. A simple walking shoe dangled from her toes with the style of a stiletto, the curve of her foot distracting him from her stories about London. Just as it used to distract him from the professor’s lecture. When did I stop noticing this?
From the market, they strolled to Rainbow Row in Notting Hill, where a collection of brilliantly colored townhomes stood brick to brick as if the street were a box of crayons. Kara flitted about with her camera, moving from house to house like a butterfly in a garden. Edward watched on, proud of the day he’d arranged, but still mindful of the eggshells he walked upon. After a few selfies, he led her to Hyde Park for a lazy picnic lunch. On the way, he took her hand, tentatively, as if for the first time.
Though Kara spoke little as the day unfolded, Edward wasn’t about to risk ruining the moment by saying something he’d come to regret. He could tell she’d forgiven him. It was in her smile during coffee, in the kiss she gave him while snapping photos, by the way she rested her head against his shoulder as they walked. In the park, Edward leaned against a tree while Kara napped in his lap. The rough bark ground against his shoulder blade, but he bore the discomfort without disturbing her.
Hours later, they were seated high above London’s south bank, at an Americana-inspired lounge in the Shard, a futuristic skyscraper befitting its name. The view from their table offered a sweeping panorama of the city’s landmarks.
Kara cozied up against Edward’s chest on the sofa-style seating, heating the air between them, and pointed her wine glass as she identified the major sights, from St. Paul’s Cathedral to London Tower.
“You can’t really see it, but Shakespeare’s Globe is right below us,” she said, “near the Wobbly Bridge.”
“The what?”
Kara laughed and pointed at a pedestrian bridge. “It’s technically the Millennium Bridge, but it swayed so much when it opened, the city had to close it for two years to fix it. Locals have called it the Wobbly Bridge ever since.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“They have nicknames for everything. That’s the Walkie Talkie,” she said, pointing at a concave tower across the river, “and the one behind it is the Cheesegrater.”
Edward shook his head, amused.
“And that egg-shaped one over there—”
“With the diamond windows?”
“That’s the Gherkin. Like the pickle.”
“So that’s the Gherkin,” Edward said, putting place to name.
“You’ve heard of it?” Kara sounded surprised.
Edward felt the heat rise in his face as the name carried him back to the office, to the boisterous tales of thousand-dollar meals and private clubs. “Madsen used to brag about going there. ‘Members only,’ he’d say.”
“Probably snobs.”
Edward cringed. He’d been promised a chance to tag along on Ron’s trips to Europe once he got his promotion. It was one of the perks he was most looking forward to.
Does she think I’m a snob?
He tipped
his glass and poured the thoughts of Ron Madsen into the oblivion of his gullet. A server materialized as Edward sat his glass on the coaster a little too forcefully.
“Another Merlot, sir?”
“Maybe something a little stronger.” Edward flipped open the cocktail menu and snorted when he saw a drink called the American Dream. He ordered it without as much as a glance at the ingredient list.
Minutes passed in awkward silence as Edward waited for the mention of Ron to pass, as if waiting out a raincloud beneath a bridge. The air had changed around them and he feared Kara may have sensed it too.
“I … well, we, got invited to a party,” Kara said, her voice hesitant, laced with suggestion.
“You did, did you?” Edward said with a smirk, trying to conceal a pinprick of jealousy. “By whom?” he asked, his voice rising in a faux-accusatory tone.
Kara blushed. “The guy at the bike shop.”
Edward’s drink arrived not a moment too soon, and he hastily took a sip as his jealousy deepened. It tasted sweet but contained a smoky finish that reminded him of the Scotch he had with Tom.
“And what’d you tell this guy at the bike shop?”
“What do you think? I said my husband and I would try to make it.” Kara placed a hand on his knee. “But we don’t have to go.”
The storm had passed and Edward felt himself expand with relief.
“The only party I want tonight is with you.” His cocktail-moistened lips alighted on the lengthy expanse of her neck. He dragged his tongue ever so slightly to the wisps of hair beneath her ear. “No falling asleep in our clothes tonight.”
Back at the inn, they unbuttoned, unbelted, tugged, and loosened each other blindly, their mouths biting and searching. They tumbled as one onto the bed with its cheap, fraying quilt, knocking the pillows to the floor.
Kara’s sleeveless blouse was unbuttoned to her navel, her bra unfastened and pushed aside; skirt flipped upwards, panties dangling from a solitary foot—the silk ones he’d been fondling in the airport. Edward, shirtless, knelt between her toned legs in admiration of her bewitching blend of sexuality and strength. His pause was brief, a fleeting genuflection at the altar of his love.
Outside, the seesawing siren of a British copper Dopplered past as Edward bent to explore and taste and wrap himself around and within Kara’s warmth.
Chapter 19
Monday, June 8 — London, United Kingdom
Edward crawled out from under the sheets and flopped alongside Kara, flushed. He arched his back and stretched as a nearby fan blew a revitalizing breeze. Across the room, window blinds cut stripes across the purple-blue glow of daybreak.
He scooted his pillow closer to Kara and rolled to his side. She smiled, glistening. And Edward was in love. He studied her blissful smirk, the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed, the gentle flaring of her nostrils. She licked her curling lips and he could tell she sensed him watching her.
Kara took a deep breath and blinked away the last vestiges of sleep. When she turned to face him, a loving twinkle danced in her eyes. Right then, a thought rocketed through him, exploding with such force he felt his chest recoil: I can’t ever risk not seeing her look at me this way.
“Morning,” she said, her voice brimming with a delicious heaping dose of naughtiness.
“Sleep well?”
“I don’t remember you letting me,” Kara said with a yawn.
They stared at one another beneath twisted sheets with twin grins. The room was still, save for the oscillating fan and the lazy march of sunlight across the walls. Thoughts drifted by like plankton through a fishing net as Edward sank deeper into her gaze.
Kara broke the silence with a beleaguered sigh. “It’s probably time we start packing for Scotland.”
“We don’t have to.” He placed his hand on her hip, hoping to punctuate his sincerity.
“You want to stay another day?”
He shrugged, not knowing what he wanted other than to stay in this moment.
Kara tilted her head, as if he was a sculpture needing to be studied from another angle. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get to Scotland. What about the Whiskey Trail? And Edinburgh?”
He repeated the questions in his mind. It was complicated. His comment was such a simple remark, an echo of the romantic mood he was in, meant to be ignored or agreed to without deliberation.
But the moment was lost. Awareness flooded his mind. It was Monday, another week begun. Only four days until he had to call Tom. The Atlantic suddenly felt much smaller from Europe.
Edward rolled onto his back and balled his fists behind his head, knocking a pillow to the floor with one elbow, almost bumping Kara with the other. Can’t I have one fucking day without worrying about Tom?
“What’s wrong?”
Edward laced his fingers and squeezed the back of his head in frustration. Pain surged behind his ears, his skull being crushed in a vise of his own making. The ache was intense, but gratifying. A release. Like when he threw the baseball at Madsen.
He snorted at the memory and relaxed his grip, taking a calming breath as relief filled the void left by his waning adrenaline. He knew it wasn’t a good look—God knows his mother hated seeing his father pound and slam his way through life—but it felt good. To blow the valve off every now and then and vent. But he had to be careful. After all, it was his temper that landed him in this mess to begin with.
Since when is spending every day traveling the world with your wife a mess?
He could feel Kara staring at him as she repeated her question. He ignored her, searching his imagination, hoping for an idea. To his right, he felt the mattress sink and rebound as she got out of bed.
“It just occurred to me,” he began, an entirely true statement, “that it would take two months to cycle around Great Britain—”
“Yeah,” she interrupted. “That’s why I thought we could take a train to Inverness and cycle south.”
“They have direct trains from London to northern Scotland?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Edward hadn’t ever ridden a train in the States, least of all with a bicycle—his experience with public transit began and ended with the Puget Sound ferries. He envisioned rushing on and off trains, fetching their bicycles from luggage cars, and changing platforms with two bikes and ten bags. “That could be a nightmare with all our gear.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’m not sure. I really wanted to see Scotland. Probably more than any other country, but …” His voice faded into a sigh as Tom’s bellowing voice echoed in his memory: East! Edward gritted his teeth at the unwelcome intrusion, deciding right then that one romantic day in London wasn’t enough. And neither Tom nor anyone else was going to make him leave.
“Let’s stay here,” he said. “Just another day or two.”
“Really?” she asked, wrapping a discarded quilt around herself.
“I’m serious. Let’s spend another day in London then look into taking a ferry to Denmark.”
Kara put her hand to his forehead, as if checking for a fever. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Scotland was your pick.”
A good question. The man who built a career on smart investments and due diligence felt ideas being turned to words faster than his brain could process. But he knew skipping Scotland would pay dividends in the long run.
“Yep. I feel awful about you missing Cape Cod. It’s only fair if I miss something too, right? Then we’ll be even.”
Kara bobbed her head side to side while mulling over his words.
Edward wasn’t sure where the idea came from, but he loved what he was hearing. He sat up in the bed, excited, his hands drumming on his knees.
“There’s gotta be a boat to Denmark,” he continued, his tempo soaring as guilt and trepidation danced a quickstep across his mind. “And I know you wanted to visit as many countries as possible. We can ride back along the North Sea through Germany to the Netherlands. That gets us an
extra country and still gets us to the mainland sooner than if we pedaled from Scotland. It’ll be perfect.”
Kara appeared tempted by the offer, but remained silent as she paced. The past twenty-four hours had been some of their best in recent memory. And he knew she felt the same way. “Well?” he finally asked, encouraging her with big-eyed excitement.
“The continent,” she said after some time.
“Huh?”
“The continent. You said the mainland. That’s not what Europeans call it.”
“Good to know.” After a moment’s silence, he raised his eyebrows, begging for an answer.
“If it’s what you want—”
“Is it what you want?”
“I guess. I mean, I’m not sure. It sounds okay. It’s really different than I envisioned.”
“A little spontaneity is good for us, right? Isn’t that what you always said?”
Kara nodded politely. “It is. I just never thought you’d be this spontaneous. Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
She walked to his side of the bed, the quilt trailing like a wedding train. “Promise me this is it with the sudden detours. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re being more impulsive, but I feel like the trip is slipping away from us, like we’re fast-forwarding through a dream.”
He swallowed hard. Whose dream?
“Say you promise.” Her voice hitched with nervousness.
He took her hands in his, hoping she wouldn’t notice their shaking. “Of course,” he said, feeling the sting of guilt as he spoke. “Now, come back to bed,” he said, pulling her on top of him, rolling with her across the bed. He tickled her as he landed kisses all over her neck and collar bone, relishing in the sensation of her hair brushing against his face. He rose into a plank above her, hovering, his eyes locked on hers.
“I promise,” he said, knowing it was a promise he couldn’t keep.
Kara balanced atop the nose of her saddle, stomping the pedals with all the power she could muster. Sunscreen-scented beads of perspiration pimpled her skin. A drop of sweat hung from the tip of her nose, tickling, swaying in rhythm with her pedaling. She snapped her head to the side, flinging it to the gravel, only to feel another drop form.