A Summer In Europe (19 page)

She began ticking off characters with her fingers. “There’d be the killer bride, the clueless groom, the cheatin’ best man, the sweet maid of honor, the interfering mother of the groom, the thievin’ father of the bride, a ring bearer and a couple of sneaky flower girls. It could be called
Problem Proposal in Pisa
. Or, maybe,
Nasty Nuptials
.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. I’ll think of a better title later.”

Zenia snorted. “Plot sounds too farfetched to me. But you write J. D. Robb an’ you tell her you got her one damn good story idea. Maybe she’ll write it for you.”

But Hester had a different idea. “No,” she said with a happy cackle. “My muse is tellin’ me to write it myself. I’m only ninety. I figure I got me at least another few years. Can’t take longer than one or two to write a book, can it?”

Zenia glanced between the Leaning Tower and the old woman. “Not for a smart cookie like you.” She dug into her fanny pack again, pulling out another crumpled piece of paper and a second pen. “Why don’t you jot down a few of your ideas? Don’t want you to forget ’em.”

Hester snatched the paper and pen, gave Zenia a quick arm squeeze in thanks and began scribbling. Gwen could only admire them both and their drive to be creative no matter what their age. She ought to try to be just a little more like them.

“Perhaps it’s true that the only thing worth writing about is, after all, the human heart, when it’s in conflict with itself,” a voice behind her murmured.

Gwen felt the oddest tremor in her chest at the sound. She swiveled around to find Emerson standing there, arms crossed. She didn’t immediately recognize the literary reference and she said so.

“Faulkner,” he replied, eyeing her coolly. “He said something like that once.”

She nodded. “Oh, okay. So, what? No more Ralph Waldo? No more Shakespeare?”

“I’m versatile,” he said, his lips remaining in a straight line, but his hazel irises glinting more than a bit in golden amusement. “Why? Do you not like the sentiment?”

She swallowed. What was she going to do with him? Why was he always laughing at her? Asking her questions?

“Why—Why do you keep poking at me like that?” she blurted. “Why do you even care what I think? We’re nothing alike. My opinion shouldn’t matter to you.”

“I’m a scientist.” He shrugged, as if this were all the explanation needed.

She blinked at him. “And?”

His lips twitched. “
And
I believe that to really know something, you need to both observe it and disturb it. At different times, of course.”

“So, wait. You’re saying I’m an object you’ve been ... studying ... and disturbing? Like some kind of experiment?” She was surprised how incensed she was by this. It was different, of course, when she observed people. She just
watched
. He, apparently, had been watching and also plotting out schemes to annoy her as a way of gathering empirical data. She
knew
he’d been trying to mess with her.
Men
.

“Not an object. A woman,” he corrected. “Only, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle is in effect, so I’ve been screwing it up.”

She squinted at him. What was he talking about?
The Heisenberg uncertainty principle?
“What?”

“In quantum mechanics,” Emerson explained in an infuriatingly patient tone, “certain pairs of physical properties—like momentum and position—can’t both be known with complete accuracy. The more precisely we know one property, the less precisely we can know the other.” He held out his palms as if they were a scale, lifting one side and then the opposing side. “The measurement of a particle’s momentum, for example, necessarily disturbs its position. And vice versa. So, according to Heisenberg, it’s impossible to simultaneously determine these qualities in an electron, at least not with any degree of certainty.”

“And this relates to me ... how?”

“To really know the nature of something you need to do more than just observe it. You need to interact with it, too. Test it. See how it responds to different elements, stimuli, challenges. However, interacting with the subject irrevocably disturbs it. It’s no longer in its native state, so, you can’t be certain that you’ve measured correctly.” He crossed his arms and regarded her with surprising seriousness. “This is true for getting to know new people, as well. As it is in physics, so it is in life.”

Gwen sighed, battling exasperation and the unsettling understanding that Emerson likened their burgeoning friendship (was that what it was?) to the relationship between a scientist and a confusing electron. There was very little that struck her as romantic or admiring about this comparison.

“So ... so your question to me at Festival del Gelato—that was a
test
of yours? Because, before, you said it was a
joke
.”

“Most jokes are tests,” he shot back. Then he grinned. “But only a coward would use that as an excuse in this case. And I’m not a coward, Gwen.” He met her gaze and held it. “I meant what I said to you.”

She didn’t know how to respond to him. He possessed the ability to challenge her without asking her a single thing, let alone when he openly propositioned her. She felt perspiration dampening her palms but was saved from having to mumble something inane by the interruption of Hester and Zenia.

“How about
With This Ring I Thee Kill?
” Hester suggested to the other lady as the two strolled past them.

Zenia said, “I kinda like that one.”

“Or
Something Borrowed, Something Bludgeoning
...”

Emerson snickered as soon as they were out of earshot. “See, Gwen? There could be worse fates than getting stuck on a five-week trip through Europe with a collection of mathematical misfits. You could be a character in Hester’s upcoming debut novel,
Here Comes the Assassin Bride
.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. Well, yes. If marriage meant murder, it was best avoided. But, somehow, she was sure Richard didn’t intend to say his wedding vows and then push her off the top of a tall building. He might, however, continue to give her the cold shoulder for another month. Or two.

It occurred to her—standing in the Italian sunshine, the figure of the Leaning Tower casting a peculiar shadow on the lush lawn—that Richard, thousands of miles away at his little company picnic, had no right to hold a grudge and try to spoil her fun, albeit via e-mail. And that the man hovering beside her—for all his faults and excessive verbosity—might annoy her mightily, but he wasn’t one to be petty or rancorous. He was not, as he so boldly stated, a coward.

Not in the least.

They spent the next two days basking in the splendor that was the Italian Lake District. Aunt Bea and Matilda roped Gwen into joining them for pedalo boat rides on Lake Como. Gwen and her fellow tour members had leisurely meals overlooking the sparkling water. They enjoyed strolling in the warm sun, watching it set behind the colorfully dappled northern Italian hills. And they marveled at how being in the midst of this scenery was like walking into a Howard Behrens painting.

On Friday morning, Gwen found herself on the hotel terrace, enjoying the peacefulness and beauty of the region, when she spotted Hester tiptoeing past her.

She waved to the older woman and was about to say, “Good morning,” but Hester put her index finger to her lips with one hand and motioned for Gwen to join her with the other.

“Where are we going?” Gwen whispered.

Hester’s eyes glittered. “To get a treat.” And she led Gwen around to a side entrance, near the hotel kitchen, where a plump forty-something lady cook and their bus driver, Guido, were awaiting them.

“Just-ah in time!” the lady cook said, pulling out a piping hot pan of freshly baked bread twists.

The aroma was overwhelmingly delicious, like strolling into a bakery and actually being wrapped up in a warm bread roll. Despite not being a foodie like Hester or Aunt Bea, Gwen wasn’t immune to the scrumptiousness of the scent.

“You try it with olive oil, yes?” Guido suggested, smacking his lips. “You will like. I know.”

As the lady cook was sliding the steaming twists onto small paper plates for each of them, the side door swung open and Thoreau slipped through it. “I heard a rumor—” he began.

The lady cook laughed and handed him a plate with a bread twist.

Thoreau kissed her on the cheek—both sides—in return.

Hester, Guido and the lady cook began chatting about something while nibbling on their hot bread. Thoreau brushed both his twist and Gwen’s with a strip of golden oil and pointed toward the door. “Shall we take a stroll?” he asked her.

She nodded. And, after thanking the generous cook, they stepped out onto the walkway near the hotel and began meandering on the floral path alongside the lake.

Gwen blew on her twist and took a small bite. “Ohh ... mmm.”

“Heaven, isn’t it?” Thoreau said.

“Is it me, or does
everything
taste better in Italy?”

He laughed. “It’s not just you. But every country has its specialty. We claim some outstanding curries in London, and you’ve never had shepherd’s pie until you’ve tasted my mum’s.”

“Iowa has ... great corn on the cob. That’s mostly what the state is known for, at least as far as food.
Field of Dreams
was filmed there, and the book
The Bridges of Madison County
was set there, too.”

“Haven’t read it,” Thoreau admitted. “Emerson may have. The man reads everything. I’ll have to ask him if he owns a copy.”

“Speaking of books, did you hear that Hester is writing a novel?” she said. “She was telling Zenia about it yesterday. It’s so wonderful of her to be undertaking something ambitious like that at age ninety.”

“Well, she has a lot to offer the world.” He took a big bite of his twist but, after swallowing, he said,
“ ‘How vain it is to sit down to write if you have not stood up to live.’ ”
He looked pleased with this latest quote. “Henry David Thoreau.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You and your brother.”

He grinned. “We’re a troublesome pair, aren’t we? Have we been bothering you too much? I know Emerson has a tendency to be a pest, but you don’t mind us really, do you?”

She didn’t immediately answer. Then, “It’s not that I mind. It’s just that I’m not sure I fit with either you or Emerson. I’m not even sure I fit anywhere on this tour,” she admitted. “Certainly not with your crowd. Your lady friends are very ... protective of their time with you.”

He smiled at her gently. “Louisa is in a cold, loveless marriage, Gwen. I can empathize with that as I have less than fond memories of my ex-wife. So, in Louisa’s case, I realize she needs a little hand-holding and, sometimes, she can be a bit clingy and cliquish. But she’s rather nice when you get to know her. Cynthia, however—” He shook his head. “She’s what you Americans would call ‘a piece of work.’ She’s not someone who’s easy to encapsulate. If she likes a person, she can be very kind and giving. If she doesn’t, she can be ... oh, how to best describe it?” He paused and thought. “Kind of a bitch.”

Laughter Gwen couldn’t control bubbled out of her. “Thoreau.”

“Well, it’s true,” he said, laughing as well. “In some ways she’s just a hurt little girl—wanting love or, barring that, wanting revenge. She was incandescent with rage when her father left her mother—not as a kid, but four years ago when she was just forty. To her it was the most grievous smack of disloyalty a person could give to another. And she’s most certainly a firm believer in loyalty. She seems to be warming to you. A little.”

Interesting, Gwen thought. But she still wasn’t going to be a big Cynthia fan.

Thoreau told her a few details more about the ladies but, though Gwen appreciated getting some insight into these two women and was now less inclined to use the term “Britsicles” as a nickname, she couldn’t deny it was Thoreau’s brother she really wanted to hear about. They kept circling around him conversationally. She wasn’t sure whether Thoreau had picked up on her interest in discussing Emerson and wanted to deflect her away from that, or if he simply didn’t realize her degree of fascination with the man.

She thought back on their dinner after the Capri visit, when she’d had her first really good look at the brothers. While Thoreau had been polite, he hadn’t been nearly as attentive as Emerson had been. The latter seemed to notice everything about her, although he hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation. He must have been studying her even then, no doubt as one of his scientific experiments. She wondered what his impressions had been of her that night in the Sorrento
ristorante
. Had he liked how she looked? Had he picked up on all of her nervous habits? Had he tried to figure out what they meant?

As always, she reached up to feel her right earring, touching it as she did several times per day and remembering her mother. But when she did the same with her left one, her fingers grasped only a naked earlobe. She stopped, midstep, on the circuitous lake path, feeling for the earring more carefully and, when she couldn’t locate it, combing through her hair with her fingers in hopes of finding it caught there.

“Oh, no ...” she breathed.

Thoreau, who’d stopped walking when she had stopped, said, “Did you lose something? An earring?”

She nodded, on the verge of panicking.
Her mom’s earring.
“Oh, no,” she said again, trying to keep her voice from shaking, but her heart pounded like timpani and her vision blurred at the thought of having lost it.

“What does it look like?” Thoreau asked.

She motioned for him to look at the other earring, still in place, then she bit her lip to prevent her cry from coming out and searched frantically on the walkway around her and a few steps behind.
Find it! She had to find it!

“Be still for a moment,” he commanded, sweeping her hair off her left shoulder with one hand and picking at something near her neck. “Here.” He detached an object and held it up to her. “It was caught in your jumper.”

She let out a huge breath she’d been holding. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. I—I was so scared—” She paused to inhale and exhale several times and say a mental thanks to her friend Kathy, who’d gone shopping with her in the spring and insisted she buy this light knit summer sweater (a “jumper,” apparently, in British-speak), with holes perfect in size on which to hook an earring.