A Summer In Europe (23 page)

“Nice and snug in here,” Hester commented. “Bet’cha it’d be easy to stab someone in one of these contraptions. Or at least hold ’em at knifepoint.”

Gwen reluctantly agreed that might be true, but she wasn’t prepared to help the elderly woman come up with strategies to murder her hapless characters. Wedged between Hester’s angular body and the padded side of the gondola, she forced herself to listen politely as their gondolier Antonio regaled them with historical tidbits about the
Venezia
of old. She studied Cynthia as she scooted unnecessarily close to Emerson on their bench. And she gazed out at the other two gondolas, wondering if other people were experiencing any of the socio-relationship dramas she’d been dealing with on the trip.

Was Matilda thinking more about her fondness for Dr. Louie than about the ride through the Venetian Lagoon?

Was Aunt Bea missing Uncle Freddy that night and wishing she could relive their kiss on the canal?

Was Hans-Josef wondering about his pet Rolf or wishing he’d had more friends on tour? Maybe a girlfriend upon whom he could shower his affection?

It seemed a shame to waste such a romantic atmosphere on simply a boat ride.

The gondoliers took turns singing songs in Italian, offering up harmonies to support each other. When it was Antonio’s turn to take the vocal lead, Gwen found herself falling under his musical spell. Not that she understood the words to his song—she didn’t. But she understood the longing in the melody laced with the lyrical verses.

As they sailed under the famous Rialto Bridge, lit up at night along with the rest of the city, the bridge’s crisp white paint appeared to be a classic cream in the soft light. Gwen found herself glancing again at Bea, a look of rapturous delight on her aunt’s face at the twinkling bulbs that illuminated the antiquated buildings and set the water sparkling. She tried to imagine her dad dating the young Beatrice while secretly loving the even younger Madeline. It was a piece of her parents’ history she’d never known, and it brought a certain weight to her dad’s friendship with Aunt Bea, even after both her mom and Bea’s husband died. They had been more than just in-laws. Even more than just friends ... if only for a short time. Her dad had once said that he’d been introduced to her mom by Aunt Bea, but he’d never hinted at any further significance, and Gwen hadn’t thought to ask if there’d been one. Was his hesitance to divulge that history because he’d wanted to keep the primacy of his relationship to Bea to himself? Because he worried the knowledge might reflect poorly on her aunt, her mom or himself in some way? Gwen thought of all of those S&M gatherings her dad had driven to in the years before his heart attack. Might Aunt Bea or her father ever been interested in rekindling that first relationship?

No. Gwen suspected not. Her dad showed not so much as a flicker of interest in ever dating again after her mom died. Not even in unguarded moments. The problem with having something special—some really deep and true romantic connection—was that it made every other relationship pale by comparison. She knew this intuitively, having spent years poring over the attachments of literary lovers like Shakespeare’s Benedick and Beatrice, Austen’s Darcy and Elizabeth, Brontë’s Rochester and Jane. Once you knew how powerful something could be, you didn’t want to settle for something lesser.

Gwen knew this was true of other things, too. She’d always enjoyed her CD player until she got her first iPod. She’d liked the creaminess and mild flavor of ice cream well enough until she tasted her first gelato cone. And she’d thought her physical attraction to Richard was perfectly adequate until she met Emerson and began questioning it.... Just the awareness that there might be
a real difference
changed everything.

She breathed in, letting the warm Venetian air fill her lungs. How bad would it truly be to explore her relationship with Emerson in the context of this trip? She shot him a look. Across the gondola, his gaze met hers and locked. He smiled at her, seemingly oblivious to Cynthia’s chattering for a moment. Time was put on pause, as if their shared glance happened in the space between the seconds. Gwen returned his smile but swiftly looked away in an attempt to quiet the fluttering deep in her abdomen.
Bad,
she murmured to herself, in answer to her own question.

She wasn’t allowed to wallow in this realization for long, however. In the first gondola, a startling burst of sound drifted across the short expanse of water and crashed like a discordant wave against Gwen’s eardrum.

Dr. Louie.

With his gondola mates held captive and the receptive indulgence of his young gondolier, the retired vet had launched into the enthusiastic opening verse of “That’s Amore.” Matilda (
of course
), Alex and Connie Sue gleefully joined in, and the madness spread from one boat to the others like a rampant case of the Black Plague in the city’s dark history. All three gondoliers were rowing in time and, soon, almost everyone was singing along. The only holdouts were Ani, who didn’t know the lyrics because he listened only to Indo-Euro rap and alternative punk, and Gwen, who couldn’t bring herself to be so exhibitionistic.

“Let’s do it as a round!” Dr. Louie suggested. “We’ll start in this gondola with ‘When the moon ...’ You guys”—he pointed to Gwen’s gondola—“you begin singing when we get to ‘pizza pie.’ And everyone over there.” He motioned toward Aunt Bea’s gondola. “You all join in on ‘amore.’ Got it?”

Naturally, the Edwards brothers could sing, Gwen noticed. They could do just about anything, it seemed, and had strong musical voices on top of all their other gifts. Not remarkable enough to star in a West End production, perhaps, but their tone and range were nothing to be embarrassed by, either.

In spite of herself, Gwen found she was swaying a bit. Well, Hester kept rocking into her, forcing her to move whether she wanted to or not, but she actually kind of hummed along with the melody. She was pretty sure no one but, maybe, the older woman beside her could hear her, since she always worked hard to keep her vocal contributions virtually inaudible. Still, Gwen
tried
to come out of her shell. After all, how many times would she be on a gondola in Venice?

Even Cynthia had joined in. Gwen studied her. Sitting next to Emerson—singing shrilly and vaguely out of pitch—Cynthia looked
happy
. More contented than smug. Gwen got the sense that the other woman craved love and companionship so much that she’d put aside any possible ineptitude in the attempt to get it. And while it seemed, to Gwen, to be obvious that the Brit had thrown herself at Emerson that night, Gwen couldn’t discount the powerful aphrodisiac of courage. Cynthia was going after what she wanted in a way Gwen had not. A man who had guts, like Emerson, couldn’t help but admire that.

He caught her staring at them, grinned and motioned for her to open her mouth and sing. She shook her head. His brother then nudged her foot with his and said, in between verses, “You must know the words to this.” She shrugged and hummed just a little harder. Before the end of the song, both of the Edwards men had rolled their eyes at her in exasperation, making her certain that her persistent self-consciousness was, indeed, a character flaw. Not that she could do anything about that. Not really.

Back at the hotel, she was startled when Emerson broke away from his gang to come up to her, though, and whisper in her ear, “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow morning, all right?” He leaned in toward her. “I’m coming to knock you up at eight.”

She pulled back and stared at him, unable to mask her astonishment. “You’re going to do
what?
”

He tilted his head as if perplexed, balled up his fist and moved it as if he were pounding against something. Gwen knew she didn’t get around much, but this looked to be a very sexually suggestive gesture indeed. “Knock. You. Up,” he said slowly.

That he was saying this in a normal tone of voice floored her. She covered her open mouth with her palm and shook her head vigorously. She removed her hand. “I can’t believe you just said that. Stop it.”

He laughed out loud. “Oh, Gwen, you’re such an American. I’m just playing with you. I know your country’s idioms. It’s time you learned a few of ours. ‘Knock you up’ is a common English expression. It means, literally, to knock on your door. In order to wake you up.” He laughed at her some more and lowered his voice a tad. “It does not mean to impregnate you. Although”—he paused and shot a wicked grin at her—“I’m like James Bond. I never say never.”

She felt her face flush hot as he swiveled on his heel and headed back to the other Brits, who were looking on with amusement (Thoreau), irritation (Cynthia) and confusion (Louisa). Gwen raced out of the lobby as fast as she could.

The next day, true to his word, Emerson came knocking on her door just after eight a.m. To his credit, he only smirked a little bit when he was picking her up. Aunt Bea, on the other hand, was not nearly so circumspect.

“Have fun, kids!” her aunt called with an unnecessary zing of energy. “And just so you know, I’ll be out of the room for most of the morning, just in case you get tired and want to ... um, take a break here before the afternoon tour.”

Gwen glared in horror at her aunt, but Emerson just laughed good-naturedly and said, “Many thanks for the offer, Beatrice. We shall keep that in mind.”

“Where did you want to go?” Gwen asked as soon as they were outside and she had recovered her voice. “To San Marco’s Square?”

“I have a few sites planned, starting with the Rialto,” he told her. “I know we saw it last night, but it’s different during the day. Plus, we couldn’t stop the gondola to get out and shop yesterday.”

“True. Is the shopping as interesting here as it was in Florence?” she asked.

“I’ll let you decide for yourself.” He scanned the twisty path they were on, bustling with tourists, until he spotted something several yards away. “But first, gelato.” He picked up the pace.

She glanced at her watch and had to skip a few times to catch up with him. “It’s not even eight-thirty, Emerson. No one eats ice cream this early in the day. Not even the natives.”

He shot a look at her over his shoulder. “Willing to wager a bet?”

As it turned out, no, she didn’t want to make a bet. Not with him. And certainly not after seeing a line of people waiting at the gelato stand. While the couple in front of them ordered their cones in fluent Italian, Emerson raised one eyebrow at her and nodded wordlessly.

“Fine,” she murmured. “So what if you’re right?”

He grinned. “You’ll find I am often right.”

She didn’t waste her breath bothering to contradict him, but he remained a distinctly different breed of man than any she’d encountered before: cocky, but strangely good hearted; juvenile, but undeniably intelligent; a fan of the arts, but unquestionably masculine. Even after two weeks in his company, she still had little idea what to make of him—except that she felt persistently out of his league.

They took their cones and meandered in what Gwen thought was an aimless promenade, but Emerson, apparently, knew his way around Venice—no easy-to-master skill given the serpentine walkways, the flowing canals at every turn and the countless unmarked little bridges. Suddenly, they turned a corner and there was the Rialto Bridge, about twenty yards ahead of them, flashing brilliant white in the scorching sun and already packed with a swarm of visitors.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “We got here fast.”

“Yes, well, I knew a shortcut.” He stopped to study the view. “Pretty, is it not?” Before she even managed to form an answer, he elbowed her and said, “Oh, look at that.”

He pointed to the window of the shop nearest them on the sidewalk, and she peeked at the object of his interest. It was a chess piece—the knight from an elaborate set—displayed as a centerpiece behind the glass. “It’s lovely,” she said, leaning closer and noticing the rest of the chess set resting atop a polished board on a decorative table behind the ornate horse and rider.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he whispered. “Handcrafted, too. Made of pewter. Painted with real eighteen-karat gold and sterling silver. Hmm.”

“How do you know that?”

He motioned toward a little placard near the piece. “It says.”

She glanced at it and almost rolled her eyes. Yes, it said it all right. In Italian. “Is there
anything
you don’t know how to do?”

He paused. Scrunched up his handsome forehead in thought. Squinted into the distance. “No.” Then he laughed heartily. “Of course, Gwen. There are scores of things I don’t know or cannot do. It’s because I didn’t know something, but I worked up the nerve to ask somebody or to give it a go anyway, that I learned. You need to stop being so afraid of looking foolish.”

Or sounding foolish, she thought, remembering the impromptu singing in the gondolas the night before.

“I’m going to slip in here for a moment. If they sell individual pieces, I want to pick one up for my brother. He celebrates a birthday next month. What do you think he’d like best? A knight? A king? A rook?”

She recalled that one morning Thoreau explained the
moves
he’d thought she made in her ever-so-polite battle against Cynthia. “A bishop,” she told Emerson. “I think he’d like that piece.”

He shot her an inquisitive glance. “Interesting choice. I always prefer the boldness of the knight myself, but Thoreau does use his bishops in surprising ways sometimes. Sneaks up on a gent.” He finished his last bite of gelato and tossed out the napkin. “Huh. I’ll be back momentarily.”

While he was inside making his purchases, she saw a few paper flyers posted for some event coming up called the
“Festa del Reden-tore,”
and she asked Emerson about it when he emerged from the shop.

“It’s a big celebration that dates back to the late 1500s,” he explained. “Always held on the third weekend in July. A feast day of thanks for the end of the plague that’d killed thousands, including the famous painter Titian, whose work I admire. There are fireworks, decorated boats in the Grand Canal and a long procession to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer.” He shrugged. “It’s charming. Too bad we’ll be all the way up in Paris then.”