A Summer In Europe (36 page)

She stuck her tongue out at him.

The other was in a different part of the Sully wing: the Venus de Milo. The late second-century BC statue still managed to be majestic, despite her lack of arms. Gwen found herself drawn to the strong, lovely woman made of pure white marble from the Greek isle of Paros. At six feet eight inches, Venus was still a bit petite for the seventeen-foot Florentine
David,
but in Gwen’s mind, she made them a couple.

She stared at the piece for so long that, when the museum guards started shooing them out of the hallways and rooms, Emerson insisted they make a trip to the gift shop their culminating activity so Gwen could purchase a statuette miniature to take home.

“This one, I think,” she told Emerson, selecting a plaster Venus de Milo about half a foot tall and admiring another plaster copy, this one of the famed Winged Victory of Samothrace that featured the Greek goddess Nike. The second statue, also made of Parian marble in the original, was one she’d seen only in passing as they were rushing between floors, but she’d found that one beautiful and stately as well. Poor Victory/Nike was missing not only arms but a head, too. “Hmm,” she murmured, picking up the second piece. Contemplating whether this might be something Richard would like. It remained regal, even at its diminutive height, so she bought that one, too.

“You’ll have quite a museum in your house,” Emerson commented, as they exited the building and began meandering down the sidewalk along the Seine in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

“Yes,” she began, but then opted for honesty. “Although, Winged Victory is a gift.” When he raised a brow in question, she added, “It’s, um, for Richard.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding and then looking away. After a half block of silence, he stopped, bit his bottom lip and said, “Hungry?”

Gwen was beginning to realize that no one did meal time like Emerson. If he wasn’t entertaining her or introducing her to regional delicacies, he was tantalizing her senses—every single one of them—by feeding her something. He’d made the eating of gelato and linguini a sensual act in Italy and the nibbling on cake in Vienna into a game of foreplay, so she was hardly surprised that he could elevate the consumption of quiche into something akin to a passionate afternoon tryst.

“All right, love, we have the spinach and artichoke,” he said, pointing to the first quiche tartlet he’d selected from the café’s pastry window. “The mushroom and Gruyère.” He indicated the second one resting in the central position on their outdoor tabletop. “And, finally, the baked ham with red bell pepper and onion.” He looked at her expectantly, a knife poised for cutting in his right hand. “Which should we explore first?”

Gwen swallowed and pointed blindly toward the table. She couldn’t bring herself to glance away from Emerson’s golden gaze. He was so
interesting
to watch. The flecks of variant color in his hazel irises glinted in the slanting light, matching—if only for a moment—the warm glazed goldenness atop every pastry in the bakery case.

“The mushroom and Gruyère it is,” he exclaimed, slicing the quiche firmly in half and, as had become his habit, lifting the first piece for her to try. Not using a fork this time—simply holding the tartlet in his hand—he brought it smoothly to her lips.

Gwen had never understood her aunt’s foodie fascination ... until this trip.

She took a small bite, and the strong but delectable flavors performed the can-can on her tongue. “Mmm,” she murmured.

“Good, is it not?” he said, his smile a tad too angelic. He was, she realized, casting a spell on her, using European cuisine as his cauldron. If he was employing his creativity and the tools available to him—magic enough—in trying to erase life with Richard from her memory, he was succeeding.

“It is,” she replied, reaching for his half of the tartlet so she could offer him a taste in return. As he took his first big bite, she imagined him at an Iowan picnic. He could make good old American hotdogs, fries and corn on the cob an amorous dining experience, she was sure. A shiver of desire raced through her. “But, then, everything tastes good here.”

He raised a sandy eyebrow, the angelic expression morphing into a slightly wicked one. “You, Gwendolyn Reese, know not how right you are.”

There were still plenty of tourists milling around the base of the Eiffel Tower by the time they finished their meal and reached it, but the buses were mostly gone and the crowds had thinned considerably.

With nothing to prove, they eschewed the vigor of the stairs for the speed of the elevator.

Paris at twilight.

The dusky purples and blues had been brushed with rouge streaks, and a blanket of indigo waited at the edge of the horizon to cover the city. In what remained of the rosy pastel light, Emerson helped her locate from high above some of the famous sites they’d seen since their arrival: the Obelisk of Luxor down the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, the Opera House, the church at Les Invalides and, of course, the Louvre. These magnificent buildings in this grand city were reduced to miniatures, just like those statuettes she’d purchased of the marble masterpieces. She felt small again, too. Removed from her life on planet Earth. Even tinier and more powerless than usual.

Emerson, as if sensing her pulling away, placed his arms around her, grounding them both in the same moment. She stiffened in his embrace, afraid to let herself relax into it. Afraid of what that might mean.

“It’s quite all right,” he murmured. “I’m not making a move on you, Gwen. But I like being here with you. You helped me today. Helped me put some things in perspective with my family.” He snuggled a little closer to her as the coverlet of darkness fell and was, simultaneously, pricked with light. Clusters of illumination appeared in random but increasingly noticeable specks across the city. “Thank you,” he added, his words making it clear that—despite the vastness below them, around them, above them—she was visible to him. A pinprick of light in whatever darkness he was facing.

And how wondrous that felt. To matter to someone! To be so very small and, yet, if only for an instant, to make a difference in another’s life.

She finally settled into his arms, exhaled a breath she’d been long holding and watched—hopeful and aware—as a new cluster of hazy indigo was transformed by the golden shimmers of dancing electricity.

Their final French adventure came in the form of a nine-and-a-half hour joint tour of Monet’s house and gardens plus a visit to the massive Palace of Versailles.

Amidst the beauty of Giverny—Monet’s village—and the water lilies floating serenely in the River Seine, the artist in Zenia emerged full force and sparkling.

“That’s right!” the older woman exclaimed. “This is what I’m talkin’ about.” She twirled in place, just off one of Monet’s walking paths, swerving a bit too close to the water for Gwen’s comfort. Gwen and Davis exchanged a look and moved forward so they could snatch her if she spun too near the sloping riverbank.

“Nothin’ like Mother Nature for inspiration,” Zenia added enthusiastically, her arms flapping to each side like a brightly colored tropical bird who had just found the way back to her own private Amazon. “Artists need to go out into the world. See things. Let the global wonders sink into their skin and change them.” She breathed the country air in deep, smiling at the soft blue sky, the weeping-willow greenery, the tufts of grass and the sprays of flowers dotting the landscape.

Hester crossed over to them from one of the bridges spanning the lily-covered waters, listing a bit from side to side in a manner that had Gwen worried. “These things are a little rickety,” she said, slapping the railings with each palm. “Bet it’d be easy to throw someone off here and into the water. Death by drowning.”

“Or water-lily suffocation,” Davis added helpfully.

“Good idea,” Hester declared. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

Zenia beamed at them. “What a great place. For artists. For writers. For musicians, dancers, actors. Whatever sparks your creativity, nature gives it fire.”

“That’s very poetic of you, Zenia,” Hester said.

Zenia grinned and twirled some more.

Once assured that the elderly persons on the tour were staying clear of the water’s edge, however, Gwen could relax long enough to see Zenia in action.

The woman lived as she spoke, reacting to the scenery as a gift of artistic discovery. Every natural object fed her creativity and gave her something new to contribute to her loom projects. Gwen could almost see the synthesis taking place. The splash of red and yellow petals lying against a patchwork of dark greens—how this image before them would someday combine with the threads in Zenia’s workshop and, quite literally, become woven into her craft. It was a form of alchemy.

Gwen thought about her own relationship with the creative process. It was, perhaps, a bit different with music since, at most, she read the notes she played from a sheet of paper. She did not compose those notes. However, if she did ... if she did ... she, too, would have drawn inspiration from the natural world. Who would not be similarly touched?

But the world within and the world without were, at times, at odds, and this was one of those times. She found it hard to relax and concentrate only on the beauty of the setting when she knew with certainty that two of the players in the scene at large were creating only waves of disharmony, and crashing them into anyone and everyone who happened to be nearby.

Emerson had spoken with her, of course, this morning before they left the hotel and for part of the bus ride, but when he saw Thoreau approaching, Louisa by his side, Emerson disappeared. Thoreau, for his part, greeted her briefly as well, but he’d quickly sidestepped any attempt she’d made to find out what was going on. Cynthia was attached by invisible glue to Hans-Josef and appeared oblivious to all but her own happiness. Louisa, though, shot Gwen a “be careful” look from across the breakfast room and kept Thoreau safely sequestered in her own company so as to keep him away from his brother. Still, despite the absence of an actual fistfight during the day, this kind of antagonism had to stop. Gwen did not, however, immediately have the means to stop it.

At Versailles, they toured the palace and its grounds and, for a while, she lost herself in the magnificence of it. As the group was herded through the famous Hall of Mirrors, she caught a glimpse of her reflection that, at first, was jarring if only because it took her a moment to recognize herself. For a split second she saw herself as a stranger might see her: medium height, slim, bronzed lightly by the sun. She didn’t stand out in the crowd. She didn’t look foreign or displaced. She
belonged
. What an odd sensation.

She caught sight of Emerson’s reflection, too, amidst a conversation he was having with Ani and his father. The three of them had fallen into step with each other and all, likewise, looked confident and engaged in one another’s company. Although, from the lines of tension around Emerson’s eyes and lips, he looked far from tranquil.

When, at last, they were released into the expansive gardens, she determined she would use the opportunity to hunt down Thoreau and pull him aside. As luck would have it, Louisa had just scampered away from him to convene with Cynthia over something, now that Hans-Josef was busy thanking their palace tour guide, and Thoreau was momentarily alone. Good.

She strode up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He swiveled around and eyed her warily. “Hello, Gwen.”

“Hello,” she said. “We need to talk. Right now.”

He glanced around, scanning for Emerson, no doubt. “Listen, if you’re going to suggest that I owe my brother an apology, I’ve already offered one. He simply requires a bit of space from me today so, really, there’s no need—”

She tugged him toward a garden path out of sight from most of their group. “Let’s stroll down this lane, okay?”

He reluctantly strolled.

She took a deep breath. “Back in Budapest, I remember you asked me ‘what I did’ to your brother. I think it’s time you answered the same question.”

He half laughed. “Back in Budapest, I remember you hedged rather a lot in your response. I would have no trouble doing the same.”

She glared at him.

“Besides,” he continued, “it’s all a bit complex in our case.”

“Seriously?” She halted in place, blinked at him and actually put her hands on her hips like she had when scolding her kid brothers as teens or giving a behavior lecture to a classroom of unruly eighth graders. “Are you implying I wouldn’t understand?”

He sighed and nudged her until she started walking again. “Don’t get testy about it. It’s no reflection on your intelligence, but the family background involved is too lengthy to go into here. To understand the entirety of the issue would simply take too long.”

“Fine,” Gwen said. “How about a few pointed specifics then, like, why did you tell Emerson that I didn’t know about your girlfriend Amanda? What strategy game were you playing when you insulted him at the Eiffel Tower yesterday? And where did you sleep last night, since your brother told me you weren’t in the room at all? Hmm?”

Thoreau appeared incapable of disguising his amusement. “In regards to Amanda, I didn’t tell him you didn’t know about her. Er, not precisely.” He paused. “I merely asked a rhetorical question when he brought her up. I said, ‘Why would I need to tell Gwen about Amanda?’ and let him form his own conclusions. It’s hardly
my
fault if he didn’t think to ask the proper follow-up questions.”

“You’re a very mean big brother.”

He shrugged, unrepentant. Then, after a beat, “I spent last night with Louisa. That’s why I wasn’t in the room.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped.
“R-Really?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Really.”

In spite of her shock, Gwen tried to wrap her mind around this statement. Louisa was not the happiest of wives and she certainly had been flirtatious on the tour, but Gwen had gotten to know her a bit better over the past couple of weeks and it didn’t seem fully in character for Louisa to go so far as to cheat on her husband. “Where was Cynthia?”