A Summer In Europe (42 page)

“What?” Richard asked, overhearing this comment.

Hester turned to study him for a second. “You clean up awfully nice, young man.” She winked at him then flashed a grin at Gwen. “Bet’cha he’d make a great murder suspect.” She poked her bony index finger into the middle of Richard’s chest. “Do you know how to use fencing foils by chance? Ever fight in a duel?”

Mutely, Richard shook his head and stared at Hester in alarm.

“Too bad,” the ninety-year-old woman said, ambling down the theater aisle several steps ahead of them.

“What was
that
all ab—” Richard began, but Gwen stopped him.

“Just step over here and look at this theater for a second,” she urged him. “It’s so, so beautiful.”

Aunt Bea, who’d come in a few people behind them, squeezed Gwen’s arm and smiled joyfully at her. “I know you’ve been waiting for this, Gwennie. Enjoy it.”

“Thanks, Aunt Bea!” She couldn’t get the shimmy of excitement out of her voice, and she didn’t care. Oh, this was going to be
incredible!

Richard peered around at the cavernous theater, seemingly impressed by their Victorian surroundings. Certainly, he would know enough not to sneer at the classic beauty of the interior, but Gwen sensed he wasn’t as mesmerized by every luxurious detail as she was. The gold filigree. The thick, velvety red of the curtain. The enormity of the hall itself. The set displaying the show’s famous chandelier, sitting like a limp collection of crystals onstage, awaiting the start of the production when it would be put to use. And no one could be more anxious than she was for it to begin.

They reached their row and found their seats. Richard was to Gwen’s left and there were a number of empty spots to her right. A few minutes later, Gwen heard a few recognizable voices and caught sight of Kamesh, Ani and a lovely woman in her late forties who looked to be Ani’s mother. They waved hello to Gwen and to several members of the tour in the rows ahead and behind, checked their tickets and sat down, leaving just one seat available next to Gwen.

She glanced around the theater again, taking in its magnificence and, also, if she were fully honest (she touched her Mouth of Truth pendant as a reminder of that), looking to see where Emerson was seated. She caught sight of Thoreau and Amanda. He’d brought her—good! They were a few rows ahead, but there was no sign of the younger brother.

Just as the house lights dimmed, though, she heard some shuffling at the end of the row, and there he was. Emerson. Coming to sit beside her. Her heart paused for a second, like a 4/4 rest in the middle of a song, and then pounded suddenly—in a crescendo—at simply the sight of him.

“Hello,” he whispered, scooching around Ani and his parents and settling into his seat. His face broke into a devastating smile as he looked at her.

“Hi,” she whispered back, almost breathless from her racing heart.

“It was a long twenty-four hours,” he murmured.

“It was,” she agreed.

Richard cleared his throat and leaned forward, peeking around her to glance down the aisle at the new arrivals. He looked at her questioningly. “These are your tour mates, too?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes,” she said, realizing she hadn’t told him much about the British contingent of the tour group yet. It hadn’t really come up via e-mail and, anyway, she and Richard had only been in correspondence a handful of times over the past month.

Emerson leaned forward, too, his smile fading as his eyebrows rose. He glanced a time or two between Gwen and Richard before politely extending his right hand to the man on Gwen’s left. “Emerson Edwards,” he said. “And you might be?”

Richard shook his hand firmly. “Richard Banks. Gwen’s boyfriend.”

Emerson nodded slowly and Gwen saw him swallow a time or two before speaking. “I’ve heard rather a lot about you,” he said with a civil, if somewhat tight, smile.

There was something in his tone that—while pleasant enough—set off a few warning bells in Gwen’s ear. She glanced sharply at Emerson, then at Richard, who’d tilted his head to one side and wore an expression of caution.

“Good things, I hope,” Richard said, pulling his hand away and sitting a little taller.

Emerson bit down on his bottom lip and, again, forced his mouth into forming an awkward smile. “Naturally. And Gwen wouldn’t lie, would she?”

While Richard processed this, Emerson smiled rather dangerously at Gwen and shot a pointed glance at her necklace. She felt her cheeks heat up.

He turned his gaze to Richard again. “How fortunate that you’re able to join us. That’s a pleasure I did not expect.” Then, to Gwen, “I don’t recall your having mentioned
that
possibility.”

Which, of course, she had not. In her defense—not that she could say this aloud—it hadn’t occurred to her to bring up the subject with Emerson, although she did remember, somewhat guiltily, having mentioned it once in Budapest to Thoreau. In many ways, however, she’d put all thought of Richard’s visit out of her head until he actually showed up. She’d half expected him to change his mind, and she’d been as startled as anyone when she’d first heard his voice in the hotel lobby.

Richard regarded her strangely, Emerson mockingly.

“I, um ...” was all she managed by way of trifling apology to them both before the lights dimmed the rest of the way and she was saved from having to offer an explanation. As the orchestra struck the first few powerful notes, Gwen and the men on either side of her sat back in their seats and faced forward. She had never appreciated Andrew Lloyd Webber more.

From the magnificent opening notes of the overture and the rising of the chandelier to the trademark songs that made this musical legendary for a quarter of a century, Gwen was riveted. She knew every note and every verse of “Music of the Night,” yet, it was so much fuller, so much more spine tingling to hear it performed live. The Phantom invited her—almost personally, it seemed—into his dark and private world. It was an intimate seduction, luring her deep into a hazy dream. Only she began to wonder which was the dream state ... and which was reality. They blurred together—the fantasy before her so tangible that it felt as if it were the only truth.

She suddenly understood the euphoria Hans-Josef had experienced when he’d heard the operetta in German. These were Gwen’s songs. They
spoke
to her—not just because they were performed in her native tongue, but because the music itself was the language of her soul.

When Raoul and Christine sang “All I Ask of You” as a duet, followed by the Phantom’s hurt and angry reprisal, Gwen couldn’t keep her eyes from watering. Tears streamed down her face and splashed carelessly onto her blouse. She wasn’t even aware of it at first, not until Emerson pressed a clean tissue into her hand.

She pulled her gaze away from the stage for an instant and met his eye. Even in the relative darkness of the theater, she could see the golden glow of his hazel irises and the way his expression softened the longer they looked at each other.

Richard stirred beside her. “You okay?” he whispered, seeing the tissue, then the tears.

“I am,” she whispered back, dabbing her eyes and mouthing a soundless “thank you” to Emerson.

He rested far back into his chair and, out of Richard’s view, he gently rubbed her right shoulder for the last few minutes until intermission. She understood the gesture for what it was: a shared communion with the music.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Emerson said during the twenty-minute break. “Was it what you’d expected?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. It was much, much better. It was incredible, amazing and so unbelievably beautiful.” She glanced over at her boyfriend. “Right, Richard?”

He blinked a few times and tried to stifle a fresh yawn. “Oh, yes,” he agreed readily, if not completely sincerely. Gwen had caught him yawning or stretching or in some small way distracting her every five minutes of Act One. She kept hoping his fidgetiness and difficulty concentrating was on account of the jet lag.

Act Two was just as good, although seventeen minutes shorter, than the first. When it was over and the curtain calls had been made (Gwen clapped until her palms were chapped), their group milled around the lobby for a while, chitchatting with one another and buying T-shirts, CDs, program booklets and other promotional items.

Thoreau and Amanda walked up to where Gwen, Richard and Emerson were standing. Upon being introduced to Richard, Amanda was exceedingly polite, but she glanced at Gwen curiously, and Thoreau, though he managed to keep his voice level, responded by narrowing his eyes speculatively and then embarking on a match of Twenty Questions with her American boyfriend. No doubt, this was the preliminary round in one of his psychological games.

Emerson dealt with the tension by pacing back and forth between where Thoreau was grilling Richard and where the vendor, who was selling soundtracks from the musical and a few piano songbooks, stood.

“So, what do you do in America,
precisely?
” Thoreau asked, generously allowing Richard to answer. “And your family comes from
where
in Iowa?” He listened. “Hmm. So near our Gwen,” he said dryly. “How delightful.” He collected some more information and sniffed. “Tell us, Richard, what are your first impressions of London society?”

At this, Amanda rolled her eyes at Gwen and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Gwen could take little more of the inquisition either, but Richard seemed to be really enjoying himself for the first time that night. She hesitated pulling him away and, instead, slid over to talk with Aunt Bea and Connie Sue for a few moments.

However, once she was out of Richard’s view (he had his back to her) and it was just the three guys standing there, Thoreau’s devilishness escalated a notch. He winked at Gwen on the sly and asked Richard conspiratorially, “So, what did you
really
think of the performance? You can tell me.”

Gwen heard Richard laugh. “Not as bad as I’d expected, I guess. It was long. All of these musicals are so long. But”—he shrugged—“we gotta keep the womenfolk happy, right?”

Emerson sent Gwen an inscrutable look and stepped away to examine the vendor’s display again. Thoreau pursed his lips together in triumph and Richard, sadly unaware that another Edwardian game was in progress, added, “I would’ve rather been watching a baseball doubleheader, wouldn’t you?”

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.