A Summer In Europe (45 page)

“Good people of Surrey and Dubuque,” he said, “on this night we bid adieu to our European adventure. We raise our glasses and toast the finale of this memorable tour.” He glanced at Gwen, seated several spots away from him, for a long moment before continuing. “We thank our friends—one and all, old and new—for their many kindnesses while on our journey. I believe we’ve all been altered by the experience. It is, I find, hard to say good-bye.”

At this, Thoreau stood up. “As Henry David Thoreau once said,
‘Things do not change; we change.’
I know that’s been true for me.” He shot a warm look at Amanda, whom he’d brought along for the festivities. “Time away from the usual world gives many gifts, not the least of which is space for reflection and a chance to appreciate further what we hold most dear.”

“Hear, hear!” Dr. Louie interjected.

“Cheers!” contributed Cynthia.

Thoreau raised his glass, too. “We have been witness to many artistic wonders on our tour but, as my namesake also said,
‘To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of the arts.’
Thank you all for the opportunity to get to know you and for the many ways you made each day of the trip more enjoyable.”

Emerson, not to be outdone in the quoting department, took center stage back. “As Ralph Waldo Emerson stated,
‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.’
We have shared much on this five-week expedition, and I’ve learned to appreciate the beauty and scope of certain qualities found within. Much like my brother’s experience, these insights changed me, too.” Then, raising a brow at Thoreau, he added, “As
my
namesake also said,
‘He has not learned the lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear.’ ”
He looked right at Gwen again. “Someone helped me recognize one of mine on this trip and, while I’ll have to be ever attentive and try to surmount it every day, I’m grateful for the awareness and the courage this knowledge has given me.”

At this, everyone toasted to the changed lives they now had as a result of having traveled together and broadened each other’s minds.

Gwen toasted, too. While she didn’t yet understand Emerson or how his mind worked, she knew he was both the enigma of the trip for her ... and the soul of it. She had yet to say her private good-bye to him.

She was working up the courage to do that as the after-dinner tea was served. Caught up in all the post-meal hugs and conversation, she looked away for a few minutes and lost sight of Emerson altogether. She scanned the table, all the way down, but some people were standing up and others were walking away. She glanced anxiously around the room. Where had he gone?

“Pardon me, Gwen?” a male voice behind her asked. Thoreau.

She swiveled around to face him, stood up and walked with him a few steps away from the table. There was not much privacy to be had in a room this size and Aunt’s Bea’s eyes and ears were awfully sharp. “Hi, Thoreau,” she said, scanning the room again. She kept expecting Emerson to materialize at any moment. He didn’t.

Thoreau cleared his throat. “I did not see your, erm, Richard here. Was he indisposed for the evening?”

“In a sense,” she replied, incapable of smothering her sigh. “We broke up. He flew home.” Thoreau’s dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was so unable to mask his delight at this revelation that Gwen glared at him and said, “Stop looking so happy. He’s hurt.”

The elder Edwards brother shook his head. “It is not Richard’s wounded feelings that please me, Gwen. But I am happy you’ve taken this step. I realize this must be very painful for you now—” He shifted uncomfortably in front of her. “And I’d made a promise to both my mum and my brother that I would no longer attempt to interfere in anyone else’s relationships.” His gaze strayed to where Amanda was sitting, still talking to Connie Sue and Sally about something. “I shall try to avoid that. But ...”

“But what?”

“But, please know, while I’m sorry to have been manipulative in regards to you and Emerson, I do not regret the intention behind it. You’ve been a good influence on him. He would benefit by spending more time with you.”

She bit her lip and shrugged. “What good would that do? I have to leave tomorrow.” She glanced around the room one more time. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t had a chance to say good-bye.” The last word stuck strangely in her throat.

“Hmm. I cannot tell you. I promised I wouldn’t give away his location to anyone. I could give you hints and let you guess, but then I might be accused of game playing.” He smiled.

“Oh, c’mon. That’s just—”

“Wicked? Yes, I know.” He waved his fingers in front of him, like a dark sorcerer might. “It would be so easy to orchestrate these next moves, but I’m pledged to resist.” He exhaled heavily and opened his palms. “You’re the master of your own game, Gwen. Play it or not. It’s in
your
hands now, not mine.”

“What?” She put her fists on her hips and shot him her most murderous look. “But how can I even take a step onto the board if I don’t know where the other player is?”

“I’m certain you can track him down. Just keep your eyes and, um, ears open.” He tapped his right ear, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and backed away. “Safe travels, Gwen.”

“Thoreau—”

He blew her a chaste kiss and returned to the safety of his girlfriend.

She wandered out into the hall, just a few steps from the door. She didn’t see Emerson in the hallway or in any directional offshoot of it, so she tried walking several yards to her right until she got to a little open lobby area. No sign of him. She returned to where the party room was and headed down the hall the other way. Still, nothing.

Then she closed her eyes, listening to the chatter of her tour mates as their voices leaked into the hall. That was when she heard it. A sound like the falling of summer rain.

A piano.

The notes called to her as if in prelude, not only an overture of the song to come, but of the melody attached to a long-awaited conversation, meant for two voices in duet. She smiled to herself when, as she drew closer, she recognized with certainty the tune. It was, naturally, from
The Phantom of the Opera
. “All I Ask of You.”

He sat at the piano bench, his back to the door, playing those opening measures. More than once he stopped suddenly and started again from the beginning. He was, she realized, just learning the song. The music from the play was open in front of him. He flipped to a new page, paused to tinker with the notes, then returned to the beginning once more, playing the opening so well this time it brought tears to her eyes.

She sniffed once, not loudly, but it was enough. Emerson had good hearing.

He swiveled around and stared at her with those golden eyes of his. “Hello, Gwen. I hadn’t heard you walk up.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” She took a few steps closer. “Were you trying to avoid me?”

He sighed. “I was not anxious to say good-bye to you tonight, if that was what you meant,” he said, letting that thought rest in the air between them.

“I wasn’t anxious to say good-bye either.” She paused. “I wish you’d keep playing, though. It was beautiful.”

He shrugged. “Glad you liked it. I’ll admit—” He chuckled softly. “I’ll admit, I was thinking of you.”

She smiled slightly, catching his joke. “Did you play that one, too? ‘Think of Me’?”

Emerson lifted the songbook off the piano ledge and flipped back several pages. He held it up for her to see the title. “Yes. I’ve been going through it song by song. Some are trickier than others.”

“Will you play ‘All I Ask of You’ again?” She pointed to the music. “I don’t care if you hit a few wrong notes. I doubt I’d notice with the way you play.” He kept looking at her, though, not at the songbook or at the instrument. “Please, Emerson,” she added.

He swallowed, nodded and turned back to the piano. This time when he brought his fingers to the keys, the notes that flowed out were imbued with a passion that extended beyond the powerful tones of the music. They seemed to come from deep within him.

Gwen thought about the words to the song. About two lovers pledging themselves to each other, promising they’d always be loving, sharing, truthful. This was what she’d hoped for in a relationship. This was her dreamed-for ideal. And whether or not Emerson was looking for the same things, she knew herself—and the inner workings of her own mind—a bit better now. If nothing else, she knew a few things she
didn’t
want.

She didn’t want to be able to predict every experience of her life between now and age eighty.

She didn’t want to always be in control, or to be organized, efficient, regimented.

She didn’t want to keep an important part of her secret self locked away forever, for fear of it being ridiculed or misunderstood.

Emerson may or may not understand everything there was to know about her, but he grasped one very essential core truth. He connected with her musical passion. And, more than that, he shared it.

At first, Gwen just hummed a few bars of the song, and Emerson—surprised by her musical initiative—smiled at her as he kept playing. But the feelings the notes inspired within her welled up deep inside until she couldn’t contain the longing she felt at their harmonies. The Gwen of some other place or time—that less anxious, less closeted version of herself—was determined to make its presence known.

Without consciously realizing what she was doing, until she was actually in the midst of doing it, she opened her mouth at the start of a new verse ... and began to sing. It was at the part of the song when leading lady Christine was imploring her boyfriend Raoul to say he loved her. As she sang the words aloud, Emerson gazed at her in mild shock, and then joined in. Joined at the moment where Raoul responds to his beloved Christine, saying to her that she
knew
he loved her. Then they finished the verse together, and Gwen stopped singing. Not because she was embarrassed about expressing herself. Not because she felt vulnerable. Simply because it was time for the piano to reign the sound waves alone. To vibrate around them as purposefully as oxygen. And, at that moment, Gwen wanted only to listen to Emerson play those ending notes.

When he pulled his fingers off the keyboard, he didn’t get up. He just sat on the bench, his hands in his lap, and looked at her with an expression of gentleness, compassion and wanting. That look was her only signal, but the Gwen-of-the-less-inhibited-self took it as reason enough for genuine action. She may have traveled thousands of miles from home and walked for hours through ancient cities and modern European metropolises, she may have skipped down stone staircases and climbed up mountains to admire stunning natural vistas, but it wasn’t until she sat down on the piano bench next to Emerson and put her arms around him that Gwendolyn Reese took her first real step of the trip.

She kissed him.

Gently, compassionately, wantingly.

He kissed her, too, for what felt like a mere instant. Then he pulled back and cleared his throat. “Uh, Gwen? What—er, what about Richard?”

“You know how, in the middle of a song, if you were to alter the tempo and the key, the melody would sound like something else altogether?”

He nodded.

“And midway through a chess match, you could, if you wanted, select a few moves you’ve never tried before and the outcome of the game could be entirely changed?”

He nodded again.

“And in physics, theoretically, at least, there’s this possibility for multiple universes and each of them—”

“What are you getting at, Gwen?”

She took a deep breath. “I chose differently. I chose ... a different song, a different move, a different universe. Richard isn’t a part of any of them.”

He blinked at her. “I see.” There was an unnaturally long pause. “You are all right?”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “A little shaken, perhaps, at the strength of my own decision. But, yes.”

“Well, then.” He leaned in and touched the tip of his nose to hers. “Please continue. I’m rather liking this song ... this move ... this universe.”

And they kissed again. For much longer. So long, in fact, that an epoch might have passed and neither would likely have realized it. Such was the way of
finding one’s art,
Gwen thought, when she managed to think for a moment in words. The very fabric of time had little meaning when one was in the presence of one’s passions. It expanded and contracted like a magical cloth, and Gwen could feel herself wrapped in its silkiness.

Sometime later, Emerson and Gwen wandered out into the hallway, holding hands and more than a little light-headed and disoriented.

They’d barely walked five yards when they were accosted by Aunt Bea and most of the S&M members, both British and American, who had formed a conga line and were traipsing through the hotel hallways chanting, “Who let the math geeks out? Who? Who?” Aunt Bea had somehow, somewhere acquired an orange feather boa in Gwen and Emerson’s absence and, being that she’d taken on the role of line leader, was twirling her boa and bobbing her head in time with the rhythm.