A Summer In Europe (6 page)

In Gwen’s opinion, Guido did not look like the kind of person who would embrace social networking of any kind. He looked like the beefy security guard at her bank—one whose conversational exchanges were limited to intense nonverbal glances that said, “Step away from the vault” and “I’ll use this Taser if I have to.” She cleared her throat. “Um, who’s Cynthia?”

“She’s one of the Brits, dear,” Aunt Bea explained. “Cynthia Adams. She’s in her early forties but still single. She likes to travel. Hopes to find ‘The One’ someday.”

Zenia rolled her eyes. “Stupid goal.” But then, Zenia, Gwen knew, had been happily divorced for thirty-one out of her sixty-two years. She didn’t have much use or patience for the male segment of the species. Not that she was above a one- or two-night stand every now and again.

“She took a tour through Spain and Portugal with this company before, honey,” Connie Sue told Gwen. “She was the one who recommended it to us.”

“What a mistake.” Zenia dropped her carry-on bag on the noisy tile floor, sighed heavily and crossed her arms. “She’s a dolt if she thinks that man is in any way fling-worthy.”

Gwen was imagining Cynthia as a forty-something Bridget Jones, flaky and a little chubby, perhaps, until her aunt said, “She’s not a dolt. She’s a tenured mathematics professor at the University of London.”

Huh, Gwen thought. Not so Bridget-Jones-like, then.

Hester strode up to them, indignant and as fast as her spindly ninety-year-old legs could carry her. “Cynthia promised us our guide would be a really foxy dude.” She shot Guido an accusatory glance. “He’s not tall
or
Austrian!”

Gwen studied Guido from a distance of a few yards. He was speaking in short but commanding bursts of Italian to a couple of members of the airport staff. Something about baggage claims, Gwen gathered.

“Seems there’s been a little-bitty change,” Connie Sue murmured.

“I’ll text Sally and Peter,” Zenia informed them, pulling out her special, just for Europe, pay-as-you-go cell phone and punching a few buttons with rapid-fire thumb action. “Maybe they’ll know what’s going on here.”

Gwen was almost afraid to ask, but she said, “Who are Sally and Peter? More Brits?” She had no idea how she’d be able to keep all of these new people straight without an attendance list and a seating chart. Invaluable tools in a classroom of eighth graders but, perhaps, even more necessary here.

“Yep,” Aunt Bea said. “The Bentleys. They finally saved up enough for their honeymoon trip.”

“That’s so nice,” Gwen said, relieved there would be at least a couple of people closer to her age on the tour. Her aunt’s elderly friends, while certainly
lively,
weren’t exactly the kind of company she was looking for—even when they weren’t crooning their way through musical numbers in public places. “How long have they been married?”

“Forty years,” her aunt said.

“Oh.”

Aunt Bea looked at her with an expression that could only be described as compassionate. She reached out her thin fingers to grasp Gwen’s arm. “Don’t worry, Gwennie. I’m sure there will be someone you’ll find interesting on the trip. If not on the tour, then in the cities we visit. Grand European vacations are made for adventure. Romantic and otherwise.”

“Romantic?” Gwen blurted. “But I’m with Richard.”

Her aunt shrugged. “Of course you are, dear, but you never know. Life’s full of surprises, possibilities and changes—both pleasant and unpleasant—but that’s better than the alternative, right? Got to stay flexible, keep yourself open to experience.”

“Yep,” Zenia said, pulling her gaze away from the rotund Guido for a moment. “Plus, if someone’s really good, they’ll hold their own against the competition. Just like Ridge beating out his half brother Thorne for Brooke’s affection in
The Bold and the Beautiful
a few seasons ago.”

“And if they don’t,” added Connie Sue, “it’s a surefire better thing to know about it sooner rather than later.”

“Here, here,” chimed Hester.

Gwen forced a smile at them, despite their usual—and mostly benign—meddling. She wasn’t oblivious to their game, even though she was becoming increasingly annoyed by it. She understood they were trying to broaden her experiences and give her a chance to see men besides Richard and view the world beyond the borders of Iowa. She could appreciate that. Really. But it was scary to be so far away. Exciting, yes, but also overwhelming. She’d watched
The Wizard of Oz
with her mom when she was a little girl. She knew there was no place like home.

Eventually, they emerged from the entropic chaos of the airport and found themselves deposited, along with their luggage, in the heart of the city of Rome. The Hotel Adriatica was located on the famous and expensive Via Veneto, not far from the Spanish Steps and the Piazza Barberini. As Guido wrestled their bags off the bus, they were met in the hotel lobby by a lean-muscled, six-foot-something, very well-dressed blond gentleman who went by the name “Hans-Josef.”

“Oooh,” Hester hooted. Leaning in toward Aunt Beatrice and Gwen, she whispered, “Finally, the Austrian.”

Zenia, who’d been unable to reach the Brits via text, grinned in relief. “So, I won’t strangle Cynthia after all.”

Hans-Josef informed them that he’d worked for the tour company for eleven years, spoke “five languages fluently and three adequately” (English was, ostensibly, one of the fluent ones), was a native of Salzburg and would be their guide through Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Germany, France, Belgium and England. He assured them they’d “take a big bite out of Europe” and do everything from visiting famous museums like the Louvre to climbing the Swiss Alps to going for a dip in the balmy Mediterranean Sea.

“I think I’ll just have to take a big bite outta him,” Zenia said, smacking her lips as their guide spoke.

Connie Sue whistled softly behind Gwen, Aunt Bea and Zenia. “I can’t wait to see that darlin’ man in swim trunks. Or out of them.” She sighed. “How many days until we get to the French Riviera?”

Her husband gave a faux offended huff. “I’m standing right here, sweetheart.”

Connie Sue snorted. “Oh, relax, Alex, he’s half your age.” She turned away from him and tapped Zenia on the shoulder. “Is sixty-nine too old to be a MILF?”

Zenia smirked. “Lordy, I’d say sixty-nine is great for a lot of things.”

Aunt Bea erupted with laughter, loud enough that Hans-Josef stopped talking and blinked his blue eyes at them. “Everything here is good,
ja?
”

“Ja,”
Aunt Bea said, barely unable to contain her chuckles.

“Oh,
ja,
” Connie Sue and Zenia chorused.

Gwen couldn’t help but feel awkward around them. These women, decades older than she was, were so comfortable with themselves and their sexuality. Even though she had a hard time imagining her widowed aunt in bed with anyone—nor did she want to!—she knew Beatrice and Uncle Freddy had a healthy sex life before he died. It seemed her aunt had always been blunt, though. Never speaking in hushed euphemisms like she and Richard did. Would Gwen eventually outgrow her embarrassment, too? Once she hit forty? Sixty?

As she considered this, Hans-Josef continued making his introductory speech in precise Germanic-toned English. Guido, who, it turned out, was their bus driver for the duration of the tour up until the ferry crossing to England, dragged in the last few suitcases and turned them over to the hotel bellhops.

“I am pleased to say that most of our group has arrived.” Hans-Josef consulted his clipboard and made a few tick marks on one side. “There will be a few late arrivals this weekend, but we are in great shape.” He said “vill” instead of “will” and “ve” instead of “we,” but Gwen was pretty impressed by his command of the language. She’d taken a couple of semesters of German in high school and succeeded only in being able to ask, “Where is the post office?” and “How long is the train ride from Munich to Vienna?” and, topping the charts on usefulness, “May I have the
Wienerschnitzel,
please?”

“So, you will change your clothing,
ja?
Freshen up and relax for”—he checked his watch—“one hour and twelve minutes. Dinner will be at seven-thirty.”

Dr. Louie prodded Davis about something, and Matilda began to ask about room keys, but Hans-Josef snapped his fingers. Everyone in the group stopped moving and talking. “Don’t be late!” He paused, then broke into a smile that infused his well-chiseled face with light. Even Gwen had to admit that he
was
quite attractive. “I will get the keys now. Oh, also. For anyone not”—he paused as if searching for just the right phrase—“suffer-ing from jet lag, you are most cordially invited for a first view of Rome at night. We go after dinner.”

By the time Gwen and Aunt Bea had collected their keys, trudged up to their room, unpacked and changed out of their travel clothes, it was time for that meal. A few members of their group were already seated when they walked into the hotel restaurant but, before Gwen could sit next to someone familiar, her aunt cried, “Sally!” and rushed up to a woman Gwen had never seen.

“Is it really Beatrice?” the sixty-something woman said in a soft British accent. She embraced Aunt Bea. “Your photo on Facebook is an excellent likeness.”

“Yours, too.” Her aunt radiated delight at Sally. “And where is Peter?”

“He’ll be along shortly. It’s shameful the way he preens before any formal dining experience.” She shook her head in mock exasperation. “Worse than any sixteen-year-old girl, I’m afraid.”

Aunt Bea introduced Gwen to Sally Bentley and, eventually, to Sally’s husband, Peter, as well. “The honeymooners,” her aunt called them, and Bea insisted on dining at the same table with the two of them. Thus, Gwen was subjected to the usual getting-to-know-you questions, which she always disliked because, in explaining her life to others, she could never escape how ordinary and boring she sounded:

Yes, she was thirty, and a schoolteacher.

Yes, she liked kids.

No, she wasn’t married, however, she
did
have a serious boyfriend.

No, she’d never been to Europe before. (Or, really, anywhere at all.)

And, yes, her first impressions of Italy were definitely positive, but, no, she hadn’t seen more of Rome yet than what they’d passed on the drive from the airport to the hotel, etc.

How very dull they must think her, even though she smiled at them and tried to be friendly.

“Well, that will surely change soon,” Sally said with a kindly grin. “You shall get to start exploring Rome tonight. With us.”

And Peter, upon learning that Gwen taught eighth-grade math, began regaling them with “jokes” related to her subject area. The man had an astonishingly comprehensive memory of juvenile math teasers and puns. And he didn’t hesitate to divulge each and every one of them—before they’d even made it through their appetizers to get to their entrées.

“... but this one is my absolute favorite,” he said, after enough previous one-liners to exhaust even a grade-schooler.

It was all she could do not to plead,
Oh, please stop talking. Silence is preferable to inane chatter....

But Aunt Bea said gamely, “Tell us.”

“Right then.” He rubbed his mostly bald head and chortled in anticipation. “Who was the roundest knight at the table and why?”

Gwen managed a faint “I don’t know.”

Aunt Bea squinted and appeared to give the question some serious thought before twisting her lips and saying, “Lancelot, maybe? But I can’t figure out why.”

“Stumped, are you?” Peter asked. “It’s Sir Cumference, of course. Because he ate a lot of pi!”

Aunt Bea laughed in delight. “Oh, that’s funny!”

“Peter’s always been a fan of King Arthur,” Sally explained, grinning back at Aunt Bea and patting her husband’s arm with obvious pride.

Gwen bobbed her head politely at them, but she could tell it was going to be a long night.

During their main course, she glanced around at the other tables and noticed a number of new faces—Brits who had filtered in and found S&M pals from “across the puddle” to chat with over dinner. Aunt Bea helpfully pointed out Cynthia Adams, the woman the ladies had mentioned earlier. She most assuredly did
not
look like a math professor, at least not Gwen’s idea of one. Maybe, Gwen thought, her first impression of the woman as a forty-something, slightly svelter Bridget Jones was closer to the truth, at least in appearances. She was dressed to entice and seemed decidedly intent on using this to her advantage. As was another English woman sitting by her—Louisa Garrity—who Sally informed her was “a young fifty-four” and married to a rather inattentive husband. Louisa and Cynthia were reportedly “the very best of friends.”

“How nice for them,” Gwen murmured, striving for a tone of perfect neutrality, but she didn’t like the chilly vibe they gave off. Not at all. They were like British Popsicles. The “Britsicles,” she dubbed them privately.

Finally, there was a father-son duo. The dad, Kamesh Balaraj, had been an immigrant to England from his native India a quarter of a century ago, and his son Ani, age fifteen, had been born in Guildford, Surrey. Sudoku masters, both of them, they’d qualified for Brussels along with a few others in the British group. According to Peter, they were on some Englishmen’s version of a guy bonding trip.

Gwen nodded. They seemed okay, although it concerned her that the person in the room closest to her age was a teenage boy. Well, no. There was also Hans-Josef, she admitted, whom she spotted being pulled into the orbit of the Britsicles. Their tour guide stood next to Louisa and Cynthia’s table and listened to them with well-bred Austrian courtesy and stellar levels of refined respectfulness. Even from a distance, Gwen could tell the ladies were batting their eyelashes at him flirtatiously and pretending to hang on his every word. Or maybe that last part wasn’t pretense. They seemed determined to get him to sit down but had not, thus far, succeeded.

Before they’d even managed to get to their piece of tiramisu for dessert, Gwen felt the heaviness of the meal affecting her stomach and the claustrophobic conversation affecting her brain. She excused herself without fanfare or explanation and slipped outside to the balcony overlooking Via Veneto to get some air.