Inconceivable! (10 page)

Best to change the subject. “So, you have a degree in agriculture, is that right?” I mentally thanked Google for existing so I could read up on his background before today’s adventure.

“Yes. I’m actually working on a doctoral degree.”

“In farming?”

“Not exactly. It’s in environmental science. I’m studying invasive species. Just look at this beautiful farmland.” He nodded toward the windows. “Non-native plants and insects threaten this way of life. There’s a farm out by the coast near De Haan where I do my research.”

I had to silence my inner skeptic. She was rolling her eyes and wondering,
Is that some kind of Marie Antoinette thing where you go “play farmer?”

“I’d love to see your work in the field. And I guess you’re literally out in a field, right?”

He laughed. “That’s right. How do you feel about getting your hands dirty?”

“I’m from Missouri. I’m not afraid of a little mud.”

We chatted about the day he had planned, but he didn’t share any specifics. First, we were going to a private gathering in downtown Ghent, then we’d visit one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions. I’d done a fair amount of traveling around Europe since my arrival in Toulene three and a half years ago, but I’d spent little time in Belgium, which was right next door. I was excited to experience yet another country and language, though John reminded me Belgium and Toulene are similar in terms of the landscape, demographics, and culture.

When we arrived at the station, an SUV picked us up. We got in the backseat, and Bernard (Limo Guard had a name!) sat up front with the driver. The other guard got into a car behind us. Without a word, the driver sped off, weaving expertly through the heavy traffic.

“Is it always this crowded in the fall?” The volume of cars filling the streets was astounding.

“Yes. Ghent and Bruges are both popular with tourists right up until the end of November.” John took out a small black book from his coat pocket. “Thomas, we can go straight to the foundation office.”

It warmed my heart that John had taken the time to write out the details of our day in a notebook instead of relying exclusively on pop-up reminders on his smartphone like the rest of Europe and the U.S. I smiled as I imagined him bent over a desk writing out our itinerary.

“Foundation? What foundation?”

“Not long after my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, she set up a private foundation. As you may know, she was born in Ghent and lived here until she was twelve. After her cancer diagnosis, she wanted to help the women here who were in a similar situation. She realized they didn’t have the support she had because of her money and position. So, she established a place where they could go for financial assistance and therapy. I try to visit the support group from time to time.”

It was such a tender revelation. In all my research, I’d read nothing about his mother establishing a foundation.

“Why didn’t I find anything about this online?”

“She kept it quiet because she didn’t do it for the publicity. I like to visit as a way to honor her.”

I paused, carefully considering how to ask my question. “Are you going to let me report on this?”

“No.”

“Then, why am I here?”

“Hatty, I want to get to know you better. And I want you to get to know me.”

I swallowed. Loudly. His words tilted my world, aligning reality with some of the what-if scenarios I’d choreographed in my head since we first met at Finn’s. What if he really,
really
liked me? Exhilaration rushed every cell in my body, and I stifled my overwhelming desire to scream.

But it was possible I was misreading him. “Get to know me? Why?”

“I have the impression you do your homework. So just think of today as research.”

Hmm. Not exactly the confirmation I wanted, but I was still on high alert. All signs indicated that today was anything other than an ordinary outing with a source.

The SUV stopped in front of a building with a pointy roof and friendly façade complete with windows and cheery flower boxes. It was similar to many of the buildings we passed on our way here. The words on the glass door sprawled out in a cursive script, comprehensible only to those who read Dutch.

We walked inside, and a woman with big eyes and bright red lips greeted us with hugs.

“John! Who is this lovely woman?”

“Mette, this is my friend Hatty. I thought she’d enjoy meeting the family.”

The “family” consisted of twelve women seated in padded pink chairs arranged in a circle. John hugged each woman with a tight embrace before introducing me. All but two of the women looked perfectly healthy.

“So lovely to meet you, Hatty.” The woman, who looked pale and gaunt, wore a green silk scarf wrapped around her head and spoke impeccable English. “We’re always begging John to introduce us to the women in his life.”

What the heck?
Clearly, they had the wrong impression. Or did they? My confusion ballooned. So did my worry. Like mental kudzu, unease grew and spread, enveloping every thought. His flirting might be an attempt to draw me in so I’d slant my reporting to favor his family. As much as I craved his attention, this was a sticky wicket. I didn’t know his intentions. My stomach thrashed and rumbled.

Mette brought me a chair. John grabbed one for himself and we sat side by side. He asked each woman about specific details related to her medical treatment. He knew Rania was on her second round of chemo. He asked Treze if her new medication was causing her to have migraines as the previous medicine had done. His earnestness and sincerity pricked my heart. Sitting beside him, I noticed how his eyes softened. And they never shifted to his watch or the clock on the wall.

After the last woman, Eva, gave her update, she added, “I know you may not have time, especially since you brought a guest, but would you play for us before you go?”

Each woman in the circle smiled expectantly, and John stood. He walked over to a door, opened it, and wheeled out a harp. He set it near the circle and retrieved a small stool.

As he played quietly, several of the women swayed. Others closed their eyes.
This is why he doesn’t play publicly. This is the only audience he needs.

When he was done, the women gave him a farewell hug, a few added a peck on the cheek.

“How often do you visit?” I asked when we were back in the SUV. The driver knew where to take us next, though I had no clue where we were going.

“I come at least twice a year. Mette keeps me informed about each woman through email. Thanks for coming with me, by the way. I almost always come alone.”

He spoke quietly, creating a seriousness and intimacy that surprised me. Even though the driver and Bernard were up front, it was a private moment. I physically jumped when John reached over and took my hand. John chuckled as though my unsteady behavior amused him.

“Hatty, relax. I invited you today because I want to ask you a question. Would you be willing to spend time with me on a regular basis?”

reminded myself to breathe, suddenly aware I wasn’t taking normal breaths.

“What do you mean?” The moment was heavy, ripe with possibility.

“I mean I’d like to date you, or as we call it in our family, begin a formal courtship.”

“Are you trying to woo me so I’ll plant stories on behalf of your family?”

“Of course not. I’m trying to woo you, but my goals have nothing to do with journalism.”

He likes me.
Likes
me, likes me.
Holy cannoli
. A minor bout of lightheadedness made me blink too much. “So, is this a date?”

“No. In order for us to go on a date, you have to sign a contract that protects my family’s privacy and yours. Is that something you’re interested in doing?”

“Are you asking me if I want to sign papers or if I want to date you?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Then yes. To both.” The words slipped past my lips without forethought. In that moment, I saw a seedling planted squarely in my chest basking in the light of John’s attention. It bent toward the light of his humor, his smile, and his touch. I was so into this prince-slash-environmental scientist, he even influenced the metaphors that sprang to mind.

Before I managed to verbalize any of the hundreds of thoughts competing in my brain, the car stopped in front of an imposing cathedral.

“The church just closed to the public, so we have it to ourselves,” he said.

“Is this St. Bavo’s? It’s one of the most famous cathedrals in Ghent, right?” It was the only tourist attraction I remembered from my online research of the city.

“That’s right. Sint-Baafskathedraal to the locals. I’m impressed you know that. It’s named for the patron saint of the city. We’re going to see the famous Ghent altarpiece. Are you familiar with it?”

“I’m going to have to plead American on this one. I’ve never heard of it.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. Unless you grew up near Belgium or studied European art history, you probably wouldn’t be familiar with it.”

We got out of the car and walked into a cavernous vestibule that swallowed us whole. Inside, the church showcased the ageless tension between light and dark with its interior design.

“I love European churches because they’re nothing like the modern Protestant churches in the states where you have a stage with concert lighting and sound. Plus, our churches tend to be so light and airy.”

“You’ll find none of that American fluff at St. Bavo’s,” he said with a wink. John pointed to our right. “That’s a pulpit made of white marble and oak.”

Two curved staircases stood on each side leading to an elevated lectern behind which a priest would stand to deliver his homily. White marble statues of angels and mortals at the base of the massive structure created a striking contrast to the dark wood. Most impressive of all was the enormous marble sculpture that served as a kind of roof over the pulpit. On top of the overhang, a gold cross stuck out from among the angelic bodies at an angle that made it appear poised to fall.

“It would be hard to disagree with someone who stood there and claimed to have God’s authority. He would appear to be speaking from heaven down to earth,” I said, lost in my thoughts as I tried to imagine an actual church service happening here in the 1500’s. I shivered. “So, is this pulpit the Ghent altarpiece? Sorry. I’m Protestant to a fault.” I gave him a shy smile.

“No. This is an impressive work of art, but the altarpiece consists of multiple panels of paintings. It’s in a separate room.”

He led me to an area at the back of the cathedral. We passed placards and wall hangings that, to my untrained eye, looked dark and Gothic with small skulls and words in a language I didn’t recognize. Though I’d visited many European cathedrals, including the marvelous and memorable basilica in Krakow, this place was very different in its appearance and feel―colder and darker.

A man wearing neat khaki pants and a tie nodded when he saw us coming and opened a small wooden door. We entered a room that was more confined and intimate than a classroom, but too big for a closet. It had a floor to ceiling stained glass window that let light pour inside. There were two chairs sitting together in front of the most beautiful work of art I’d ever seen. And I’d toured the Louvre in Paris four times. Two side panels flanked the central painting. The side panels each held four individual scenes. At the top of the center section of the altarpiece, there were three paintings: a woman on the left, a man on the right, and what appeared to be a king in the center. Below that was the painting that caused my breath to catch in my throat.