Inconceivable! (11 page)

“May I?” I asked, gesturing at the panels.

John nodded and I walked forward. Near the center of the middle painting was a raised altar with a lamb standing on top. Though it looked very much like an animal, its eyes gazed at me in a calm, knowing way as small bursts of light radiated from the back of its head. Blood poured from a single hole in its body near the heart and splashed into a golden chalice.

“It’s called ‘Adoration of the Mystic Lamb,’” John said, almost whispering.

Hearing him speak softly, I turned my head. He was standing beside me. “You look so beautiful in this light.”

Without hurrying, he reached his hand around my head and brought his lips to mine. We kissed in a gentle, rhythmic way that felt natural, as though we’d kissed before. Even so, my nerves danced, my stomach flipped, and my heart fluttered, bringing my senses to life; he tasted of mint and anise.

He slowly pulled away, opening his eyes to look at me.

“John…” I hardly knew what to say. Echoes of a first grade chant rang in my head:
first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Hatty with the baby carriage.

Before I had the chance to stumble around for the right words, he coughed and cleared his throat. “What do you find most interesting?”

And just like that, we were back to looking at the painting, as though we hadn’t just crossed into new and thrilling territory. I yearned for the warm movement of his lips against mine, but forced myself to keep it together so I could focus on the altarpiece.

“I think it blends and balances the eternal with the ephemeral, heaven and earth. It’s the retelling of the ancient story of Christ’s death, but the imagery makes it fresh. Growing up, people at our church talked about Jesus being the Lamb of God, but to see such a literal portrayal of that metaphor is stunning.”

There was a soft knock on the door. John went over and opened it. A small man wearing round glasses stepped into the room with us. He gestured to the chairs, indicating we should sit.

For the next fifteen minutes, he regaled us with stories about the painting and its history. Thieves had stolen, dismantled, and mutilated it. But since the end of World War II, Ghent had been its home. A group of artists from all over Europe came here and painstakingly restored it.

As we left, I took one last look at the bleeding lamb. It had witnessed our first kiss, and somehow, that made everything that followed seem ordained by God.

After we left St. Bavo’s, we browsed the wares in several small shops. Yep, the day kept getting more bizarre―I was shopping with a prince. Thanks to his baseball cap and casual clothing, no one looked at us twice. Bernard, also dressed in plain clothes, was in the shop but kept his distance to avoid drawing attention.

I loved all the chotskies―the small figurines of Brussels’ Mannequin Pis, snow globes that put Belgian landmarks in the middle of a blizzard, and miniature wooden replicas of the guild houses that lined the Graslei harbor.

John hovered over a table covered in pieces of lace. “The sign says these were all handmade in Belgium. Don’t you think you need to take home some Brussels lace? Look at this one.”

He held up a delicate section of lace. Vines, flowers, and leaves sprang from a central stem, all held together by threads thin enough to rival a spider’s web.

“It’s beautiful.” I took it from his hand gingerly, not wanting to stress the lace.

We took it to the woman behind the counter. She must have overheard us talking in English.

She spoke to us with a heavy accent: “This is perfect for couple.” She held it up and pointed to the flowers and leaves. “The pattern means many babies.”

She smiled as she patted her abdomen. Heat instantly enflamed my cheeks. I busied myself digging for my credit card, a convenient way to ignore the implications of her words. I wanted to say,
Hey, lady. He and I only met for the first time a couple of weeks ago. We’re not even really dating yet. I haven’t signed the paperwork!

When I finally pulled the card from the depths of my purse, John handed me a brown paper bag.

“It’s a gift. It’s the least I can do since you let me drag you out of the country today.”

I suppressed the words, “You shouldn’t have done that!” and merely smiled. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this.”

John took my hand and kissed the back of it. “Time to go. More surprises await.”

ohn led me down the cobblestone street with Bernard several steps behind us. He reached for my hand, and his fingers locked with mine. This wasn’t the kind of neutered touch I remembered from the hallways of my middle school. This was a deliciously awkward feeling of skin against skin, warm and constantly adjusting.

We meandered our way to Korenlei where we stopped at the front door of a restaurant. The small flag hanging by the door had the words
Allegro Moderato
printed on it. Inside, the maître d’ waited for us, apparently prepped for our arrival by one of the guards. He led us to a private room where a lively fire in the fireplace radiated warmth for the room’s only table. We took our seats by a giant window that looked across the Lys River to the guild houses.

“Bon Appétit!” He quietly shut the door.

“Do you bring all the girls here?”

“Hatty. I know you think I date a lot of women. But can you imagine the kind of exposure I’d face if I did? I’ve only seriously dated two women. Both of them ended our relationship once the press found out and began following them around the clock. Once that happens, things change. I think you already had a little taste of that, right?

“Yes, but they quickly lost interest. I’m not fun to photograph.”

“That has nothing to do with it. I called in several favors with editors and asked them to rein in the wolves. I also confirmed we’re not dating.”

“Seriously? I thought they left because I bored them to death. Thank you, then, because it was awful and uncomfortable. I don’t see how you handle it so graciously. Aren’t they after you all the time?”

“Yes, especially when I’m out with someone I’m dating. Even if we’re dressed down and travel outside of Toulene, the press can still find us. They bribe people and lie, whatever it takes to track us down. It becomes much harder to enjoy a quiet dinner like this when you’re worried about a photographer crashing through the window. When the tabloids figure out we’re dating, I won’t be able to stop them.”

“Is that a warning? Are you trying to scare me off?”

“No, I’m being honest. The relentless coverage became a source of conflict with the two other women I dated.”

“Did you love them?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself. I had no right to ask.

“Yes. One of them. I loved her very much. But, she wasn’t willing to put herself and her family through the kind of scrutiny that comes with being in a relationship with me.”

Who was she? My mind raced back to all the tabloid cover photos I’d seen of the prince with some “new girlfriend.” Though I liked to read the covers, I rarely cracked open the magazines. The only woman I remembered seeing on multiple occasions was a princess from the Orange family in Holland. She was blonde and slender with impeccable features, exactly the sort of face that should be on the cover of magazines next to a prince. But her family is already under press scrutiny, so I couldn’t imagine she had been The One.

“I’m sure it’s an intense experience to be under constant scrutiny.” Yeah, being on the journalist’s side of the camera felt a hell of a lot safer. I wasn’t looking forward to trading places.

There was a knock at the door.

“
Entrez
.” John spoke with a perfect French accent.

“
Beinvenue. Je m’appelle Jean-Paul. Que voudriez-vous à boire
?”

“
Je voudrais bien avoir seulement l’eau
,” I said.
You’re not the only one who can parler a little français.

“
Nous êtes prendre le
Château Mont-Redon, Côtes-du-Rhône Rouge
.” John ordered the wine, and then the garçon left, closing the door with care. “I had no idea you spoke French.”

“Oh, I started studying the language and culture in high school. It’s my minor at the university. I’ve found a few occasions to use it during my time in Europe. It’s kind of a drag English is the dominant language in Toulene.”

“Yes, but most people speak two or even three languages. You shouldn’t have trouble finding places to practice your French. By the way, I hope you don’t mind the wine. Will you have a glass?”

“Of course. John, thank you for this. All of this. It’s been a day I’ll never forget.”

“You’re welcome. I do want to ask you about something, but I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

He paused and I nodded. “Go ahead.”

“The night we met at Finn’s, you said you’d dated Jack. Plato said the two of you were together for about a year. Is that right?”

Lord, have mercy.
Plato had probably told him everything, so I couldn’t hide the truth.

“I’ll give you the story, but only if you promise to tell me more about your past relationship.” I craved information about the person against whom John would compare me.

“I’ll tell you about Claire, but I asked you first. Plato told me a few details but I’d like to hear the whole story from you.”

There was a knock at the door. Jean-Paul entered followed by a sommelier carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. The sommelier put the glasses on the table, uncorked the bottle, and poured a small splash of ruby liquid for John to taste.

John took the glass and sipped. “
Oui, merci
.”

“
Que-est ce que vous voudriez
?” The waiter asked for our order while the sommelier finished pouring the wine.

John looked at me.

“
Tu vas de l’avant
,” I told him with a smile, trusting him to order for us.

“
Nous voudrions le stoverij, s’il vous plait
.”

Both men left quickly.

“What’s
stoverij
?” I asked.

“It’s a meat stew, a classic Flemish dish. They add a nice bit of strong beer from one of the local Trappist abbeys. It also comes with pommes frites.”

My stomach gurgled softly in response to the pending arrival of French fries.
You can take the girl out of the Ozarks, but you can’t take the love of fries out of the girl.