The Importance of Being Alice (2 page)

Patrick laughed, and said something under his breath to his secretary about moving a meeting to the following week. “No need t'apologize. Your foul mood is why I'm calling. Your sister was talking about you the other day, and she suggested you be the one t'take the tickets, rather than my secretary trying to flog them on Craigslist.”

Elliott sat in his favorite armchair, the one that was stained with decades of ink spilled by some long-dead literary ancestor. “My sister? Tickets? Craigslist? Christ, now I sound like a deranged parrot. Which sister, and what tickets are you talking about?”

“The tickets for my prewedding trip down a couple of rivers in Europe t'that city in Czechoslovakia. You know the place.”

“Prague?”

“No, no, the other place. The one with that big bridge that gets all the attention.”

Elliott thought. “Budapest?”

“Yes, that's the place. The river tour goes from Amsterdam t'Budapest.”

“Budapest is Hungary, not the Czech Republic.”

“Same difference,” Patrick said with an airy lack of concern. “I've parted ways with Alice, so I don't need the tickets, and since your delicious sister swore it was bad juju for her t'take the place of an ex, she thought that you could do with the trip. Since I hear all hell is about t'break out at Ainslie Castle, that is, and of course, your straitened circumstances.”

There was a tinge of satisfaction in Patrick's voice that Elliott ignored. Before he could respond, he heard someone yelling for him. No doubt it was yet another minor
crisis. He sank down farther into the chair, asking, “Who's Alice?”

“My ex. It was past time t'let her go. You know my rule.”

“Two years with any given woman, and not a single day more,” Elliott said, making a face at nothing in particular. He'd always thought Patrick's method of conducting his romantic affairs particularly coldhearted.

“That's right. As a matter of fact, I broke that rule by sticking with Alice for three extra months, but where did that get me? She called me a bastard. She said that half the condo was hers. She claimed I misled her. Me! It would have been laughable if it wasn't so damned unpleasant. It was a sign, I tell you, Elliott, a sign that it doesn't do t'go against the rule. If you don't move on when you're supposed to, nothing good will come of it.”

“I'll be sure to remind my sister of that,” Elliott said smoothly. “Which sister will I be informing of your intentions two years hence? You've met all three of them over the years, although one wouldn't give a fig for you. At least not romantically speaking.”

Patrick laughed again. “Don't be such a wet blanket. Who knows, Jane could be the one that breaks the rule. Regardless, I'll e-mail you the ticket information. Alice said she wouldn't go on the trip if I paid her to, so you'll have the cabin all t'yourself. Boat leaves next Monday. Don't worry about paying—it's no hardship to me, and I know you'll appreciate the largesse. You'll have a fortnight floating around rivers, which your sister says will give you peace and quiet you won't have at home. Regards t'Lady Ainslie. She sounds as distracted as ever. What's that? Yes, yes, I'll take that call. I'm done here. Elliott, must ring off. Your sister Jane and I are off t'Paris
in the morning, and I have an important vendor from Australia on the line.”

“Wait a moment, what—”

The connection ended, leaving Elliott to stare in confusion at his phone.

“Mum says the builder needs you. Something to do with wanting more money.” Gunner paused and stared at Elliott. “You all right? You look even more harassed than usual.”

“I just had an odd call from Patrick.”

“Daft Irish bastard Patrick?” Gunner asked, coming into the room and setting down a duffel bag that had been slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, although he'd bloody your nose again if he heard you calling him that.”

Gunner grinned. The first child adopted by the baron and baroness, he was a self-defined mutt of a man, with a mix of ethnicities that ranged from African to South Pacific, and even some Slavic. “He could try. I haven't seen him in . . . hell, eight years? Nine? What's he done now? Don't tell me he's found some new way to flaunt his wealth in front of you.”

Elliott shook his head, then changed it to a nod. “He can't help it; he's got an inferiority complex when it comes to me. Actually, he's doing me a favor. I think.” He explained about the cruise.

“Nice,” Gunner said with a low whistle. “I wish I had mates who'd give me trips to the Continent like that.”

Elliott eyed the scruffy duffel bag. “Aren't you leaving today for Spain?”

“Yes, but that's work. I'll be baking in the hot Spanish sun taking pictures of abandoned factories while you're swanning around on some cruise ship. The life of an
industrial photographer is not a posh one. Not like that of writers.”

“You know exactly how un-posh my life is,” Elliott answered. “Did you know Jane was in the States? The last I heard she was in Ottawa working for an Internet firm.”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me that Patrick managed to find and acquire her. He's been dying to hold a relationship with one of the girls over you ever since his balls dropped.”

“I don't give a damn who he dates,” Elliott protested.

“You and I know that, but Patrick clearly views it as a way of scoring against you.
You have a title and an aristocratic family that I can't ever have, so I'll bang your sister.
That sort of thing.”

“A title that's bound by debts, and a family that's driving me insane before my time.”

Gunner glanced at his watch. “Patrick will never see that. You going to take the tickets?”

“I don't know. It does make me feel a bit beholden to him—”

“Elliott! Come quick, Mum says the renovation man wants another check. Something about the cost of stone going up.” Bertie appeared briefly in the doorway, jamming a motorcycle helmet on his head, clearly on his way out to spend the ten pounds. “Oh, and one of the hothouses is on fire, but it's the one with the aubergines, so no loss there. Later, brothers!”

“I like aubergines,” Elliott started to say, but stopped when Gunner laughed aloud.

“Sounds like you'd best take Patrick's offer, El. You'll go mad if you have to stay here for the next few weeks.”

“There are times when I wish a portal would open up
right here at my feet, one that would transport me to another place, one without demands for money I don't have, and time I can't waste. But reality persists in being unhelpful, and I always remain right where I am.”

Gunner scooped up the duffel and slung the strap across his chest. “Two weeks, El. No phones, no distractions and endless interruptions, no demands for more checks . . . just the blissful lapping of water against the side of the ship, and the quiet of a cabin all to yourself.”

“It does sound like heaven.”

The distant sound of a fire truck reached their ears. Gunner gave his brother a friendly punch in the arm, and left, saying, “I'm off to Spain, followed by a jaunt to Portugal to photograph the inside of a partially collapsed mine. And possibly Bulgaria, if my employers can smuggle me into an old radium factory.”

“That doesn't sound healthy.”

Gunner shrugged. “There is an interested bidder on the property, but the Bulgarian government isn't too wild about letting people photograph it. If I can sneak in, then I'll get some shots. Otherwise, I will be home in a week.”

Elliott waved absently, making a decision right then and there. He'd take the trip that Patrick offered. A cruise down Europe's most famous rivers couldn't be any more disruptive than home, after all.

Diary of Alice Wood

New Diary Begins: Day One

“T
ell me that you're not going to give in to the douche-canoe and let him ruin what will be a perfectly fabulous vacation. Tell me you're not going to do that, Alice.”

I kicked at an empty cardboard box as I wandered from a minuscule kitchen to an equally minuscule bedroom, hopping and swearing when it turned out the box wasn't empty after all. “Son of a sea biscuit!”

“Chill, babe,” came the slightly offended voice of one of my oldest friends. I jostled the phone in order to apologize and rub my hurting toes. “I was just expressing my opinion. You're a big girl. If you want to save up for a dream vacation for more than four years and then not take it, then that's your business.”

“Sorry, Helen, I wasn't sea biscuiting you. I stubbed my toes on a box full of books.”

“I thought you'd unpacked already?”

“I did some unpacking. Most of the stuff is in storage because this place is so tiny.” I sank down on a worn futon, my spirits as flabby as the futon's stuffing. “Moving is hell.”

“Yeah, well, I told you to fight the douche-canoe's dictates. You guys moved into that condo together, so it's just as much yours as it is his. He had no right to demand you vacate the premises just because he went mental and broke up with you.”

I smiled sadly at my toes. It was really nice that Helen automatically took my side in the breakup of a two-year relationship, but I had a terrible feeling that the fault didn't totally lie at Patrick's door. “Unfortunately, he was the legal owner of the condo, and he was the one who made the payments on it, so I really don't have grounds to make any demands. Besides, I couldn't live there with him in a roommate capacity. That would be too awkward.”

“I hear you. And I'm not saying you should; I'm simply saying you shouldn't be a doormat to his stupid whims. And that includes giving up your dream vacation. You said he isn't going on the trip, right?”

“His actual words were, ‘I'd rather have my scrotum tattooed than spend a single day on vacation with you,' so that seems pretty clear that he's not going to use his tickets.”

“There you go, then!” Helen's voice, normally warm and empathetic, took on a slightly tetchy quality when she covered the receiver and yelled a demand that her daughter be home in time for dinner. “Sorry, Edison is being
unusually difficult. Where were we? Oh, yes, if Patrick stays home, then why shouldn't you go spend two glorious weeks on a fancy river cruise boat allowing the staff to bend over backward to make you feel like a princess?”

I shrugged even though no one was there to see it. “It just feels kind of callous. I mean, I'm devastated by Patrick's betrayal. One day we were fine, happy as little clams, and the next day he's insisting that we both need to move on—and, in my case, to take that literally.”

“There's devastated, and then there's devastated,” Helen said. “You paid for your share of the trip, Patrick isn't going, and you don't have a job to hold you back from taking two weeks off.”

“That's another thing.” I slumped back into the futon, wishing it would swallow me up. “I should be looking for a job. One that does not come with a handsome boss who will two years later kick you out of your home.”

“Mmm, well, we can debate the wisdom of dating an employer later. Right now you need to pull yourself out of the self-pity pool, and pack up your swimsuit, a fancy dress, and some comfortable walking shoes, because Europe beckons. That's what your therapist said, yes?”

“Not really. She said I should keep a diary of all my emotions and thoughts and feelings about . . . well, basically everything, and then use that as discussion points in our sessions. I have to say, Helen, it's weird talking to a stranger about all that inner stuff going on.”

“Weird good, or weird weird?”

“Weird good, I suppose. I'm going to start the diary today. She said it was very important to pick a day and make that your first day, so that all the emotional baggage crap is behind you, and you get a fresh start. So I thought I'd start today.”

“Good for you. It's especially pertinent if you decide to take the trip you paid for, and which you'd be an idiot to throw away just because an asshat loses what few bits of intelligence he had.”

Using my abused toes, I nudged aside a collection of mail that I had picked up from my former home, until the glossy brochure advertising a glorious two-week trip down the Danube, Main, and Rhine rivers lay exposed. I had to admit, the temptation to take the trip regardless of my unemployed state was great. “You don't think it looks like I'm desperate or anything, do you?”

“Desperate?”

“Yeah, you know, all single ladies go to Europe hoping to meet some handsome James Bond–cool European man who will sweep her off her feet with his delicious accent and expensive Italian shoes. And courtly old-world manners. The kind that holds chairs for women at casinos, and offers them lifts in tiny little sports cars that cost as much as a nice house. Although, I have to admit that would make for some great diary entries.”

Helen's laugh rippled out of the phone. “Honey, you haven't been to Europe lately if you think that's what the men there are like. I hate to disabuse your idea of old-world courtliness, but your average European guy isn't going to have expensive Italian shoes or a fancy sports car. So no, I don't think you will look desperate by taking the trip. On the contrary, I think it sends quite a firm statement to He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“You named him a minute ago,” I couldn't help but point out.

“Stop harshing my mellow. Take the trip, enjoy having a fancy cabin all to yourself, meet a James Bond if you can—although usually his women don't end up well as I
recall, so maybe go for someone whose job isn't quite so dangerous. Write all about it in your diary, and let Patrick suck on the idea that you're not in the least bit bothered by the fact that he's an idiot to let you go.”

“Patrick was James Bondian when I first met him,” I said forlornly. “It was at the benefit for the library, and all the women were gaga about him because he has that sexy Irish accent, and those blue eyes and black hair and, oh hell.” Anger, never slow to start when I thought of my recent ex, fired up with an intensity that had me sitting up straight. “He really is a bastard through and through.”

“Atta girl.”

“He used me.”

“Like a wet paper towel!”

I shoved aside some books until I dug out a small laptop. I would start the diary right then and there. “He charmed me and swept me off my feet and made me quit my nice job with the library to become his private secretary, and then he seduced me into moving in with him!”

“Man deserves to be hung up by his balls for that.”

I stood up, shaking the laptop at nothing. “He made me think we were going to get married at the end of this trip! He had me look up the laws for Americans getting married in Budapest!”

“Ball-hanging is too good for him. He deserves something worse. Off with his head!”

“I will take that trip!” I yelled at the small living room filled with boxes that I had yet to unpack. “And I will enjoy myself! A lot! So much that he'll gnash his teeth and tear out that lovely black hair, and will crawl back begging me to forgive him.”

“Which you won't do because you are a smart woman and won't throw yourself into yet another disastrous
relationship without first thinking about whether the man is the one for you, right?”

Helen's voice was filled with caution, but my spirits were soaring, and I wasn't going to let anyone ground them again. I looked at the clock on the laptop, and made the decision. “Oh, how I will enjoy his crawling. Gotta run, babe. The plane leaves tomorrow morning, and I have no idea where my clothes are.”

“You're not naked, are you?”

I smiled and put the laptop on the mound of books. “No, but I've been wearing the same pair of sweatpants and tee since I moved three days ago, and I think they could be technically classified as a new life-form. Love to the kiddo. I'll post pictures of the boat and things.”

“Enjoy yourself, lovey. Have fun with cathartic writing and suchlike. But be careful, OK?”

“Yes, Mom,” I said with another smile, touched by Helen's concern. She was always telling me to stop being quite so heedless when it came to life, but hard experience had proved more than once that you have to grab what you can because you never know when it will be taken away from you.

Like Patrick.

I shoved down that thought and allowed the burst of adrenaline to carry me through the next twenty-four hours, from the hassle of digging out appropriate clothing to wear, to borrowing a suitcase to stuff said clothing into, getting myself and my gigantic bag onto an airplane to Amsterdam, and, finally, starting this diary.

“My boat cruise goes through Holland, Germany, Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary,” I told my seatmate as the occupants of the plane settled down to the long
ten-hour trip from Portland, Oregon, to Amsterdam. “On three different rivers. See? Castles!”

The woman next to me, obviously on summer break from college, admired the glossy brochure. “
Manny van Bris: Tour Guide to the Nearly Famous.
Well, now. That looks like a lot of fun.”

“The staterooms,” I read to her from the brochure, “are equipped with every modern convenience, and are designed to delight the traveler in a home-away-from home atmosphere. And I'll have a cabin all to myself since . . . since my friend can't make it.”

“It sounds lovely,” the woman said, giving me a look that told me I was on the verge of becoming That Person on a plane, the one you didn't want to get stuck sitting next to. I gave her a big smile, and settled back into my seat, my fingers sliding over the glossy paper.

Helen was right—I was due a vacation after the dramafest my life had suddenly become. I just hoped Patrick would realize that I had taken the trip after all. I had contemplated leaving him a message in case he was unaware of how easily I had moved on, but decided that a policy of pretending he didn't exist was better.

Besides, if I posted lots of pictures on Facebook of all the fabulous fun I was having on my glamorous boat trip, mutual friends would be sure to point them out to him. I smiled at the thought and made a mental note to include lots of photos of whatever handsome men came within the range of my camera.

Those were my thoughts as I dragged my by now jet-lagged self through the Amsterdam airport, found a cab, and made my way out to where the river cruise boats were lined up, waiting to take that day's flock of
passengers on board. The ships—long and sleek and elegant—were stacked two and three deep, with long lines of people streaming on board. I hauled my wheeled bag past a couple of especially elegant ships, mentally hugging myself with delight. I'd made the right choice to come on this trip. It would definitely show Patrick that I was so over him.

The delight of that thought faded to nothing the second I spotted my boat.

“Excuse me,” I said, staring in horror as I snagged a uniformed person bearing a clipboard. “I'm looking for the Manny van Bris River Tours section of the pier. Can you tell me where that is?”

The man turned and pointed at the boat that I was still staring at. “That would be your ship, madam.”

“No.” I shook my head. “It can't be. See, I have a brochure. It shows the ship right here, and this is clearly not the same boat as that . . . that . . . heap.”

The man gave me a sympathetic look, murmured something about hoping I enjoyed my holiday, and hurried off to tend his shiny new ship.

My gaze drifted along the narrow boat moored alongside the dock. A small gangway stretched across the few feet of water to the dockside, rusted chains hanging morosely off the flimsy walkway. The ship itself had once been painted red and white, but now was mostly rust and white, with large bare patches where the paint had peeled off. At the front of the upper deck—there were three decks on the ship, according to the brochure, although I now viewed that source of information with much skepticism—a handful of plastic white lawn chairs sat.

“This is not the same ship,” I said, looking at the brochure one more time. “This can't be right. I can't have
spent four grand on that. It looks like it would sink if I so much as sneezed on it!”

“Alice Wood?” I looked up at the person who had called my name. A shiny-faced woman of indeterminate years, but with poufy blond hair that bespoke someone in her sixties, bustled carefully across the gangway and over to me. In a voice with a BBC America sort of English accent, she said, “You are Alice Wood of Portland, Oregon, United States?”

“Yes, I'm Alice, but that is not the same ship as shown here.” I held out the brochure and tapped it.

“The ship pictured in the advertisement is just a depiction, as is noted in the fine print,” she said dismissively, grabbing the handle of my suitcase and wheeling it away from me, toward the gangway. “This is our flagship, the
Manny B
. It needs a few cosmetic touches, but I assure you that once you're on board, you'll find it very comfortable, very comfortable indeed. I haven't introduced myself, have I? I'm Tiffany Jones, the cruise concierge, and your friend away from home. Call on me for whatever you need. Come along, now, you are the last of our guests to arrive, and Captain Manny is most adamant about leaving before the other ships.”

“Really?” I said, looking upward at the rusted side of the ship as I carefully walked across the gangway. The latter didn't feel any too sturdy underfoot, but at least I made it across without falling into the water, or chunks of the ship hurling themselves onto my head. “Why is that?”

“He likes to get the best position on shore, of course.”