The Importance of Being Alice (7 page)

“Ugh, they let people smoke in here. I thought that was illegal. Boy, they are seriously busy. That's a good sign—it means their food is good. Oh, those people in the corner are just leaving. Let's grab their table quick like a bunny.”

Before he could come right out and ask her if she was
aware of what a coffeehouse was in the Netherlands, Alice had commandeered a small table tucked away under a couple of hanging ferns. Two cushioned armchairs sat at a white rattan table, the center of which held a paisley-painted hookah. He took the seat opposite her, batting away a fern tendril that caressed the back of his head.

“This is so exciting. I can't believe I'm really sitting in Holland having dinner. With a lord, yet! My friends back home are going to die when I tell them. Sec, picture so they know I'm not lying. Smile!” Obligingly, he smiled when she snapped first a picture of him, then took a few shots of the coffeehouse. “I just hope there's going to be enough room for all the food I want to order,” she finished, moving aside one of the hookah mouthpieces. “This centerpiece is a bit big.”

“That
centerpiece
is a water pipe,” he said, giving her a long look. She didn't look at all like someone who was waiting impatiently to fill it up and begin smoking. She looked, as she had told him, hungry. “Alice, are you aware of why there is smoke here?”

“Because people are smoking. Drat, that waitress didn't see us. You're in a better position than me. Can you flag her down?”

“You are aware of what they're smoking, yes?”

She looked puzzled. “Cigarettes?” She sniffed a couple of times. “Sorry, my sense of smell is a little weird. I had allergies a lot as a kid and I think it killed off some of my smell receptors. It's not a cigar bar, is it? I really hate cigar smoke, but I don't see a blue haze that normally goes with a cigar bar.”

“I see that I'm going to have to explain a few things about the drug culture in Holland.”

“I know all about drugs.” Her back stiffened, and she
gave him a little frown. “Just because I don't like booze doesn't mean I'm clueless about other things. Oh, wait! You mean the fact that you can get pot in Amsterdam really easily, right? I saw on a travel Web site that it was legal here, but I didn't read much past a warning that it wasn't smart to try to smuggle drugs out of the country because pot just makes my tongue go numb.”

It took Elliott a moment to work through that last sentence. “I am relieved to know that you won't be smuggling drugs, which I should point out are actually illegal in Holland. Partaking is not a crime punishable by the law, though, so the effect is a form of legality. However, the practice is not confined to Amsterdam.”

Her eyes widened. She pointed at the hookah. “You said the centerpiece was a water pipe! So it's a working bong, not just a funky decoration? Oh my god, we're in a drug shop?”

“Coffee shop.” He caught the eye of a passing waitress, who nodded at him. “I'm happy to find another restaurant for us to eat at, if you wish to find one that has less . . . ambiance.”

A slightly stubborn look passed over her face. “Do you have any problems with people smoking pot?”

“Not unless they become violent, no.”

“Good. Neither do I. It's not my thing, but I don't think it's any worse than booze, and lord knows that's much more readily available, and kills a whole lot more people each year.” She took a deep breath, coughed a couple of times, then said with a lift of her chin, “We'll eat here. I'm looking forward to you trying the wat.”

He hesitated. He didn't want to have to point out the obvious, but on the other hand, he felt obligated to at least mention it. “Will it bother you? Will being in an
environment where people are leaving the air rife with cannabis smoke cause an issue for you?”

“No, I'm fine around a little pot smoke. Patrick used to indulge now and again, and although it probably wouldn't be smart to smoke a bowl, or whatever the latest pot slang is these days, the buzz you get off of secondhand smoke is really minor. At least, that's what Patrick always said, and I have never had reason to argue with that opinion.”

“Very well, but I hope you don't have any drug tests scheduled in the next twenty-four hours.”

The waitress appeared at their table.

“What do you mean? Oh, hello. Do you speak English?”

When the woman shook her head, Elliott offered to help. “I don't speak Dutch per se, but I could probably find enough words common to German that I could make myself understood.”

“No, no, I said you weren't going to have to tax your brain tonight, and I meant it. I have a Dutch/English translator app on my phone. Let me just look up the dining-out section, and we'll be set.” Alice bit her lower lip as she tapped on her phone's screen for half a minute. Elliott watched the little pink lip, and felt a familiar drawing sensation in his groin.

Dammit, he was becoming aroused just by watching those white teeth take possession of the deliciously soft lip, a lip that he himself wanted to gently bite, then suck into his mouth, and caress with his tongue. He shifted in the chair, telling himself that thoughts like that were going to ensure the evening was a painful one.

“Do you mind if I order for us both?” Alice asked.

“If you feel up to doing so, then by all means go ahead. I look forward to trying the stew you mentioned.”

“Awesome. You won't be sorry. OK, here we go.” Consulting her phone, Alice stumbled over a collection of words that didn't sound to him as if they were correct, but perhaps the app she was using was having her speak more formally than colloquially. The waitress nodded, collected the used dishes and cups that had been scattered around the table, and left them.

“I think you're really going to like the wat. At least I hope you will—it depends on how good this place makes it, but Ricardo swore it was worth the visit. Although . . .” She frowned and idly played with the mouthpiece of one of the hookah hoses. “Maybe he recommended it because he could smoke pot here rather than because it had great wat. I'll be really annoyed if that's true, because my mouth is all set for spicy goodness.”

“If we are to eat with our right hand and not utensils, then I suggest you wash your hands before the meal arrives.”

“Oh, they should bring us a bowl of water to wash with. If they don't, I'll hit up their bathroom.” She looked curious. “Was that just a general warning, or are you hypersensitive to germs?”

“Neither.” He nodded toward the mouthpiece. “They generally change those for new customers, but the waitress didn't bring a clean one. Judging by the contents of the pipe, the people who were here before us were using it.”

She looked in horror at the mouthpiece, and flung it away from her, exclaiming she would be right back. He reached into his jacket pocket for a small travel bottle of hand sanitizer that he carried for just such situations—
although he had to admit, he'd never used it before for a water pipe—when his phone began buzzing.

He held the phone a bit away from his ear, well aware of his mother's habit of speaking loudly into all telephones. “Hello, Mum. Is anything the matter?”

“Elliott, dear, how nice to hear from you.”

“You called me,” he pointed out. Usually, his mother only called him when trouble was brewing. “What has happened? Is anyone bleeding? Have parts of the castle collapsed?”

“No one is bleeding, and of course the castle hasn't collapsed. That's why those very annoying men are here pounding away and making all sorts of messes outside with their scaffolding, and buckets of water, and loud, obnoxious power tools buzzing away just when one wishes to take a nap.”

Alice was visible through the haze of smoke that hung off the ceiling, carefully picking her way through the tightly packed tables back to her seat.

“What's the trouble, then?” he asked. “And more to the point, how much is it going to cost me?”

“Nothing is wrong, dear heart. That is, nothing in the sense you mean. Josiah, my love, would you please tell your brother to stop wailing. Elliott is not going to string him up by his balls.”

“Oh, lord,” he muttered to himself, half rising from his chair when Alice returned. “Which brother, and what has he done?”

“Well, that bathroom was a trip in itself. Oh! You're on the phone. Sorry.”

Silence met his questions. He was about to repeat them when his mother asked, “Who was that?”

“Are you talking to me or someone at home?”

“You, dear. That's why we are speaking on the phone. Who is that woman who apologized for interrupting you?”

Elliott flashed Alice a smile, but she was too busy looking around the room, and taking covert snaps with her camera.

“A fellow traveler on the cruise. What has this unnamed brother done?”

“I don't have to ask if she's pretty, since you have exquisite taste in women, except, of course, for that interlude with the Page Three girl who insisted on baring her breasts to all and sundry.”

Alice had obviously been attempting to give him privacy while apparently interesting herself with people-watching, but she slid a quick, startled look at him before busying herself with her camera. No doubt his mother's voice was audible to everyone near them. He just hoped no one else spoke English.

“Mother,” he said in a firm, no-nonsense tone of voice. “What is wrong at home that forced you to call me?”

“It's Rupert. He and Josiah thought it would be nice if they painted your office, since the mold has crept in around the window, and stained the north wall, and of course, you aren't here, so it really is the perfect time to paint without disturbing you. Wasn't that thoughtful of them? The boys were most energetic with their work, and had everything but that ugly old desk covered—”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He had a horrible premonition as to what was coming. “You mean the desk that has been in the Ainslie family for the last three hundred years?”

“—and Rupert evidently jostled Josiah—you know how boys can't help but roughhouse at their age—and unfortunately, a small amount of paint was spilt. Very
small, almost so small you can't notice it, especially if you put a large blotter on the desktop, or perhaps, drape it with one of those oversized shawls that my grandmother used to say tarts put on pianos in their boudoirs. Although really, when you think about it, what good is a piano in a boudoir? If you use it to play seductive music, you can't either be seducing or be seduced, because you would be concentrating on playing it. And if you had someone playing it for you, then you would need to be a voyeur, and I just don't see the greater population of Victorian tarts being voyeurs. You would know more about that than I do, since you studied that sort of thing in university. Did the tarts enjoy being watched while going about their sexual congress?”

He took a deep, deep breath, and opened his eyes to find Alice giving him a commiserating look, one tinged with deep amusement. He spoke before his mother could get started again. “First of all, I studied languages, not the history of Victorian prostitutes, and second, those
boys
are twenty-six and twenty-nine, respectively, so no, I don't see how you can claim that roughhousing is part of their day-to-day routine. That desk was a valuable antique, one laden with family history, and if the paint is not removed from it and the desk restored to its former state by the time I return home, I will have many and varied things to say to both Josiah and Rupert, much of which will feature assorted tortures until such time as the desk is restored.”

The corner of Alice's mouth curled up in a smile. He had the worst urge to kiss that corner.

“I think that most unreasonable of you, Elliott. Just because your brothers did you a favor does not give you the right to threaten them.”

“Actually, it does.”

“It was just high spirits that caused the unfortunate accident, high spirits and a driving desire to please you, their much loved eldest brother.”

“I appreciate the thought.”

“So you don't know about the Victorian tarts?” His mother sounded disappointed.

“I'm afraid not. If that is all—”

“I don't see why your father and I sent you to Cambridge if you weren't going to learn something useful. What is her name, this fellow traveler of yours?”

He felt profoundly uncomfortable. He didn't want to discuss Alice with his mother, especially not with the former sitting right there in front of him, trying to look like she wasn't listening to the conversation, but he knew full well the tenacity of his mother's mind, and rather than field phone calls from her all night, he attempted to feed her just enough information to leave him in peace. “Her name is Alice.”

“Alice. What a nice old-fashioned name. Where is she from?”

“The States.” He gave Alice a feeble smile. She flashed a grin that expressed her understanding.

“And her surname?”

He stopped smiling back at Alice, a suspicion suddenly entering his mind. “Why do you wish to know that?”

Her response was given in a vague tone of voice. “Oh, you know, darling, it's always nicer to think of someone by their full name rather than just one name.”

“Are you at this moment sitting in front of a computer Googling Alice?”

“No, of course not. You know I don't like computers.”

He thought for a moment. “Which of your sons is in front of you at the computer?”

Righteous indignation dripped from every word. “Really, Elliott! You have the most suspicious mind of any man I've ever met.”

“Josiah? Teddy?”

“It's Emanuel, if you must know, and I think you're being quite, quite odious to call me up and harass me in this manner.”

“Good night, Mum.”

“Good night, dear. Don't forget to use protection.”