Friendship Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (9781455517763) Page 6

  She watched that solo rider’s bent back for a long time. Maybe she should have reserved a pod for herself. Away from the crowds and the noise, she might have been able to summon Lenny to sit beside her. She needed to feel Lenny close, now that she’d started the list. An uneasy feeling had crept over her these past weeks, sparked in part by Kiera’s angry outburst, but also by something else, some long-suppressed resistance now elbowing its way into her consciousness. She’d only just begun to understand why she’d avoided doing this bucket list for four long years.

  She didn’t want to lose any more of Lenny.

  “Hey,” Judy said, her head buried in the London Eye mini-guide, “what time is our train to Amsterdam in the morning?”

  “Noon,” Monique said, shaking off her gloom. She clutched her arms as a chill breeze swept off the Thames. “We’re taking the Eurostar through the Chunnel, going straight to Brussels, and then we’re hopping some intercity train from Brussels to Amsterdam.”

  “Maybe we can slip in a trip to the Tower of London tomorrow morning before the train.”

  Becky perked up a bit. “That’s a castle.”

  Monique said, “Is it even open on Sundays?”

  Judy shrugged. “I’ll call when we pop back to the flat. Those yeoman warders that work as guides tell the goriest stories. They lick their lips as they talk about medieval torture devices. I love the British.”

  The doors swept open, and the attendant guided them into the glass pod along with about fifteen other people. Monique took up a position standing by the glass, gripping the rail as the door whooshed closed and the pod began its steady rise. As they escalated above the surrounding buildings, the great Dickensian sweep of the London roof-scape stretched before them. Judy, with the guidebook open on the rail, looked through her reading glasses and then over them, seeking landmarks. She pointed out St. Paul’s Cathedral, and a bunch of other spires built by Christopher Wren, nudging Becky in the ribs with each discovery. Becky squinted into the distance to ask the identity of a particular tall, strange building, and Judy read from the guidebook that it was called the “Gherkin,” for its resemblance to a pickle. Becky dug out her camera to take a photo.

  Well it’s begun, Lenny.

  Monique’s heart began that strange, dizzying pitter-patter, like something soft and small racing in her chest. She’d rushed all of them to the London Eye for more than one reason. Sometimes, it was best to just do something. Like when you vaccinate a young child. Don’t warn them, don’t give them a reason to doubt, just brandish the needle and then plunge it in. The pain wouldn’t even be noticed until the shot was already done.

  Then Monique became aware of Becky standing beside her, settling a warm hand on the middle of her back. Becky wore the amber-tinted sunglasses that the ophthalmologist had recommended. Standing here limned by hazy English light, Becky looked like a Swedish rock star trying to go incognito. Though Monique couldn’t fully see her expression, she felt the strength of her concern.

  “Hey, guys, Charing Cross Station is right there.” Judy pointed down to the buildings and the trains slithering in and out on the rails. “Beck, over there you should be able to see Westminster Abbey.”

  Becky made a vaguely irritated, noncommittal noise then tilted her head against the glass as the pod crept its way higher. “This is sort of an odd thing for Lenny to want to do, isn’t it, Monie?”

  Monique winced, like she always did, whenever someone said his name out loud. “This is the place that triggered the whole list.”

  He’d still been getting chemo then, even though his oncologist had already been making noise about hospice. At the time Monique wasn’t ready to hear it. She’d still been in that stubborn, determined phase when she was convinced the doctors she trusted and knew so well could help her husband beat the disease.

  “I mean, of all the things in London we could be seeing today,” Becky said, “the Tower of London, the British Museum, Buckingham Palace…it’s strange that he’d pick this.”

  “Can you really see Lenny wandering through dusty old museums?”

  “I suppose that’s true. But still I remember when he was honorary Team Mom for the girls’ soccer team and we went on that trip to Six Flags.” Becky tilted her head against the glass, strands of her hair standing upright with static electricity. “Lenny took the role of minding cameras and backpacks while the rest of us rode on Kingda Ka.”

  “We’re not exactly moving at a hundred twenty-eight miles per hour right now.”

  “No, but we’re pretty darn high.”

  “Honestly, I think this choice was pure coincidence.” Those still-hopeful early weeks hurt to remember. “He’d had to hang out for hours for IV chemo then. On my breaks, I’d come down and bring him newspapers. Those were long hours. He read every single word of those papers, leaving newsprint fingerprints all over the arms of the hospital chair.” Monique paused, remembering the light that had gleamed in Lenny’s eyes when he first got the idea. “One day, he tapped the paper and said we ought to take a ride on this thing someday. He said we should write it down, make a list.”

  Becky didn’t respond right away. She rubbed a little more vigorously against Monique’s back, as if she’d felt a sudden chill in Monique’s spine.

  “Well,” Becky said, “it is one hell of a view.”

  “Look, there’s Big Ben,” Judy said, leaning in close as she pointed to the west. “Can you see it, Becky?”

  “For goodness sake, Judy, I’m not blind yet.”

  Monique mentally winced.

  “In fact,” Becky continued, “on a day like today, when the light is strong but not glaring, I can pretty much see the whole wide world. Same as about a month ago, when everyone just believed I was Becky, the lovable neighborhood klutz.”

  Judy fumbled the guidebook closed. “You know what? I’m getting vertigo leaning up against this glass. I’m going to go sit down for a minute.”

  Judy left to find space on the bench in the center of the pod. Monique gave Becky a gentle elbow in the side. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  Her pale jaw hardened.

  “For what it’s worth,” Monique added, “when Judy said, ‘Can you see it?’ she just meant it as an expression. Judy might as well have asked me too.”

  Becky crossed her arms. “I hate those damn expressions. ‘See you later.’ ‘I’ll keep an eye on it.’ ‘She’s got a great eye.’ ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled.’ ‘Keep your eye on the ball.’” Becky shook her head. “You know what? I am turning into Ms. Bloody Cranky Pants. I think I’ll sit down too.”

  Monique kept her place by the window and took solace in the momentary solitude. She gazed upon the iconic British clock tower and Westminster Abbey as well. As the pod began its westerly descent, she noted the surprisingly green, wooded areas of central London, a long chain of parks whose names she probably should remember from her college days, when she was obsessed with British lit. She wondered which of the green spaces were St. James’s Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens. How wonderful it would have been if she and Lenny could have walked those green spaces, as they’d once walked in the little manicured park behind the oncology building.

  She bent forward and let her forehead rest against the glass, looking down through the spindly white scaffolding to the silver ribbon of the Thames. She knew she shouldn’t summon Lenny. This place was too busy, too public, and too full of pattering children’s feet and the loud chatter of nearby German tourists. She might embarrass herself. She might say something out loud.

  She closed her eyes nonetheless, mentally casting about in search of that soft, warm, oh-so-familiar-glow. She ached to sense him standing just behind her, lingering.

  Are you here with me, Lenny?

  An image bloomed in her mind of Lenny in that hospital bed, crinkling the newspaper as he lowered it. He gazed at her over the edge of a pair of reading glasses. Monique suppressed a bubble of amusement. Lenny never did admit he needed those glasses. But he’d never had an
y qualms about borrowing hers, perching them on the end of his nose though the frames were studded with rhinestones.

  Sometime later the sensation of a hand on her arm brought Monique back to the present. Judy stood beside her, silently drawing Monique’s attention to the sinking landscape. The pod had dropped below the level of the rooftops. A crowd waited by the doors as it slowed to the landing. The doors whooshed opened. The ride was over.

  Usually Monique loved checking things off lists. Usually, she loved the sense of accomplishment that followed. Now she ushered her friends ahead of her down the ramp so they would not glimpse the worry on her face. She skimmed her fingers along the railing, prepared to grip it should she sense a sudden, deep-bodied chill or should her knees completely fail her. Then she forced herself to imagine the list as she mentally inked a checkmark by the first item.

  She exhaled a long, slow breath and waited. She monitored her vitals, seeking aches, soreness, a sudden drop in blood pressure. But her breathing remained calm, her pulse strong. Her heart did not grow leaden in her chest. In fact her heart felt oddly feather-light, and not because some part of it had just cracked and broken away. She felt weightless…unburdened. A breeze swept off the Thames as she mentally searched for the source of this unexpected buoyancy. The sudden gust swept her braids off her shoulders and brushed the nape of her neck.

  The sensation was not unlike a kiss.

  Monique stopped in her tracks. Tourists elbowed by her, forcing her against the rail. She ran her fingers across the back of her neck.

  Across her face crept a soft, slow smile.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wanderlust.

  The word—straight from the German—bubbled up inside Judy. It churned along with hundreds of other foreign words and expressions that had sputtered in her head since she’d boarded the London-Brussels train amid the business class of Europe.

  Becky sat across from her, closing her eyes behind the amber sunglasses as the French country sunshine poured in through the window. Monique perched in the seat beside Becky, her face buried in an Amsterdam guidebook, making occasional grunting noises as a line of concentration deepened between her brows. Judy sat still, ignoring the e-book reader open to a Dutch-English dictionary on her lap. Despite the continuing effects of jet lag and a painfully stiffening knee, she existed right now in a state of heightened awareness, her blood thrumming and her brain alight, gulping the passing scenery as the Eurostar train zoomed toward Brussels.

  She read the signs at each station as they zipped by. Calais, Lille. The little villages of Nieppes, Bois-Grenier, La Chapelle d’Armentières. She rolled the names over her tongue, like plump champagne grapes.

  The young girl she’d once been—that light-footed fearless creature she’d abandoned long ago—shifted from a long slumber deep within her, stretching with slowly opening eyes into her roomier, older skin.

  Oh, yeah, Judy thought. I remember you.

  “So, Judy,” Monique said, as she turned another page of the guidebook, “are we going to Amsterdam to see the Anne Frank house? Or the Van Gogh museum?”

  The corners of Judy’s lips twitched. Monique and her itinerary and her pencil and her plans. “Frankly, Monie, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  That had been her favorite way to travel. Just slip on a train with a small rucksack and go wherever the train takes you. Step out into a city and disorient yourself in the warren of ancient streets.

  “We’re going to arrive around five in the afternoon.” Monique flicked her wrist to glance at her watch. “We should have plans.”

  “We could just wander.” Judy remembered the canals at nighttime, the smear of the neon lights on the water, the gentle swish of small boats sliding under the bridges. “The old city is full of great architecture, exotic boats.”

  “We don’t have much time. We’re heading off to Cologne tomorrow night.”

  “It’s not a big city.”

  “How about a boat ride on the canals? Or there’s the Rembrandt House museum.”

  “I’m game for anything.”

  “Judy, honey, you picked this city.” Monique closed the guidebook on her lap. “You were quick to pick it too. And after perusing this curiously detailed guidebook for the last hour, I’m just hoping we’re not going to Amsterdam to buy Moroccan hash or Nepal bud.”

  Becky snorted, straightening from the window in sudden attention. “What kind of trip are we taking?”

  Monique tossed the guidebook onto Becky’s lap. “There’s actually a smart shop listed in there—address and all—that sells Ecuadorian mushrooms so fierce that one bite can cause a psychotic breakdown.”

  “Oh,” Judy said, shaking her head, “I’d stay away from the mushrooms.”

  Monique raised a brow. “You think?”

  “Yeah.” Judy nodded. “But I might consider going to the Pool Dog coffee shop and rolling up some White Widow.”

  That was the first thing she and Thierry did, all those years ago, when they skipped off the train from Strasbourg. He’d taken her hand and led her down the narrow, cobbled streets to a coffee shop. She’d followed him with a light heart, watching the way the Dutch sunlight turned the delicate hairs on the nape of his neck a fragile gold. In the smoky café, they’d nervously perused the menu of weed and hash and prerolled joints, then struck up a conversation with a couple of French university students giggling at the table beside them. The four of them had pushed together their rickety tables and, with increasing hilarity, dared to share a fatty over strong Dutch coffee at eleven-thirty in the morning.

  The gentle rattle of the swift-moving train seemed suddenly loud, and with a glance at her seat mates, Judy realized she’d shocked them into silence. She felt vaguely uneasy. They hadn’t seen this girl before. Until the moment she’d stepped off the plane in London yesterday, she’d made a point to pretend this young woman had never existed.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Judy straightened one leg, trying to stretch out a kink in her knee. “Are you two going to look me in the eye and tell me you never inhaled?”

  “I haven’t.” Becky blinked and cast a quick glance Monique’s way. “I haven’t. Weed wasn’t so easy to get in my tiny corner of Minnesota. Our poison was blackberry brandy and peppermint schnapps.”

  “Well, well,” Judy said, “we’ve found that rare creature. A mom who didn’t lie to her stepdaughter during the drug talk.”

  Monique’s lashes flickered. A muscle moved along the edge of her jaw as she raised her hand. “Liar, liar, sitting right here.”

  “We’re all liars,” Judy said. “We told them about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.”

  Monique murmured, “I believe that still makes me a hypocrite.”

  “You’re no hypocrite. You’re a realist. Rule number sixty-two: Avoid giving teenagers ammo. You can regale them about the adventures of your misspent youth when their brains have developed enough to correctly weigh risk and reward.”

  “In any case, I didn’t like the stuff,” Monique said. “It made me paranoid.”

  “Then avoid the space cakes in Amsterdam.” Judy grimaced. “You can’t gauge the strength of those until after you’ve eaten one.”

  “Please tell me you’re not serious, Judy.”

  “About the space cakes? I’m absolutely serious.”

  “No, about rolling a joint and smoking it in some Dutch coffee shop.”

  Judy paused, remembering what it was like to sit in those rattling chairs with the haze of blue smoke above their heads. She remembered how she and Thierry laughed every time the bell over the door rang, how once they were done, their group—and there was always a motley, ever-​changing group—would tumble out into the darkness of a Dutch evening and into the crowd. She remembered how they’d stand in front of a head shop just to admire the colors of the lights. They’d find a park, throw themselves under a tree, feel the prickle of grass on their faces as they made stories out of the stars.

  Judy shrugged and avoided Moniq
ue’s eye. “It is legal here.”

  Monie muttered, “Oh my God.”

  “But I have to admit, there’s been so much genetic engineering in the last twenty-seven years that the idea makes me anxious.“

  “So this is why you chose Amsterdam?”

  “No, no. It was never about the drugs. That was just a little…rebellious experimentation. The last time I was here, all I really wanted to do was roll around in bed with my French lover.”

  Thierry had a gentle smile, the kind that made one eye crinkle more than the other. She’d first met him on a city train in Strasbourg. She’d been dressed for work—neat skirt, sleeveless top, and flat shoes. He was tall and lanky, and the warmth of his body released a loamy, aromatic fragrance from the wear-softened cotton of his T-shirt. The sway of the train thrust him against her as they held on to straps through the tunnels. He’d apologized for bumping into her. He told her he was just back from picking grapes at a vineyard in Champagne. Would she like to go for a coffee?

  Judy became aware, again, of the sway of the train, the rhythmic clatter of metal against metal, and her friends’ gaping silence.

  “My, my, my.” Monique’s voice was a low rumble, her eyes alight. “You’ve been holding back on us, girl.”

  Oh, dear.

  “All those Friday afternoon barbecues,” Monique continued, “and never once did you mention a French lover.”

  “Did you really expect me to bring up my ex-lovers while the whole neighborhood is sitting on the McCarthys’ deck?”

  Monique raised a brow. “Under the influence of pinot grigio, you usually overshare.”

  Judy looked away, hesitating. There was a certain kind of man a girl met when she traveled far and wide. They flooded the continent during the summer months, breezily attractive, easygoing, and adaptable. They knew multiple languages and switched between them effortlessly. They were charming to a fault and, for the most part, really skilled lovers. Thierry just happened to be her last.