Free A Summer In Europe by Marilyn Brant Page A

her room when the Britsicles appeared, all decked out in fancy eveningwear—clothing not suitable for a mere tarantella show. Clearly, they were headed somewhere ritzier. They were met at the door by the men they’d been talking to at the Trevi Fountain earlier that day. One of the two men—that taller, sandy-haired one—sent her another of his uncomfortably inquisitive glances before winking at her and striding away with the other three. It disrupted her train of thought and messed with her senses to such a degree that she completely missed Hans-Josef’s question.
    “Pardon?” she asked him.
    “Well, I said I am going into the bar for a drink. You will join me, ja? ”
    And Gwen, in sudden need of a distraction, and justifying her decision by knowing she’d be able to tell her aunt that she actually had a drink with the hot tour guide, heard herself say, “ Ja. I mean, yes, Hans-Josef. Yes, I will.”

3
    A Clash of Philosophies
    Saturday, June 30
     
    S he awoke to the chirping of baby wrens and the lingering effects of what felt like a hangover. This much she remembered: She’d only had two of her own drinks (“Bellinis,” Hans-Josef had called them when he ordered them for her) and just a few sips of one of his, not sure what was in that one, but her tolerance for alcohol was pretty low, and she hadn’t eaten all that much at dinner.
    At some point in her conversation with Hans-Josef, she felt so weary she almost had to rest her head on the counter, much like schoolkids sleeping at their desks. But that wasn’t what actually drove her out of the hotel bar, away from the tour guide and into the safety of her bed ... alone.
    No.
    It was when, in the midst of one of his monologues about his Austrian homeland—something about how he really missed his beloved pet hamster, Rolf, while he was away from Salzburg and giving tours (the rodent in question was currently safe and in the keeping of his sister)—that she heard a melody on the radio in the bar. It was a classical piece, featuring a violin, and it reminded her so much of the music her father used to play when she was little that, for a few precious moments, she tuned out Hans-Josef and just listened.
    She thought of the way her father’s playing had moved her, even as a child. She remembered the way her mom used to curl up on the sofa and invite Gwen to cuddle up next to her as Gwen’s dad practiced, so they could listen together. He was not a professional musician, but he’d been a passionate and dedicated amateur and would sometimes be asked to play at dance recitals and weddings by people in the community. He loved doing that. And he’d loved teaching Gwen to play, too ... for a few years, at least. Until her mom died. Then the house slowly grew quiet.
    When she finally refocused her attention on her tour guide and realized that, indeed, he had not even noticed her lapse in awareness—had not even sensed that her mind had gone on a tour without him—she took a final sip of her drink, felt the heady swirl of the alcohol in her mouth then down her throat and stood unsteadily to leave.
    “You are tired?” Hans-Josef asked, surprised.
    “I am,” she said simply. And because he was like Richard, because she knew precisely what to expect out of him, even after so short an acquaintance, she let him perform his gentlemanly deed of walking her to the stairs and shaking her hand good night.
    “You will go on the trip to Pompeii tomorrow?” he asked.
    “I’m planning on it,” she said, stepping away from him as she spoke, breaking apart the easy connection she felt to him, much like pulling a magnet off of a refrigerator. She couldn’t help but come to the dawning realization that the slight attraction she felt was not toward the man himself but to the effortless familiarity of being with that man.
    “I will look forward to seeing you then.” Hans-Josef bobbed his head slightly and allowed her to go upstairs by herself and collapse, nearly