Free Friendship Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by Lisa Verge Higgins Page A

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