One Charmed Christmas Page 4

  “Oh, yeah.”

  And little Harriet the nerd girl was as subtle as a charging rhino. Smart kid but not smart enough to know she was charging the wrong guy. Trevor was no cradle robber.

  Even if they’d been closer in age he wouldn’t have been interested. Harriet was Wikipedia on two legs and she never shut up. A little of that went a long way and they’d passed long way an hour ago.

  How on earth had he wound up assigned the seat next to her? Oh, yeah. It would have been Misty’s. Now it was his, and Harriet and propinquity were gunning for him.

  “Of course,” she continued, “sometimes you have to come right out and say, ‘Ich bin heiss.’”

  I am hot. And not in the sense of Open a window, please. More like, Give it to me now. One of the German phrases he did know. She was probably hoping he’d either catch on and ask, “Are you?” Or, even worse, ask her to translate. That would take them no place he wanted to go.

  “Think I’ll stretch my legs,” he said, and about trampled Kurt, who was on his left, enjoying an aisle seat, in his haste to escape. He knew he should have booked himself a seat in business class instead of taking that ticket his brother had offered.

  He walked to the middle of the plane and stood around by the bank of lavatories for a while, pretending to wait for one. He got in a conversation with an old lady who was going to Germany to visit her sister. He talked football with a Seattle Seahawks fan. He walked up and down the aisle a few times. If he was gone long enough Harriet would turn to good old C-average Hugh and start spouting facts at him. Harriet couldn’t abide a conversational void. She’d have to fill it.

  Yep. He came back to their row of seats to find her talking at Hugh. But she had built-in radar. She turned her head and smiled at Trevor.

  He crouched down next to Kurt and hissed, “Trade seats with me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” Trevor growled through gritted teeth.

  Kurt dismissed Harriet with a wave of his hand. “Harmless.”

  “Good. Then it’s your turn to be unharmed.”

  “That could look inappropriate.”

  It was BS and they both knew it. “Inappropriate, my ass. How about if I strangle you? Under the circumstances that would be appropriate.”

  “I need the leg room. Sit down and shut up before I have to beat you up,” said Kurt, unruffled.

  “You’re only an inch taller than me.”

  “That inch is in my legs and I need to be able to stretch out in the aisle when I can.” He nodded and smiled at the old woman Trevor had been talking to who was trying to totter past. “Sit down. You’re blocking people.”

  There would be no uprooting his brother without a scene, which would bring whatever TSA agent was lurking on the flight. Trevor gave up and sat down.

  “Think I’ll try and get some shut-eye,” he said to Harriet, then closed his eyes.

  Harriet didn’t take the hint. “I’m too excited to sleep,” she said. “You know, most people can’t sleep on a plane. Too many distractions.”

  Trevor knew. He was sitting next to one.

  “I read that the best thing to take if you want to sleep is melatonin. It’s what your body naturally produces. And magnesium. Did you know that it’s an anti-stress mineral?”

  “Got any on you?” Trevor asked, his eyes still closed.

  “No. I never get stressed.”

  Of course not. She was too smart for that.

  “I think a lot of people stress about flying. But statistically speaking, it’s the safest form of travel there is. The odds of dying as a plane passenger are one in two million.”

  Unless somebody gets tired of listening to you and throttles you. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. Only seven more hours to go.

  * * *

  The first class fliers were already settling in with their newspapers and their drinks when the peons in coach shuffled onto the plane. Someday, Catherine had thought, looking longingly at those cozy nests. Her husband had left her well provided for, but not well enough for her to justify that kind of extravagance.

  It didn’t matter, really. She wasn’t a tall woman and she had enough leg room. If she had to use the bathroom (which she would, several times) she only had to climb over Denise, who would also be making her share of trips there. Meanwhile, a very nice middle-aged woman was seated to Catherine’s left and happy to chitchat about travel and life in general.

  Catherine was, too, until it came to that inevitable moment when the conversation turned to families. The woman had the perfect husband (seated on her other side), who loved her dearly and had given her this ring of silver-and-gold entwined bands encrusted with diamonds before their departure. Wasn’t it pretty? (Pretty expensive, for sure.) Of course, he was also a wonderful father. In fact, they were taking the same cruise as Catherine and Denise, courtesy of their three lovely children, who had all pitched in and given it to them as a present for their thirtieth anniversary. Did Catherine have children?

  “Yes, two. Oh, look, here comes dinner.”

  The arrival of food distracted the woman, who dug right in. Catherine lost the desire to dig. Instead, she nibbled on her chocolate dessert and contemplated her own life. She had no husband to shower her with expensive anniversary rings anymore. Not that he ever had. The only rings Bill had ever given her had been her engagement and wedding rings. And the biggest anniversary celebration they’d ever had was a trip to the Space Needle for their twenty-fifth. Lunch. Much more practical (and affordable) than dinner. No big gift from the children for any anniversary. But so what? Her husband had loved her, and her children weren’t bad. They were both responsible adults with good kids.

  Yes, they were a little on the selfish side, and spoiled. Especially Lila. Bill was right. She had indulged them too much growing up and then enabled them once they were grown. What was it the experts called that? Codependent. But did anyone have a perfect family, really?

  “I can imagine what her Christmas letter reads like,” sneered Denise, who’d been in on the conversation with their fellow traveler at the beginning and quickly opted out.

  Catherine sighed.

  “I can see where you’re going,” Denise said. “Don’t let her fool you. Nobody’s life is perfect, you know that. You have a lot to be thankful for, Catherine. You’re beating the big C and you’re having an adventure. Your kids have their faults but at least they’re not on drugs or in jail. And you’ve got grandkids. Plus you have friends who care about you. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

  Of course Denise was right. “You’re such a good friend.”

  “I certainly am.” Denise smiled and gave her a shoulder bump. “I’m one of the good things in your life.”

  “One of the best,” Catherine said. Yes, she did have much for which to be grateful.

  The plane landed and the weary travelers were met by a uniformed employee of the cruise line who was holding a red paddle. Like so many ducks, they followed her out of the airport and climbed onto buses, which then shuttled them from the airport into Amsterdam.

  Catherine took in the charming old buildings, the seventeenth-and eighteenth-century canal houses, narrow and huddled close together, jutting up like teeth, the houseboats parked along the banks, the hordes of cyclists zipping along the streets in the nippy, drizzly air, and could hardly believe she was actually there.

  “Pinch me,” she said.

  “I would but I’m saving my pincher in case I meet a cute steward on board,” Denise quipped.

  Their bus pulled up at the dock area and Catherine saw three river cruise ships from different lines, all lit up for the holidays. Theirs, the Heart of the Rhine, was the most elegant of all, glowing white with tiny white lights strung from stem to stern, poinsettias lining the entry off the gangplank. She felt like a little girl on Christmas morning as she
followed Denise up the gangplank. Look what Santa brought!

  The reception area inside with its check-in desk was as festive as the outside, decked with boughs of greenery embedded with silver ornaments. A Christmas tree decorated with gold-and-silver balls and ribbons sat to the side of a short flight of stairs leading to the next level. In front of it was a small table covered with a snowy white linen tablecloth, and on top of that sat a huge gingerbread house complete with candy stained-glass windows. In front of it ran a gingerbread train, with jam thumbprint cookie wheels. Looking up to the next level Catherine could see a cozy seating area and a small library off to one side and, toward the bow on both sides of the ship, two stations with fancy coffee machines, tea supplies and serving bins stocked with cookies.

  Doors beyond that led to who knew what? She could hardly wait to explore and find out.

  The ship was abuzz with people checking in, chatting, laughing, excited for their big adventure to begin. A troop of college students came in behind them, noisy and exuberant, shepherded by two men who looked to be somewhere in their thirties. Nice-looking young men, one of them wearing glasses and a tired smile. The other one standing next to a chatty, plain girl. He, too, wore a smile, but his looked a little strained.

  Catherine had to chuckle, remembering how exhausting her two children had been when they were that age. The chuckle died. It wasn’t going to feel like Christmas without them.

  But what was Christmas supposed to feel like, anyway? Did it have to be the same every year? And really, wasn’t the celebration about more than family?

  She and Denise were given key cards for their room and pointed down the hall. Their bags would be delivered soon. Meanwhile, the ladies were welcome to enjoy a light repast up in the lounge at any time. Dinner would be served in the dining room at seven.

  Their room was large enough for two single beds, a bathroom the size of Catherine’s shower at home and a closet. It had a counter running along the wall opposite the beds, which gave them a phone, a writing tablet and pen and plenty of plug-ins for a computer, iPad and cell phone. Under it were drawers for their clothes. Above it stood a long mirror, which reflected two smiling women, not young but not that old, either. Two women still young enough to enjoy life.

  And Catherine intended to. A twenty-minute rest would be just what she needed to charge her batteries. They definitely needed charging. She was exhausted.

  She sat on her bed and looked out the French window at their view of the bustling city. “This is perfect,” she said to Denise.

  “Yes, it is,” Denise agreed. She smiled at Catherine. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me, too,” Catherine said. This trip with her good friend would be her Christmas Day. And it would be a good one.

  * * *

  What brain-fogging drug had Trevor been on that had made him stupid enough to let Kurt talk him into this?

  The first leg of their journey had been torture. On the plane, on the bus, up the gangplank—he’d felt like an engine, reluctantly pulling along a string of cars. Directly behind him had been Harriet, talking all the way. Behind her had come the hulking Hugh, who every once in a while would break in on Harriet’s pontificating with questions like, “How the hell do you know that, Harriet?” or comments such as, “I think you’re full of shit.” Behind Hugh had come a girl with a nose ring and a tat above her right boob (showed off by the low-cut skin-hugging black top she wore over her ripped jeans) who had refused to let Hugh out of her sight. Trevor dubbed her the giggler. God help him, he was going to go mad.

  There had to be someone on this cruise ship younger than fifty and older than twenty who he could hang out with. Preferably female. Preferably cute.

  His gaze latched on to a woman at the far end of the lobby with shoulder-length blond hair. She wore tight black pants and brown boots that came up to her knees. Her coat was open to reveal a long, red sweater. It matched her lipstick. Red. Perfect. The woman next to her, a brunette, was pretty hot, too, but Trevor spied a ring on her finger. Taken. So, were these two friends, sisters? Married? Oh, please, no.

  The hottie gave her hair a flip with her left hand. No ring. Naked finger.

  Naked. Man, it had been too long.

  Trevor had to find out who they were. He started to swim through the crowd of people still waiting to check in to meet them. Harriet could say what she wanted about propinquity accomplishing the same thing as seeing a beautiful woman from across a crowded room. He’d endured Harriet’s propinquity for nine hours and fifty-five minutes, actually more, counting the bus ride to the dock. Now he saw a beautiful woman and he knew which worked for him.

  A salmon swimming upstream had it easier. There were simply too many people milling around and Kurt was calling him, ready for them to finally check into their room. He frowned as he watched the two women disappear down the hall on the stern end.

  Well, it was a small ship. He’d find Miss Red Lipstick.

  He swam back to where Kurt stood and took his key card for their room.

  A voice at his elbow said, “I guess I’ll see you in the lounge.”

  Harriet. He didn’t want to be mean to the kid, but he didn’t want to encourage her, either.

  Too late, he chided himself. He’d already done that when he gave her the chocolate bar. Unfortunately for him, her mother had never taught her not to take candy from strangers.

  He dredged up half a smile and said, “Yeah, maybe.”

  It was, indeed, a small ship. He hoped he wouldn’t have to spend all his time on board hiding in the stateroom.

  Not that it would be a bad room to hide in. It was about the size of the room he and Kurt had shared growing up. Except no one had gotten the memo about changing a queen to two singles.

  “I’m not spooning with you,” he cracked.

  “If they don’t get this fixed you’re on the floor,” Kurt joked back. “I’ll stop at the desk on our way out and tell ’em to fix it.”

  “On our way out? We just got in.”

  “And we’ve time to check out the city before the ship leaves. Come on. There’s a shop I want you to see.”

  “In the red-light district? What would Mom say?”

  “Don’t get all excited We’re not going there. That won’t get busy until tonight.”

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “I heard.”

  “So where are we headed?” Trevor asked as they walked back over the gangplank and off the ship. “The Rijksmuseum?”

  “Not enough time to do it justice. But you are gonna see art.”

  The entire city was a work of art if you asked Trevor—tree-lined canals, tall, gabled brick houses and proud old buildings such as the stock exchange, which was completed in 1903.

  Bicycles were everywhere in the shopping areas. “These guys have got it figured out,” Trevor said as he looked at a bike parking area. He’d never seen so many bikes parked in one place in his entire life.

  “Yeah, they do. You’d like living here. People ride their bikes everywhere.”

  Trevor sure loved riding his. He enjoyed his car, but when it came to getting back and forth to work he and his bike were one. A Saturday morning ride was always good for an endorphin high.

  The city center was a pulsing anthill of people getting around, not just by bike but also on foot. It was all a little too crowded for his taste.

  Soon after they turned onto Haarlemmerdijk he spotted the attraction his brother had wanted him to see. Oh, yes, this was art.

  “Wow,” he said as they stopped in front of the window.

  “Thought you’d like it,” Kurt said.

  Jordino Chocolateria was a veritable museum of edible art, and Trevor ogled the creations the way a man would ogle the girls on display in that famous red-light district. Small, chocolate treat boxes shaped like colored vases held tiny treats, an elaborately carved choc
olate frame held a miniature Dutch Masters painting, gold boxes held chocolate men’s shirts of varying colors. But what he loved the best were the high heels—blue, pink, green, red, lavender, orange. The tiny colored-candy sprinkles densely coated the underlying chocolate, giving them texture and pizzazz, and each sported a red, chocolate rose on the top of the pump. The dark chocolate stiletto heels reminded you of the artist’s medium.

  He snapped a picture with his phone.

  “Maybe you need to expand your product line,” Kurt said.

  “Maybe,” Trevor agreed.

  “Think their stuff is as good as yours?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Inside, Trevor bought them both a chocolate truffle and he bought a red high heel.

  “You hoping to find Cinderella?” Kurt teased.

  “Market research. Those shoes are amazing.” He’d seen high heel pumps made from chocolate before, but nothing like these. The truffles were spectacular, too.

  Kurt popped his in his mouth, chewed and nodded. “As good as yours, bro. Maybe even better.”

  “As good as, not better,” Trevor said with a grin.

  They left the chocolate shop and made their way back to the ship, via the Anne Frank House so Trevor could at least see the outside.

  “Thought I’d get some takers for this but none of the kids wanted to spend the extra money.”

  “I’d have gone,” Trevor said.

  “Misty and I have both toured it. By the time I knew you were coming it was too late to get tickets. You usually have to buy them two months in advance.”

  “Good to see it’s still such an attraction,” said Trevor. “People can’t be allowed to forget what happened over here.” He turned thoughtful. “Do you think people are basically good?”