Betty & Howard's Excellent Adventure (A Dream Series story), Page 2

  At the same moment, I heard Howard yelling, “You stop right there!”

  I had no idea what had happened. You’ve already figured it out, I’m sure, but in the confusion of the moment, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I looked down at the leather strap, wondering where it came from. It was the same color as my purse, and it hit me. It was my purse. The shouting was a distraction, so the second man could cut the strap and run off with it. By the time I understood that, Howard was already chasing after the thief. I swear to you, Kat, I have never in my life seen him run that fast. Not even when he was twenty-one and he actually was running regularly.

  I followed along, as quickly as I could. I had to be careful on the steps – all I needed was to trip and break my ankle. By the time I got down to the street, the thief was almost out of sight, and Howard was right behind him. Closing on him, even. People were stopping and staring – I suppose a mad chase down the street isn’t something they see every day.

  They were almost in front of the restaurant we’d just eaten at, when Howard finally caught up to him. I saw him reach out and grab the thief’s jacket and then take his arm and turn him around. I was afraid Howard was going to just punch his lights out, right there in the middle of the sidewalk (and also kind of hoping he’d do it, just like Stewart Granger would have, if someone had dared to steal Deborah Kerr’s purse). But he took a step back, and by this time I was close enough to see why. The thief wasn’t a man. She wasn’t even a woman – she was just a little girl. I don’t think she was any older than Grace, to tell you the truth. Howard clearly didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t going to hit a girl who looked like our granddaughter, even if she did steal my purse. So he just stared at her, and she stared back. There was surprise in her eyes, and then I heard a whistle, and I saw a moment of panic flash across her face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

  She threw my purse down on the ground, said something to Howard – I was close enough to hear it, but I had no idea what she said or even what language she was speaking. And then she ran for it. She shoved past a couple of onlookers, ducked under the arms of a couple more and, just like that, she was gone. A moment later, after Howard had picked up my purse and I caught up to him, two policemen came up to us. One of them, the shorter and younger of the two, spoke English. “Are you a fool?”

  “She stole my wife’s purse!”

  He rolled his eyes at Howard. “A purse is not worth a knife in the belly,” the policeman answered. “This is not America. Some things – some people - are best left alone.” For one stupid moment, I wanted to ask how he knew we were Americans, but I thought better of it. We do stick out, don’t we?

  The older policeman said something in Spanish, and his partner translated for us. “He said, ‘It is unwise to trifle with Gypsies. Consider yourselves fortunate.’” Then they walked off, both shaking their heads.

  Howard wanted to continue the conversation, but I grabbed his arm and whispered to him, “You got my purse back. That’s good enough.” Actually, it was better than “good enough.” Stewart Granger probably wouldn’t have chased after the thief at all. He’d have given Deborah Kerr a lecture about being more careful, and told her it served her right, getting robbed because she wasn’t paying attention. And then it would come out that the map to the treasure was in the purse, and he’d have to stage a daring midnight raid on the gypsy camp to get it back – no doubt complaining about Deborah Kerr all the while. Howard’s approach was much better!

  Howard didn’t look convinced, but what was he going to do? He shook his head, and then he noticed that our waiter from earlier was among the crowd of onlookers. “Did you hear her, before she ran away? What did she say?”

  Our waiter looked uneasy. “It was a curse,” he said. He didn’t want to tell us what it actually was. I don’t know if he thought that we’d be better off not hearing it, or that it might rub off on him, too, if he said it out loud. But Howard stared hard at him, and he took a deep breath and told us. “She said, ‘May your sleep be forever troubled, and your dreams never again your own.’”

  He looked almost ill as he said the words, but I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing, and so did Howard. Our poor waiter was horrified. I reached over and patted his arm. “We’ve already got that curse,” I said. “Someone beat her to it.”

  Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

  Here comes Howard. It’s my turn in the shower now, and then we’re going to try to see the cathedral again. And this time, I’ll leave my purse locked up here in the room. Talk to you soon.

 

  ***

  The cathedral was amazing, Kat. Just the most – I don’t know the words for it. I could write for ten pages and I don’t think I’d even scratch the surface. When you see the pictures, you’ll have some idea. I can definitely understand why it took a hundred and fifty years to build!

  That was our main sightseeing. We spent nearly two hours there. The tour was one hour, and then we just wandered around and I took two full rolls of pictures. And then we had to get back to the hotel, pack up and go to the airport. We’re at the gate now, waiting for our flight to Palma, which is the main city of Mallorca. The only city, really, as far as we can tell from the maps and the guidebook.

  I didn’t quite finish telling you about yesterday, by the way. After our adventure with the gypsy thieves, our waiter bought us a drink, if you can believe that! And he made the sign of the cross over us three times, to ward off the curse. I don’t think we did his nerves any good by not taking it seriously, but I could hardly tell him that my dreams already aren’t my own, and they haven’t been for almost four years now, ever since I discovered I shared Sara’s talent.

  He finally gave us up as a lost cause and we went back to the hotel. We were both - I think “wired” is the word the kids use these days. I’ve heard Sara say it, anyway. Our adrenaline was still pumping, and the minute I sat down on the bed, Howard was – well, he was all over me. We were like a pair of horny teenagers, Kat! And – I know you won’t say anything, but you have to promise me you won’t tell another living soul! – when it was over, right at the end, I was so loud that I think everyone on the whole floor heard me. The people in the next room over definitely did – they started banging on the wall, and I could hear them very clearly shouting at us. It’s funny – even though I couldn’t make out any of the words or even the language, I could tell I was being cursed at.

  That’s never happened to me before. I’ve never made so much noise that I upset the neighbors. Here’s something else you can’t tell anybody, ever – I kind of liked knowing that I did.

  And there’s one more thing – I don’t know why I’m putting this on paper, but I just have to tell someone, and I will deny it to the grave if you ever mention it after reading this letter. Anyway, after we packed up and we were leaving, I was out in the hallway and Howard was doing one last check of the room to make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. Our next-door neighbors, the ones who were cursing at us last night, were just coming out, too. They were young, in their thirties, I’d guess, and they were French. You could just tell at a glance. I can’t put my finger on why I thought so, but if you saw them, you’d know exactly what I mean. And they were just so stylish – they looked like they stepped right out of the pages of Vogue or something. I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman’s scarf cost more than my entire wardrobe. And the rest of her outfit probably cost more than my car. Let’s not even talk about her shoes.

  Anyway, they looked at me, and the man made a face, but the woman really gave me a thorough going-over, up and down. And then she walked over, right as Howard was coming out of the room. He met her eyes for a moment and then shrugged. What else was he going to do?

  She grabbed my arm, pulled me aside. Then she took my left hand and held it up. She was staring at my wedding ring, then over to Howard, at his hands. “He is your hu
sband?” I nodded. I had no idea where this was going. “And – forgive me. I know this is rude, but I must ask,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “you were not just – how do you say it? – acting out? Making a show?” I went beet-red. Here was a total stranger asking me if I was faking it with my husband! I should have – I don’t know what I should have done. Laughed at her? Slapped her? Turned on my heel and walked away? I honestly have no idea why I didn’t do any of those things.

  What I did do was shake my head weakly, while avoiding her eyes. And then she said, very softly, “Last night, when we heard, I tried to imagine who you were. To picture you. I thought you must be…” she trailed off and went quite red herself; I have no idea what she thought I must have been. I don’t think I really want to know. “Never mind,” she said, when she found her voice again, “I am sorry. I just had to know.” After she said that, she was the one avoiding my eyes. She dropped her head, patted my arm and muttered, “Merci.”

  The she turned and walked back to her – boyfriend? Husband? I wasn’t looking at her hands, so I have no idea if she had a ring or not. We started heading towards the elevator, and she was talking – yelling, really – at him, and gesturing towards us. Towards Howard, actually. And I remember enough from high school French that I could understand what she was saying, more or less. It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to react.

  Howard waited until we were in a taxi and halfway to the airport before he asked me if I knew what the woman had said. I can’t lie to him, you know me, but I couldn’t quite look him in the eye. “She was saying that it was too bad we were leaving, because if we weren’t, she would have paid you to give him some pointers.”

  His expression when I said that – I can’t describe it. I won’t even try. I don’t think there has ever been more smugness and self-satisfaction on another face in the history of mankind. But after everything yesterday, I can’t begrudge him. He really did earn it.

  So now you’re up to date. They’re calling our flight now. I’ll catch up with you later.

  ***

  We’re here, in Mallorca. The flight wasn’t even forty-five minutes. They barely had time to bring the drinks cart once down the aisle before they had to get ready for landing. We went through customs, again, and now we’re waiting for all our fellow volunteers. We’re being met at three o’clock, or at least that’s what the letter we received last week said. There should be eight other people joining us, and I think I see one of them now – he’s wandering towards us, looking all around, not exactly lost but not completely sure where he ought to be. He’s tall, and he has huge, and I mean really absurdly huge, curly black hair. He’s got a light blue denim shirt and black jeans, and he reminds me of – what’s his name? The painter, the one we always make fun of whenever we see him on TV. The “happy trees” painter. This man looks like his long-lost twin. For all I know, maybe he actually is the happy trees guy.

  ***

  I finally remembered. Bob Ross is the name I couldn’t think of. That’s the happy trees guy. The man we saw is not him; his name is Tom. But he was part of our group, and, oddly enough, he actually is a painter. He had some postcards with pictures of his work. It’s not my thing, but you’d probably love them, Kat. It’s all abstract with odd shapes and vivid colors. Kind of like those Mark Rothko prints you have in your living room. They’d blend right in.

  I’m up in our room. I’ve only got a few minutes – we’re going to take a walk into the town with some of our fellow volunteer archaeologists. So, after Tom showed up and we introduced ourselves, the rest of the group arrived pretty quickly. There’s a mother and daughter – Vanessa and Lynn. The mother, Vanessa, has to be in her eighties. I didn’t have the nerve to ask exactly how old she was. The daughter is our age, give or take.

  There’s Claire, from Australia, whose accent is almost impenetrable. It was clear after one minute that she’s incapable of sitting still; she has more energy than that rabbit in the battery commercials. There was another pair. The older one was Claudia, who’s just stunningly beautiful. How anyone could look as fresh as she did – not a single one of her perfect blonde hairs out of place – after twelve hours on a plane is a mystery. She’s probably Sara’s age, at a guess. She had her niece, Megan, with her. Megan’s a senior in high school and while there’s some family resemblance, she didn’t get all of her aunt’s looks. She’s pretty, but that’s the most she can hope for, I think. Her aunt, on the other hand, ought to be in magazine ads. She might already be in them.

  Finally, there was Joe, who’s English and just out of college; and William, who’s recently retired, and has been on twenty of these Earthwatch trips (all over the world, not just here). According to him, this particular project is known as the “Club Med” of Earthwatch. And after just an hour here in Bill Welldon’s house, I can see why.

  Bill is the head of the project – the girl (sorry, I can’t help it – I mean “woman”) from the magazine article, Jane, is his right-hand-woman. When Bill called her that, I said, “So she’s your girl Friday.”

  He laughed at that, and he has the biggest, merriest laugh I’ve ever heard. “Basically,” he agreed, “My very own Rosalind Russell. Sadly for her, I’m not exactly Cary Grant.” That went right over her head, and none of the other young people in our group got it, either. Oh, well.

  I think I’ve gotten off track a bit. We were at the airport, all ten of us, and Jane walked in, dressed the same as she was in the magazine photos. Bill – he insisted we call him Bill, and not “Dr. Welldon” or “Professor” – followed right behind, along with his wife Jackie. We were divided up, and four of us followed Jane – Howard and I, and Vanessa and Lynn. Everyone else went with Bill.

  On our way to the parking garage, we told Jane we recognized her from bringing Sara to college, and she remembered Sara very well. “When you get back home,” Jane told us, “ask her if she still remembers how to pick a lock with a credit card.” Howard and I looked at each other, and we had the same question on our faces: did you know about that? Obviously, neither of us did.

  Did you know about it, Kat? I know Sara told you lots of things she never told us. I’d really like to know why she felt it necessary to learn how to pick locks.

  I’m off track again. We got into the car – a Land Rover, an old and very beat-up Land rover. “Bill doesn’t let me drive the new one,” Jane explained. “Back when I first met him, this was the new car, and he had me drive it all the way from Oxford to here. It – let’s just say the car wasn’t quite in mint condition when I got it here. So he doesn’t exactly trust my driving.”

  Bill’s house is in a tiny town in the mountains, Deia, and the roads were twisty and incredibly dangerous-looking. I was holding onto the handle above the window for dear life. I’m not ashamed to admit that I began to panic just a little when we hit cloud level. I’m not making that up – we were at the same height as the clouds, and then we were above them. If it’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, it’s in the top ten. And I panicked more than a little when the tour bus came driving up in the other lane and passed by us with maybe half an inch to spare. Did I mention that there are no guardrails on the road? Just the mountain on one side, and a drop off the mountain on the other side with nothing in the world to hold you back.

  We did arrive in one piece. I’m not sure exactly when I started breathing again, but since I’m here writing to you, I must have! Anyway, we’re here, and Bill’s house is amazing. He built it himself. It’s all beautiful stonework outside, with blue glass bottles set into the stone to provide light. It’s really something – you’ll see when we come home. I took a roll of pictures just in the first half-hour we were here. We had a brief orientation lecture – what our schedule will be, how meals are handled (they’ve got a chef from a fancy restaurant to cook lunch and dinner for us every day – “Club Med,” remember?) and so forth.
And now we’re on our own until dinner, which will be at eight tonight. So it’s time to go exploring.

  ***

  Howard’s washing up before bed, so I have a couple of minutes to catch you up. Where did I leave off – oh, I can just read back, can’t I?

  We went exploring. Deia is a tiny town. There’s one street, with a handful of shops, a bar and some restaurants, and a winding path up a hill that leads to the church and the cemetery. Joe, our recent graduate, wanted to visit the gravesite of Robert Graves. I’m embarrassed to admit that Howard had to tell me who he was. You probably already know – he was a poet, and he also wrote “I, Claudius.” I think I remember when that was on TV, but I had no idea at the time who wrote it. He lived here for a long time and he was buried here, so up we went to see.

  I can see why they built the church on top of the hill – it’s got a commanding view of the rest of the town. And whenever anyone looks up, that’s the first thing they see. Very clever. The cemetery is small and well kept, but Robert Graves was the only recognizable name there.

  But there are other very recognizable names in this town. And we found that out when we went back down the hill, then past the main street of the town and a couple of hundred feet up the road to La Residencia. That’s a hotel – a five-star hotel. Jane mentioned that Princess Diana used to visit once a year and stay there.

  We went onto the grounds and to the hotel bar, and if there was ever a less-likely group of people to be sitting in the bar of a five-star hotel, I can’t picture it. We ordered overpriced drinks, and Howard bought the first round (I should start making a tally of the times he’s said “we’re on vacation” to justify spending money like it’s going out of style!). While we waited for our drinks, I looked around, and I saw him, not ten feet away from me.

  I swear to God I’m not making this up, Kat. It was Michael Douglas. Michael Douglas! And, before you ask, I don’t mean some random person who also happened to be named Michael Douglas. I mean the actor Michael Douglas. Son of Kirk. Star of “Fatal Attraction.” Thank God the waiter came back with our drinks right then, before I could say or do anything stupid. I took my glass of sangria (we’re in Spain, what did you expect me to be drinking?) and downed it in two swallows. Howard saw how excited I was getting and I pointed our Mr. Douglas to him.