Wanderlost (20 page)

I feel safe.

I feel seen.

I wake up a few hours later with my back cuddled against Sam's torso and his arm draped over me. I smile. We're fully clothed, on top of the covers, but completely entangled. I savor the sensation of Sam's chest moving up and down and smile even bigger when I realize he's on the right side of the bed. I make a note to give Mr. I Can Only Sleep on the Left a hard time about it when he wakes up. For now I savor his warm breath against the nape of my neck, and the memories and the feelings from last night come rushing back. The frustration over Sam only knowing me as Lizzie is there in the background, but overriding all of that is the intensity of staring into each other's eyes the way we did. It sounds totally cheesy to say it like that, but when it was happening it wasn't cheesy at all.

At all.

Outside the sky is just beginning to brighten and I stare out the window at the yacht lights in the harbor below, lost in my thoughts.

I replay my conversation with Elizabeth and wish I'd said
everything differently. I made her think my wanting to be honest with Sam was all about my feelings for him, but as it turns out, it isn't. Not totally, anyway. It's about me.

The thing is, this trip is forcing me to get to know myself more than I've ever had to at home, where everything is comfortable and easy. And what I'm learning is that the kind of person I want to be isn't the kind of person I am right now. I hate being a liar and a fraud and a fake. Even beyond telling Sam, I want to be honest with
all
the people on my tour. They've trusted me to take care of them these past couple weeks and I really, really want to be the kind of person who's earned that trust.

Elizabeth's logic was that waiting a little bit longer when we've already come this far couldn't hurt anyone. But it
is
hurting. It's hurting me. I'm worried about Sam not forgiving me, but what if I can't forgive
myself
?

And I know Elizabeth is my sister and Sam is just this guy I barely know, and that should make my loyalties clear, but Sam doesn't feel like just some guy. It doesn't feel like I've only just met him either. Something happened last night.

The way I feel about Sam . . . the way I think he feels about me . . . can I trust him? And if not, what does that say about us? If I believe my gut, which says Sam will keep my and Elizabeth's secret from his mom, and I end up wrong, I've lost Sam
and
my sister.

Why can't I figure any of this out for myself?

Mr. Fenton thinks it's so black and white and that of course
I should tell Sam, but he doesn't know Elizabeth's perspective.

A seagull streaks by the window and I blink.

Mr. Fenton.

Of
course
. He'll help me make heads or tails of this. He's a mostly neutral party (despite the fact that he and Sam
have
bonded pretty hard ever since their Aubustus Caesar moment) and he's already proven trustworthy. He's got years of wisdom. I'll tell him all the details he doesn't know yet and then he'll tell me exactly what I should do.

It takes thirty full seconds to slide out from under Sam's arm. That's how careful I am not to wake him. Instantly I miss his warmth next to me. Slipping out of his room, I ease the door closed with the tiniest of clicks.

I take the elevator to Mr. Fenton's suite. Yes, suite. All part of the high-roller package we put together. I reach it just as a uniformed waiter with a room service cart stops in front. Oh, phew. I was worried about knocking at such an indecent hour, even if I know by now that Mr. Fenton is an early riser.

“Good morning, mademoiselle,” the waiter says.

“Good morning,” I answer. We both wait for the door to open.

He turns to me. “Would you like me to bring up another place setting? The monsieur placed his breakfast order upon check-in yesterday and it only included service for one.”

“No, thank you. I'm fine.” He nods and we both shuffle our feet a bit as we listen for signs of movement on the other side of the door.

“He did request five-thirty a.m.,” the waiter says when a minute stretches to two.

“Do you have a key?” I ask. “He had a big night last night, so he may be sleeping it off.”

Please, please, please do not let me walk in on Mr. Fenton and Emma.

Or Mary.

Or Dolores! I imagine if I told Sam
that
tidbit, he wouldn't care if my name was really Chewbacca.

Shrugging, the waiter pulls a key card from his pocket. He swipes it through the reader and when it beeps twice, he steps aside to allow me to enter before rolling his cart in behind me.

“Mr. Fenton?” I call. Good Lord, this suite is HUGE! The living room is brightening from the rising sun through the open curtains and the bedroom door is ajar enough that I can see an unmade bed. Maybe Mr. Fenton is in the bathroom. I call out extra loudly from the doorway, not daring to venture farther. Hank in a towel was quite risqué enough for me.

Behind me, the waiter makes himself busy, removing silver domes from plates and pouring coffee into a rattling cup. Inside the bedroom, it's eerily quiet.

Something isn't right.

I can't put my finger on it, but the air is too still.

I step into the bedroom and turn toward the bathroom, but my eyes rest on something by the foot of the bed. It's a slipper. With a foot attached. I race over and cover my mouth with my hand.

Mr. Fenton is on the floor, one arm splayed out. The other lies across his chest. His legs are crumpled, and the right one is at an awkward angle. He's unnaturally still. I take a step backward and collide with the waiter.

“Is everything all right, mademoiselle? You gasped.”

I did?

“I think . . . I think he might be . . .” But I can't say the words. Instead, I brush past the waiter to race out the door and down the hallway, down the stairs next to the elevator, not stopping until I reach Sam's door, which I bang on with all my might. Then I slump to the ground. When he answers, his smile falls from his face as he sees me on the floor. He drops to his knees beside me so he can look into my face.

“Lizzie? Lizzie, what is it?”

I stare at him and then burst into tears.

“I think Mr. Fenton is dead.”

Mr. Fenton is
dead.

Mr. Fenton is
dead.

I still can't comprehend the words, even after returning to his bedside with Sam and waiting until the paramedics summoned by the waiter burst in and started checking for vital signs. I already knew what they'd find.

He's gone.

Sweet, kind, wise Mr. Fenton. I'm sure I can't have any tears left in me, but every time I picture his face or think of him standing at the front of the bus all aglow with his facts and stories about things that happened a million gajillion years ago, I lose it all over again.

The paramedics tell us they suspect a heart attack. He'd complained of aches several times yesterday, but always in jest at his old age and always attributing them to his hike in Cinque Terre. But maybe something had been happening even then. Dolores mentioned he'd had several drinks after dinner,
and that plus his age plus the excitement of the trip and the day yesterday . . .

It's not fair. I don't care how “long and full” his life was. It's still not fair. I just . . . he was so . . . he was alive. Hours ago. And now he's not.

Thank God for Sam. He's a rock. When he's not holding me and wiping my tears away with his fingertips, he's on the phone with his mom, and giving statements to the hotel manager and the police they called, and making sure everyone else is checked in for another night and settled into their rooms. I don't know how the rest of the group is passing the morning, but I hope they're all together somewhere.

Mr. Fenton's suite overlooks the harbor with its dozens of luxury yachts bobbing in their moorings, and I can't even comprehend that there are people out there enjoying a beautiful sun-filled day on the French Riviera. It should be dark and gray and stormy out. It shouldn't be cloudless blue.

He was
just
here. He was smiling and helping Dolores out of a ridiculously expensive sports car. He should be standing in front of me, telling us all about, well, I don't really know about what because we're headed to Barcelona next and I haven't researched much about the history of Spain yet.

“Lizzie?” Sam's touch is gentle and so is his voice as he brings me back from my thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“The hotel is sending up some breakfast. You should probably try to eat something. And then we need to go to the
embassy and work out the details for getting his . . . his . . .” He stumbles a bit and I hear a tickle in his voice. “His body home,” he finishes.

I can't speak, so I just nod.

We have to go to Marseille now. Well I do, at least. Marseille is the closest office of a US consulate and I need to fill out the paperwork necessary when an American dies abroad. Or so we learn from Mrs. Bellamy. She's been nothing but caring and concerned, much like her son, despite being woken with the news in the middle of her night.

The only issue we've had has been an argument between Sam and his mother over whether or not he could accompany me to the consulate. His mom wanted someone to remain with the other group members and Sam refuses to leave my side. Given that he's on this continent and she's not, he won that one; we compromised by leaving Bento and the bus behind and allowing the hotel to arrange a car for us.

I was prepared to go on my own—it
is
my duty, after all—but I'm glad Sam insisted on coming too. I'm not so worried about everyone else. Emma and Mary have organized a shiva of sorts in their room, despite the fact that neither one of them is Jewish. Even Hank and Maisy seem to have acquired some decorum; when we stopped in to say good-bye, they were sitting a perfectly respectable distance from each other on the couch. Mr. Fenton probably would have made some joke about dying earlier if he'd known that was all it would take to
separate the horndogs. I stuff my hand in my mouth to keep from giggling at such an inappropriate time, but it's either that or cry more.

Emma squeezes my hand. “You be brave,” she says. I choke back more tears. I don't deserve a group like this.

We arrive at the embassy just after lunchtime and we're taken to a quiet office by an American dressed in a fancy suit that fits in well with all the French fashion. He gestures to seats and faces us across a desk.

“First, let me say that I'm so sorry for your loss.” His accent is a southern drawl and seems out of place.

Sam and I answer with tight smiles.

“I understand there's some paperwork I need to fill out?” I ask.

The man passes a form to me. We've already spoken on the phone, so he knows which hospital has Mr. Fenton and what the circumstances of his death were. This part is just a formality.

“This is a consular report of death of an American citizen abroad form. It'll be for our records, but will also serve as official documentation to settle any legal and estate issues back in the United States. I understand his next of kin is his niece?”

“Yes,” I murmur.

Sam elaborates. “She's who he listed on his emergency contact form. Our tour company owner is just waiting for a decent hour to call her in California.”

“Of course,” the man answers.

I pull out all the information Mrs. Bellamy sent to Sam's email, including Mr. Fenton's date of birth and his home address, and turn his passport over to the man behind the desk.

“Another formality, but we like to have a statement on file from those he was traveling with or those who were witness to the, er, event. Would you mind giving me the details of how you came to discover the deceased?”

Sam takes my hand and holds it firmly in his as I tell this stranger about finding Mr. Fenton's body. The man types as I talk and when I finish, a small printer beside him spits out a page.

“Thank you for going through that. I'll have you on your way shortly. Just need to grab your signature on this. I also need a copy of your passport to include with the file, please.”

I thought he might ask for this. When I fastened my money belt around my waist back at the hotel, I took a moment to replace Elizabeth's passport with my own. I'd put mine away after the flight, using hers instead for all the hotel check-ins in case anyone from the tour was beside me, but I thought a US consulate was probably
not
the best place to practice out-and-out fraud.

And even if it was, I can't do that to Mr. Fenton. I'm glad he got to know me as Aubree, even for a short time, and I'd be letting him down if I signed these documents as Elizabeth. I fork over my passport, keeping it tightly closed as I do so.

The man takes it without glancing down. “Be right back.”

He steps out of the room with the documents, leaving the door open so we can watch him place my passport facedown on a copy machine in the hallway.

I study my hands in my lap until the man returns and passes my passport across the desk, saying, “I'm so sorry. I've been calling you Elizabeth all this time. I don't know why I got that name stuck in my head. Anyway, my apologies, Aubree.”

Sam opens his mouth to correct the man, but I grab his arm and say, “Oh, uh, it's fine, no worries. Thank you for your help.” Sam looks baffled and stiffens in his chair, but says nothing.

The man reaches across the desk and shakes both of our hands. “My pleasure. I'm so sorry again for your loss and I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Please have good travels and a safe return home.”

Sam waits until we're on the curb before turning to me. “Why didn't you correct him when he called you Aubree?” His eyes are nothing but confusion, but I know his expression is about to get a lot worse as I swallow away the lump in my throat. It had to happen sometime.

The thing is, this trip has turned me into an excellent liar. I've had a few minutes to think and I'm confident I can talk my way out of this. But I've had a few minutes to think. And the one thing I can't get out of my mind is Mr. Fenton's words to me about how owning up to my mistakes is the sign of a true grown-up.

I need to confess.

Not to hurt Elizabeth or even to try to preserve things with Sam, but to be true to the me I'm becoming. I need to be honest for myself.

I wordlessly hand Sam my passport.

He opens it and studies the picture. He takes in the name. And the date of birth. Then he looks at me.

“I don't—” He sounds like a little boy.

It turns out I'm not all cried out after all. Fresh tears form in my eyes. But I force them aside so I can give Sam a proper explanation. He at least deserves that.

I put my hands on his arms and silently will him to hear me out. “My older sister is Elizabeth and she was the one your mom hired. She knew how much your mom was counting on her, and my sister is not one to shirk her responsibilities, trust me. She got into an, um, situation and couldn't come and she thought this would be the best way of solving the problem.”

Sam just stares at me. Oh boy. This is not good.

“I don't understand,” he finally says.

I sigh deeply. Telling him is so much harder than I thought it would be and I fight to keep my voice from cracking. “The thing is, my sister got arrested. It was a huge misunderstanding and she's completely innocent. But the conditions of her bail meant she couldn't leave the state and at that point it was so close to the time the tour was going to start and she couldn't think of what else to do, so . . .”

I trail off and wait for Sam to say something, anything
at all, but he's still silent. I know I'm bungling this. There definitely won't be any Sam clutching his sides and laughing at how adorable I am, the way he did when I confessed I didn't have celiac disease.

“Sam, could you please say something?” I beg. “I know it wasn't the smartest thing to do and if I had known any of this was going to happen or that I'd meet you, I never would have agreed to it. I swear, I wouldn't have. But at the time we thought it was the perfect solution to make everyone happy.”

Sam gives me a sad smile. “Do I look happy, Lizzie? No, wait. What do I even call you now?”

“Aubree.” I drop my head. And no, he doesn't look remotely happy.

I'm quiet, waiting for Sam to speak again so I can gauge his feelings. He studies his nail beds and then gives a tiny shake of his head before bringing his eyes to mine. “Last night?” he asks in a small voice.

Last night things changed with us. We didn't say anything with words, but we still said a whole lot. I felt it and I know he did too. “Last night was—it meant everything to me, Sam.”

“Just not enough to be honest with me. I really thought . . .” He's silent as he studies the ground. At one point in the trip I questioned if he even owned a frown, but the one he's wearing now makes my heart twist. The ache is so physical, it makes me wonder what Mr. Fenton felt from his in those last minutes. I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I thought the time was right to tell Sam, but this coupled with Mr. Fenton—it's
too much at once. I step toward Sam, seeking the comfort of his arms the way I have all day, but he counters with a step backward. His eyes are still on the ground as he mumbles, “I'll meet you back at the hotel.”

“What? But—!”

Sam glances up at me and I see every bit of the betrayal he's feeling on his face. “I need some time to process all this,” he says softly. “I'll hop a train and see you back there.”

“Sam. Sam, wait, I—” But I'm speaking to his back, because he turns and walks away.

I return to the hotel to find no Sam, no seniors, and a series of messages for me. The first tells me the group has gone with Bento to Nice for the afternoon to “clear their heads.” The next few tell me Elizabeth has called. Three times.

My mouth goes dry. Did Sam call his mom from the train? Did his mom already confront Elizabeth? Could this day get any worse?

I make my way to the manager's office and ask him if there is a computer I could use. We've become close friends since this morning. He directs me into an empty office and signs online for me, before slipping out and leaving me alone.

Moment of reckoning. I Skype Elizabeth.

She answers with a tentative smile. “Hey. I can't stop thinking about our call the other day and I just wanted to check in with you and see if everything's, you know, okay.”

So she doesn't know. She just wants to make sure I'm still
toeing the party line. I force a smile, but can only sustain it for half a second before I burst into tears. Again.

Elizabeth's eyes go wide. “Aubree! What's going on?”

Through sniffles, I fill her in on Mr. Fenton while she continues to mutter a lot of “oh my God”s. When I finish she has tears in her own eyes.

“I don't even know what to say. I feel so responsible,” she says. “You'd never even be there if it wasn't for me and my stupid idea. I honestly didn't mean for things to turn out like this. I swear, I wish I'd never gotten us into this mess.”

My brain flashes through scenes from the last few weeks. The mad rush through the Amsterdam airport trying to get back to the binder, seeing all the castles on our drive along the Rhine, singing “Do-Re-Mi” in the Alps, Sam getting blasted by the fountains in Salzburg, horses and Ferris wheels in Vienna, riverside kisses in Prague, canalside kisses in Venice, skinny-dipping in Cinque Terre.

Mr. Fenton in his tux in the lobby last night.

“I don't wish that,” I murmur.

She's quiet as she studies me. “You really mean that, don't you?”

I shrug.

She looks . . . I don't know. Impressed, maybe? I want to savor it for as long as I can before it turns into something closer to the expression Sam just had on his face. For now she says, “It feels like you're this whole different person over there, Bree.”

“It does kind of, doesn't it?” I look directly at her and her eyebrows scrunch up.

“You just seem really mature all of a sudden.”