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Dedication
In memory of Alice “Dunc” Martin, who honored us with her friendship, dazzled us with her dinner parties, and spoiled us
with her kindness. We miss you so much.
—mmh
One
Holland in springtime offers tourists the most spectacular display of color on the planet.
Unfortunately, we were visiting in late autumn and were missing the spectacle, but with the economy in freefall, investment income dwindling, and our town needing to be rebuilt after being leveled by an F4 category tornado, we considered ourselves lucky to be here at all. So even if we weren’t booked into five-star hotels, had no plans to dine at five-star restaurants, and could stay only eight days instead of fourteen, we were still excited about exploring Holland. Iowans are a practical lot and understand the meaning of “shoestring budget,” which meant I didn’t have to worry about anyone in the group having false expectations.
“So where’s the gazillions of tulips I saw advertised in the travel brochures?”
Every tour group has its resident bellyacher. Ours is Bernice Zwerg, whose voice is to the human ear what fingernails are to a chalkboard. Cursed with hair like tangled electrical wire and the grace of a horseshoe crab, Bernice is renowned for having the sourest disposition in our hometown of Windsor City, Iowa. Lucky for me, the core members of our travel group pummel her complaints with sunshine almost before the words leave her mouth, so I can stay out of the fray until I hear the sounds of blood vessels popping, at which point I play my tour escort’s card, restoring calm and order.
Even at their most volatile, Iowans are extremely respectful of authority.
I wondered how long it would take the gang to pounce on her this time. I peeked at my watch.
Ten seconds … twenty seconds.
I straightened up in my seat and shot a look around the bus, perplexed.
Twenty-five seconds … thirty seconds.
Okay, what was up with this? They should be all over Bernice by now. How come the only thing I was hearing was deafening silence? And a few extraneous clicking sounds.
I glanced across the aisle to find Margi Swanson and Tilly Hovick fiddling with handheld electronic devices: MP3 players, or iPods, or BlackBerries, or something. There were so many gadgets on the market, I couldn’t tell one from the other. But the ladies were obviously so preoccupied with their games that they were completely ignoring Bernice.
I caught my breath, my eyes freezing open at the sudden implication. Oh. My. God. No. NO! If everyone ignored Bernice, the only person left to deal with her would be—my windpipe closed in panic—me!
“Don’t give me that baloney,” Bernice griped aloud to no one in particular. “I paid for tulips so I wanna see tulips, else
The “someone” to whom she referred was me, Emily Andrew-Miceli, official escort for the twelve Iowans on our tour. For several years, I was the travel coordinator for a senior travel club sponsored by our local bank—an absolute dream job that paid great and included free travel abroad. But all that ended when the tornado roared down Main Street, depositing the bank and all its assets in random cornfields throughout eastern Iowa.
In a classic Hollywood twist, however, a devastatingly handsome Swiss police inspector by the name of Etienne Miceli relocated to Windsor City, built a travel agency out of the rubble, and offered me my old job back. We’re called Destinations Travel and we serve a niche group, providing escorted tours, both foreign and domestic, for the senior traveler. We occupy a sleek steel and glass building on Main Street, attract busloads of potential clients with our multimedia presentations and all-you-can-eat pig roast buffets, and enjoy outrageous perks like a fully outfitted gym, a rooftop swimming pool that converts to an ice rink in winter, and a soundproof bowling alley in the basement. All this, plus I get to sleep with the handsome ex-police inspector.
It’s one of the perks of being Mrs. Miceli.
“What do you mean there aren’t any evaluation sheets in our travel packet?” Bernice complained without provocation.
My windpipe stopped closing long enough for me to flash a diabolical smile. Sleeping with the boss had its advantages. When we’d been in the throes of carnal bliss, I’d convinced him to dump the dreaded escort evaluation forms so Bernice could be denied the pleasure of rating my performance with a big fat goose egg.
“I demand an evaluation form,” whined Bernice. “It’s my constitutional right! Emily’s husband did this. See what happens when you let foreigners buy up your prime real estate after a natural disaster? They shred the Constitution. The next thing he’ll set his sights on is cutting our senior discounts and setting up death panels. Mark my words. Life as we know it is ending. The old America is going down the tubes. We’re in the midst of a socialist plot that’s killing the private sector so big government can destroy our freedoms and take over our lives!”
Wow. Bernice must have bought some powerful new hearing aids to be able to regurgitate what she heard on America’s most trusted news network so accurately. And her ability to retain it was
“No, I’m not giving up my Medicare card,” she snapped in defiance. “Why would I do that? Do you know what my podiatrist charges to cut my toenails? There’d be nothing left of my Social Security check if I had to pay for it out of pocket.”
I looked around the bus again, a little creeped out.
A toilet
Well, duh? How come I could hear that?
A few seconds later, the restroom door creaked open, and my grandmother ambled back to the seat beside me.
“Anything excitin’ happen while I was goin’ potty?”
I leaned close to her ear. “Bernice has been engaged in a weird conversation for the last two minutes.”
“That’s not excitin’, dear. That’s normal.”
“Not when she’s been having the conversation with herself.”
“No kiddin’? That don’t sound like Bernice. She’d much rather argue with someone else. That way, when she says, ‘You’re such a moron,’ she don’t end up insultin’ herself. That can get real embarrassin’.”
“You’re such a moron, Margi!” Bernice sniped. “I don’t care if Pills Etcetera offers free toenail cutting on the first Monday of every month. I’m going to the clinic with the
