Patchwork Paradise(2)

His parents had been less than happy with Grandma’s choice and had tried to talk Sam into giving up the house for a while, but the will had been solidly drawn up, and they quickly let go of any objections. Sam and his parents had gone through a tense couple of months after that, but everything seemed to be forgotten now. He didn’t talk to me about it all that much. I always felt he had a strange attachment to the house, an intense connection I didn’t entirely understand.

We actually didn’t use a lot of the rooms. I’d suggested more than once that we should rent out a room or two to students, since we were close to a few colleges and a hospital, but Samuel didn’t like the idea.

The early June evening was fresh but not cold when we stepped out, and we walked arm in arm toward the tram that would take us into the center. For once it didn’t look like rain, and I squeezed Samuel’s biceps. Despite my earlier little tantrum, there was nowhere I’d rather be.

“You’ll be great tonight,” I told him, and he smiled down on me.



I probably drank more at the gallery than I should have—but I managed to make small talk and be polite and appear interested in the women who descended on me, as Samuel had predicted.

I was proud of my fiancé. He looked cool and competent as he guided guests inside, welcomed them, made sure they had something to drink while he chatted briefly here and there. He was always sending people off to see a particular piece of art. He checked on caterers, sufficiently calmed the artist—who looked one shattered glass away from a nervous breakdown—so the twitchy prodigy started chatting to potential buyers too. I noticed Sam managed to gather a collection of business cards along the way. His boss would be pleased.

He was born for this. A true people person. While I, on the other hand, loved hanging out with our close group of friends, but needed downtime afterward to recharge. Events like this made my knees knock together.

I kept my straight face going for most of the evening, but when it neared eleven and the party didn’t seem to be winding down, I began to worry. I really didn’t want to be stuck here all night. I was pretty sure two old ladies had squeezed my butt, and one scary bald guy with a scar through his top lip had given me his card in case I needed “a real man.”

I shuddered as I wondered what someone like that was doing at an art gallery. I remembered Antwerp had its very own mix of Mafia and decided I didn’t want to know.

As if my thoughts had summoned him, Samuel appeared by my side.

“I need to talk to one more person,” he told me, “and then we can go.”

“Really?” I tried not to look as happy as I sounded. I probably failed.

“Really.” He grinned and touched my sleeve. “Angela can take over from here. Everyone’s getting drunk now and just talking. Hardly anyone is looking at the art, and the doors are locked, so no one new can come in. Why don’t you go get our coats and I’ll meet you at the back?”

“You’re my favorite person in the world.”

“Lies. Stijn is your favorite person in the world.”

“Only for five minutes on Sunday mornings when I buy chocolate croissants from him. The rest of the time, I’m all yours.”

He smiled and his eyes twinkled, and suddenly I was reminded of the first time he’d looked at me that way, after our very first kiss in my bedroom. It had been a fraught moment because I didn’t know what I was doing or if he wanted it too or what it meant that I wanted it with him and not Cleo, our other best friend. His mouth had met mine. He’d opened me up from the inside out. And just like that, the world had stopped being a scary place.

“I won’t be long,” he said, and I nodded. The coat check was on the other side of the building, but I lingered a minute so I could watch him walk away. Damn.

When I looked up, one of the old ladies gave me a lavish wink. I offered her a little wave before scurrying away.

“Why do elderly women like me?” I lamented as we walked toward the Nine Barrels. The walk was maybe three miles or so and the air had turned chilly at last, but I didn’t mind. Antwerp was gorgeous at night, the traffic negligible, and we held hands as we crossed the cobblestone streets on our way to the harbor.

“It’s your personal charm,” Samuel said. He glanced down and smirked, and I knew what was coming. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you look like a mildly underfed young boy. You bring out their mothering instincts.”

“Since two of them copped a feel, that’s gross.”

Samuel burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it; I laughed too. “Well, it’s because you’re so beautiful they just can’t help themselves.”

I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I said.

“No, stop with the praise. It’s too much. I can’t take it.”

We walked down the Hoogstraat, which meant we were almost at the bar. I loved this whole area, but mostly the small antique stores that lined the streets. They sold everything from absolute junk to the most gorgeous pieces of furniture I’d ever seen.

“We should come back on Sunday,” I said to Samuel as I tried to peer through one shop’s gated-up doors. “We could get breakfast and go shopping.”

“We don’t need any more stuff,” he said. There was mirth in his voice, and I knew he’d come with me anyway. Partially to keep me company, but also because he liked strolling the Antwerp streets as much as I did. There could be something magical about this place. There was ugliness too, as in any city. Mostly it was pretty easy to ignore. Its seaport brought with it an industrial coldness, cranes standing out like silent monsters in the night. In contrast, the fashion, the art, and the students lent it a vibrancy that made my blood thrum.