Hot Dutch Daydream, page 9
“I’m so glad.” I can feel the warmth of her voice through the phone. “And don’t think I forgot that you still haven’t sent me a photo of Ryland!”
“There haven’t been many photo opportunities. But if I take a photo, you’ll be the first to see it.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask for.”
“Tell Dev and his family I said hi.”
“Will do! Miss you!”
“Miss you too.”
I end the call and put my phone in my pocket. It really is beautiful here. Maybe it’s time I see even more of it.
Chapter
10
When Ryland comes downstairs Friday to work on lunch, I’m busy double-checking the entrance times to various attractions while Diederik plays on the floor. It’s been almost three weeks since I arrived and I know I need to get Diederik out into the city, but I’m not sure how much risk I’m willing to take. I can’t handle a complete toddler meltdown.
Ryland looks over my shoulder. Today he has on a pink shirt with a cat sitting inside a wooden clog and the words Puss in Clogs below. I wonder if this is one of the images he sells to shops for tourists.
“The Little Orphanage?” he asks. “Are you suddenly becoming a tourist?”
I look down at my list. That one does sound bleak to me—it’s a museum that teaches kids what it would be like to be a seventeenth-century orphan in the Netherlands. Not exactly a lighthearted day out, but the guidebooks love it.
I shrug. “I’m not, but everyone wants me to see more of the city while I’m here, and I can only spend so much time in the house with Diederik.”
“Yeah, I’m usually good after five minutes.” He reads my list, nodding and making little sounds.
“What?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a good list.”
I glare at him. “These are all the top sites in Amsterdam.”
“Sure. Although I believe I should have been consulted on this list given our arrangement. But if you’d rather go it alone, then have fun with that.”
I cross my arms. I don’t really need Ryland for this. I know how to make itineraries and travel plans. I bet any travel guide would love my list . . . though he has lived here his whole life. I put my pencil down and turn to him.
“All right then, what are your suggestions?”
“Actually, your timing is perfect. I’m getting ready to leave for a little research trip of my own, and you two are welcome to come with me.”
“Research?” My eyes pop. I do like research.
“For my art project.”
“What kind of research? Will it be Diederik-friendly?”
“Of course. That’s my role, isn’t it? Though I’m not sure how Sage-friendly this will be.”
“You have to tell me where we’re going.”
He smiles. “No, that wasn’t agreed upon in the contract. It’ll be much more fun to surprise you. Or, of course, you can go check items off your list.”
I look down at the paper and then back at him, feeling both frustrated and intrigued. I know he’s just doing this to needle me, but it does sound a lot less stressful to explore the city with a two-to-one ratio of adults(ish) to impulsive toddlers.
“Fine, you win.” I throw my hands in the air. “Diederik? Do you want to go on a trip with me and Ryland?”
“Yes! Trip, trip! Let’s go!” He jumps up and runs over to where his shoes are. I laugh and shrug. I guess I’m outnumbered anyway.
This time I’m smart enough to bring a big bag with extra food, clothes, and toys. I even throw the iPad in there for good measure. But my stomach sinks when Ryland starts unlocking bikes out on the sidewalk.
“No, I didn’t agree to bike riding. This is a walking trip only. Maybe a tram if I think I can manage it with him.”
Ryland shakes his head and keeps unlocking them. “Nope. You’ve got to ride a bicycle here. I don’t blame you for not wanting to do it alone with Diederik, but if it’s three of us then we’re definitely riding.”
I eye the bicycle suspiciously. I can just imagine it toppling over or bucking me off like a horse. I don’t like anything about it.
“I’ll ride with Diederik and you can manage for yourself. I promise you’ll love it.”
I want to argue, but I’m embarrassed to admit just how scared I am to fall off the bike. I’ve noticed that none of the locals wear a helmet here, but luckily Ryland is able to rummage up an old one for me. I don’t care if I look dorky as long as I don’t get a concussion.
We take off and I’m wobbly at best.
“You have to pick up a little bit of speed,” he calls out. “Just follow me.”
My mouth is clamped tightly from anxiety and concentration, but I do what he says. There aren’t special bike lanes on the smaller roads, so we have to ride on the brick streets with the cars. It’s very unnerving, and I have to focus to make sure I don’t slam into a car, another bike, or a pedestrian walking in the street. Multiple times I have to ring my bell to get people’s attention.
However, after a few blocks, it’s not quite so terrifying. I’m lucky that there aren’t a ton of people out. I risk looking around as I pass by overflowing pots of flowers that line this street. Bright red shutters gleam at me across a canal. As much as I hate to admit it, this really is a beautiful way to see the city.
Out of the blue, a memory of riding bikes with my family comes back to me. When Wren and I were little, we’d sometimes go to a local park to eat lunch and ride on the paths. I was always the slowest, but Dad would keep pace with me so I didn’t fall behind and get lost. I can still see him cheering me on as I did my best to chug my legs and keep up with Mom. A wave of searing grief passes over me and I force myself to squeeze the handlebars instead of squeezing my eyes shut the way I want to.
I don’t like remembering him. I don’t want to forget him either, but it’s so hard to remember. Most of the time I can keep the memories in a little twilight space in my mind—just at the cusp of awareness but far enough away that I’m not overwhelmed by the pain—but sometimes my brain slips up and the memories flood back in. I can’t predict when they’ll hit me until I’m knocked over by their power.
My feet slow and Ryland surges off in front of me. I push myself to catch up, but my legs are weak all of a sudden. A moment later, he turns and sees me in the distance. Immediately, he slows his bike and maneuvers off the road and onto a narrow sidewalk. I force myself to ride over to him.
“Are you okay?” His voice is soft and concerned and it makes me defiant. I don’t like people seeing me like this. Vulnerable.
“I’m fine.”
He cocks his head. I’m not fooling him. “Should we turn around and go home? It’s no trouble.”
“No, we’ll never hear the end of it if we do.” I gesture to Diederik, who is already looking restless at our stop.
“True. Okay, well, call out if you need to stop again. We aren’t far now.”
We make our way onto a bike path that’s wider than the walking path. People of all ages zoom by, most focusing on themselves but some waving or smiling, particularly when Diederik waves to them. The canal houses blow past, and I see tiny glimpses of the inside of each house before I’m on to the next. Soon Ryland is slowing and I’m pulling off to the side. I come up beside him and step down.
“Why are we stopping?”
He beams. “We’re here.”
“We’re where?”
I thought we were going to some sort of Amsterdam attraction, but this is just another street. There are no museums or parks or playgrounds, just a canal and lines of brick homes like so many places in the city, although these houses seem grander than the ones where Ryland lives.
He points to one of the buildings, and I can tell he’s enjoying my confusion. At first glance it looks the same as every other house . . . and then I see a small oval sign with a black cat on it.
“I told you this was a research trip for my project. Lucky for you, my art only focuses on the most interesting things in life, so”—he dramatically flourishes his hand toward the building—“I give you KattenKabinet! The best art museum in the world.”
My jaw drops to the floor when we walk inside. It is, as far as I can tell, a very grand and traditional canal house. There are beautiful carved moldings, inlaid wooden floors, and antique-looking furniture. In fact, in some ways it reminds me of the English manor house I lived in last fall. There’s just one small difference. . . .
Every open space is decorated with art dedicated to cats.
There are paintings of cats from the floor to the ceiling, covering every wall and filling the stairway. If there is a shelf, a nook, or a piece of furniture, then you can be sure they’ve topped it with a cat painting or sculpture. They even have a cat figurine—right next to a costume from the musical Cats—attached to the wall as if it’s climbing and hissing down at us.
It’s the wildest—and most amazing—thing I’ve ever seen.
“Ryland, what?”
He’s so happy the joy is practically blinding me. “Isn’t this the best? I didn’t want to give it away because I really wanted to see your expression. This might be one of my favorite places in the city.”
Diederik doesn’t like staying in one place very long, so we circle through each room, both of us holding hands with him while Ryland points out pieces and keeps up a running commentary.
“Have you ever paid attention to how cats are depicted in art throughout history? Like the way they drew cats in medieval times? It’s as if they had no idea what a cat even looked like. And look at this one.” He points to a painting on my right. “Look at that expression on its face, like it knows your secrets.”
“Or how to kill you in the dark,” I say.
“True.”
After a bit, Ryland leaves to sketch some of the pieces. It’s a little nerve-racking to have Diederik here because everything is fancy, but he’s surprisingly good as long as I hold his hand and talk to him about the art. We wander through the back courtyard (also filled with cat art), play a few notes on a piano that’s open to the public, and check out their cat Plinko game. Eventually, I pick him up and carry him around on my hip, talking about the colors we see and the other objects in the paintings.
“There’s an apple!” he exclaims in his adorable high-pitched toddler voice.
“That’s right, good job!”
His English is getting better and better. I give him a little hug. He turns to me and kisses me on the cheek. I take a small breath, my eyes flying open.
“Thank you! What was that for?”
He giggles and gives me another kiss on the cheek. Ooh, he’s going to be a flirt just like his brother.
“Can I pet?” he asks, and points at the ground.
I’m about to tell him we can’t touch the art until I realize that he’s pointing at a real cat that’s wandering through the room. Of course they have actual cats here as well.
“Let’s see if he’s nice,” I tell Diederik.
I put him down and we follow the cat to a window bench, where it jumps up and settles onto a cushion. It turns out he’s very sweet—and sleepy—so we both sit at the window, giving little pets and watching the world go by on the street outside. This particular afternoon is one I never thought I’d have in life, but maybe it’s okay not to have every single hour of my life planned. Because this is a pretty cool experience.
We’re still at the window when Ryland comes to find us. “So, you’ve officially seen the best of Amsterdam. Ready to pack it in?”
“As fun as this cat-themed site is, I have a feeling there’s still more to see.”
Diederik rubs his stomach as soon as we’re back on the street. I’m not playing this game again. In two seconds flat, I’ve grabbed fruit gummies from my bag and handed them to him. He happily gobbles them up, but I know that won’t last forever.
“On second thought, maybe we should head back.”
Ryland shakes his head. “No, I have a better idea, come on. We can walk from here.” A minute later, he’s walking into a casual restaurant and ordering at a counter. The person hands him drinks and a paper cone of fries covered in mayonnaise.
“Fries?”
“Not regular old American fries. These are a national delicacy.”
Ryland leans down and we both watch to see if Diederik will take one. He’s still an incredibly picky eater, but he devours his fry eagerly. I’m not sure about the mayo, but I take a fry anyway because I know Ryland will tease me if I don’t, and stare out into the canal. A group of people sail past on a boat, chatting and relaxing with drinks. Farther down, a larger tour boat with a glass ceiling floats lazily.
“You should take a ride on one of those before you go,” he says, and points at the tour boat. “Another classic outing.”
I nod, but don’t agree. That looks a bit romantic for my tastes.
Ryland crumples the empty paper cone in his hands. “Those are good, but my favorites are by the Rijksmuseum. They fry theirs in sunflower seed oil.”
I stare at him. “You can tell what kind of oil they use?”
“Of course. I’m a man of many tastes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m a supertaster. I have a very refined palate.”
As usual, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or screwing with me. I narrow my eyes and try to discern his expression. It’s frustrating that he’s so hard to read because usually I can read people easily. We start to meander down a busier street, me holding Diederik’s hand firmly so he stays close. Luckily, today’s outing is so different from usual that he seems content to walk and take in all the sights.
“I’m actually serious,” Ryland continues. “One of my many side jobs over the years has been as a taste tester for restaurants and shops. They ask me to give feedback when they’re thinking of adding a new product.”
I gape at him. “What kinds of things have you tried?”
“Mustards, chocolate, sauces for bitterballen—those are like deep-fried meatballs—all kinds of stuff. You’d think the chocolate would be my favorite, but it’s actually not. I tried too many and it gave me stomach cramps.”
“I never thought of taste as a skill that could get you a job.”
“Eh, it doesn’t pay very well. But I’ve met some cool people and have gotten to eat a lot of interesting foods.”
“What else do you do, then? You don’t seem to keep regular hours.”
“I don’t have traditional jobs. I taste-test when I can, and I get commissions for art from four different shops. They have certain art prints that sell well, and since each is hand done in Holland rather than mass produced, they can sell them for a higher cost. And I also design tattoos.”
Tattoos? Now that I think of it, I guess someone does need to design those, but I always thought they came out of a big generic book, or that the tattoo artist did the designs. I say as much to Ryland and he nods.
“Yes, but every once in a while Dan will have a client who’s looking for something really unique and then she’ll call me.”
“Is this the Dan I met before?”
“Yeah, she’s an old friend from school. She’s very talented, but we’ve worked together on some of the more complex designs.” He smiles, the sun shining through his red hair. “In some ways, it’s actually the biggest compliment I could get—to have someone believe in my work enough that they’ll let her permanently ink it on their body. My art will be around as long as they are.”
“Unless they have it lasered off. I hear that’s pretty common nowadays.”
“You could get freelance work keeping people humble.”
“No way, full-time or nothing. I need the money for med school.”
He chuckles. “Well, no one is lasering off my work.”
I haven’t been paying attention to our surroundings, but I look up to see flower stalls, one after another. “Are we at the Bloemenmarkt?”
His eyes light up. “You really have been researching, haven’t you? Yes, this is it.” He points at one of the stalls. From the sidewalk it just looks like a flower shop, but I know that each stall is actually permanently floating on the canal. Inside are masses of tulip bulbs, cut flowers, and houseplants, with plenty of touristy stuff mixed in. I pause to take in the ceiling, which is completely filled with hanging bouquets of dried flowers. Oh, I wish Ellie were standing next to me right now. She’d be breathless from the beauty. I snap picture after picture for her, though I wish I could bring the store back to America instead.
“Are you a secret botanist?”
I laugh. “No, just taking photos for a friend.”
“Then here”—he gently plucks the phone from my hand—“I bet they’ll like the photos better if you’re in them.”
Actually, I think, she’d like them better if you were in them. But I smile and pose with Diederik for a few despite his growing antsiness. Flowers aren’t exactly exciting to a three-year-old.
“Hold on, one more.” Suddenly, Ryland is beside me. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and tilts his head to mine so that his hair brushes against my cheek. “So you don’t forget me.”
Looks like Ellie is going to get a present after all.
Chapter
11
I go into the institute Saturday afternoon to work on Katina’s new project and spend the evening laying out the conference poster on my computer. Once it’s printed, it’ll be three by four feet, but it’s surprisingly tricky to include all the text and graphs while still using a font big enough for people to read it from a distance. That night I also take Ryland’s phone away and block Evi after she texts him ten times in a row. Maybe that was harsh, but really, ten times? Take a hint.
By Sunday, I have to admit I’m a little restless to do something other than stare at screens. Out of boredom, I pull out some yarn and knitting needles I brought over from home. I’ve knit Maddie so many baby blankets that Wren doesn’t have closet space for them, but maybe I could make Diederik something while I’m here.
