Winning Appeal(43)

Dutch. I was close. Must be all the cheese. Or chocolate.

“Oh, right. I’ll be there for a week before my work takes me to Ghana.”

“Are you a missionary?” the athletic blonde asked me.

“A missionary in Amsterdam? Is anyone that much of a masochist? I’m not even a fan of the missionary position.”

She spit out her wine. Wiping her chin with a napkin, she gathered her composure. “I thought perhaps you planned to visit Amsterdam to sin a little before doing the good work in Africa. Isn’t that what most Americans do there? Meddle with the best intentions in the name of a church?”

I blinked at my bar mate. “Not a fan of religion?”

“I grew up in The Netherlands. Churches are for tourists in most towns.”

I laughed. “I think I’ll fit right in there. To answer your question, I’m a professor. My sabbatical is taking me to Amsterdam and then on to Accra to study the female form in Ashanti sculptures.”

“You study naked women?”

“Not only women. I’m an equal opportunity nudist. I mean I study the human form across cultures. Nothing against the penis, but it’s hard to represent one in all it’s glory without it seeming silly or grotesque.” I giggled. Anita chuckled, too. “I prefer female bodies in art with all the beautiful variation.”

She blatantly swept her gaze over my body, from my messy, dark bob down to my overnight flight outfit of an open cardigan over exposed, but tasteful, cleavage, down to my yoga pants and comfortable but not fashionable flats. Maybe she was hitting on me. I straightened the scarf around my neck.

“You really should look up my brother.” She tapped her phone, bringing it to life. “I’ll give you his information. Text him. He’ll be perfect company while you’re in Amsterdam.” Out of her designer bag she pulled a business card and an expensive looking pen, which she used to scrawl a name and number on the back of her card.

“Your brother’s name is Gerhard?” I failed to fully stifle my snort. Get hard. Gerrharrd. Gerhard would make the perfect name for a scoundrel pirate. I’d have to remember the name for my next pirotica novel.

“I know. Isn’t it the most uptight name? I wish I could say it doesn’t suit him, but he can be a complete prat sometimes.”

The garbled voice of a boarding announcement broke over the speakers. She glanced down at her watch.

“Oh, my flight’s boarding. Call Gerhard. I think you’d have fun with him.”

“Didn’t you just say he was a prat?”

“Sometimes, but women seem to love the bad boys, don’t they?” She gathered her things and left a sizable tip on the bar. “Great to meet you, Selah. Best of luck with your sabbatical.”

I smiled at my new super model friend. If her brother shared her genes, maybe I would look him up when I arrived. “Bye, Anita.”

“Say hi to Gerhard for me.” With a sparkling white smile and a wave, she disappeared into the crowd of travelers.

What an odd, but friendly woman.

I spun her card on the bar. Anita Hendriks, management consultant. She had the same last name; the brother part could be legit. Gerhard, though. Get harder. I giggled and finished the last of my saketini. Scrolling through my mental file of lovers, aka The United Nations of Peen, I realized I’d never slept with a Dutchman. Maybe Gerhard could check off an item on my fuck-it-list.



Being a professor might sound glamorous and interesting to some, but for me it meant having to fly coach on international flights. A window seat earned me a place in a slightly higher level of hell than a middle seat or the row right next to the bathrooms where the seats didn’t recline. Still, it was hell nonetheless.

The crush of summer tourists filled the flight to capacity. College backpackers, stoners and shifty-eyed men populated the plane. I doubted they would be seeing any Van Goghs or Rembrandts.

I wanted a cigarette. Damn quitting. Stupid aging and health. I reached into my bag for a piece of nicotine gum. Over the past three months, I’d managed to ween myself off cigarettes, deliciously comforting, soothing, invigorating, cancer causing cigarettes. After smoking for decades, I missed the habit of it. At least flights were smoke-free these days. I might have been tempted to stand in the smoking section and acquire a contact nicotine hit.

Groggy after a sleep-aid induced nap, a gray sky greeted me when the plane landed at Schiphol Airport. Even in summer, Amsterdam had more rain than my beloved Portland. And cooler temperatures. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. The variation in climates meant I had packed for three seasons for two countries. Ghana promised to be hot, humid, rainy and dry, but never cool.