Love Is Pink!

Half-asleep she mumbled, “Mama,” and put an arm around me.

In the meantime, David had freed my suitcases from the rust-monster’s trunk; he stood, slightly weary, in front of me. On his shoulder hung another large duffel bag, which seemed to be the only baggage that he and his daughter had with them.

“Isn’t Emma too heavy?” he asked.

“Not a problem,” I said softly. “I’m stronger than I look. I do Pilates every morning.”

“It looks good on you,” David said. And before I could ask whether “it” meant my sporty figure or a sleeping Emma in my arms, he’d walked past me and was holding open the door to the bed-and-breakfast.

Of course, the guest house had a narrow wooden staircase—no trace of an elevator. There were three flights of stairs, and the climb turned out to be strenuous indeed. Finally, David opened a door and flipped the light switch—and we stood in our refuge for the night: an especially small by my standards—but very clean—attic with a wooden roof, waxed floor, and a ’70s-patterned floral rug. There was a plain table with two chairs, a large bed, and a dreadful plastic air mattress in the corner for small children.

I sized up the bed as discreetly as possible. It was definitely one massive mattress, not two pushed together. It would be impossible to separate it. No way could I stay here.

Evidently, David had noticed the direction of my gaze, despite my discretion. And judging from the set of his mouth, he seemed just as skeptical.

Emma became restless in my arms and opened her sleepy eyes. “Are we there yet?” she mumbled.

“Yes,” I said.

“Cool!” She pointed to the horrible plastic air mattress. “A bed all to myself. It’s so nice and colorful.”

I put her down, and she ran to it immediately. She yanked on the protective net that was attached to all four sides of the bed to prevent falls. “Papa, Michelle—I am so tired. I want to lie down now.”

“We need to wash up first,” I said. “And only then may the young lady go to sleep.”

David grabbed the car key I’d set on the end table. “While you’re busy doing that,” he said, “I’ll go move the car to the guest parking lot.” And he left.

The bathroom was small. Windowless. A single shower stall, a toilet, a sink. Dark-green tiles from the seventies. Oh, my God!

Emma fished out her toiletries from the duffel bag, and we brushed her teeth together, combed her hair, washed her face, and—since it was important to her—we washed her feet, too. Then she ran across the room, crawled into the plastic monstrosity at lightning speed, and pulled the covers up to her nose.

“I’m done,” she said. “If you want me to fall asleep, you need to tell me a story right away.”

“What kind of story?” I said, perplexed.

“About princesses and queens. Or about elves and Santa Claus. That would also be fine.”

David was just walking back in, his clothes covered in snow. He shook himself off and acted surprised to see Emma in bed. “You’re quick little soldiers.”

“Michelle still needs to tell me a story!” Emma said.

“Not tonight,” her father replied. “Now it’s really too late.”

Emma’s disappointment was obvious.

“We have the whole day tomorrow,” I said, secretly feeling relieved. This way I’d have time to come up with something. “I promise you an especially cool story. With a princess and a king. I’m totally familiar with that kind of stuff, you know.”

“And a pink-red car,” Emma said sleepily. “And snow . . .”

“If you want.”

David tugged at my sleeve and signaled that we should be quiet. Carefully, we tiptoed into the middle of the room, where David leaned closer to whisper, “You can’t sleep in the car. Even I can’t do it. It’s bitterly cold.”

I held my breath and whispered back, “But there’s only one bed. I don’t know if that’s really a good idea.”

David paused, and I got the impression that he was starting to blush.

“What else can we do?” he said. “We’re adults. We can behave ourselves. Or do you have doubts about that?”

“No,” I quickly replied. “We’re two mature people and no longer seventeen. There’s no risk that we’ll—” I didn’t finish my sentence, but David completed my thought with a somewhat too-forceful nod.

He pointed nervously toward the bathroom. “You can go first if you want.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s nice of you.”

“I’ll just sit here,” he said, pointing to one of the chairs. “I’ll sit here and . . .”—a look of helplessness came over his face—“and I’ll wait.”

This was embarrassing! So extremely embarrassing!