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"You can't do that," Jerry snaps.
That's it. I've had enough. Elita is stressed, the faces around me—that I could see—are angry or frustrated, and God only knows what poor Boris is thinking. I grip the arms of my seat and yell, "Jesus Christ, Jerry. Would you shut up? Theonly person that'll get us in an accident is you. Your constant complaining is distracting to our driver and our guide."
Jerry stands partway in his seat and glares at me. "You can't talk to me that way."
"She can, and so can I. Either you sit down and shut up, or I'll make you," the burly man from the cathedral says from the seat behind me. His voice is unmistakably threatening and has a thick southern drawl. "Hey, bub. Did you understand me?"
Jerry slinks into his seat and stares out the front window.
I peek over the top of my seat and smile at the burly man. He and his wife both smile back.
We reach the castle, and Boris pulls up near the entrance gate and lets us off the bus. Elita secures our entrance tickets from the attendant and passes them out, and we trek toward the castle, its appearance different than I expected. For some reason, I anticipated stone walls, turrets, and towers, but this is a massive white building with a red roof. And it looks more modern.
Our tour inside reveals white walls with gold detail and trim, red carpets, and gleaming white floor tiles. We view paintings and exhibits, with the tour taking at most twenty minutes. Back outside, I walk with Rose and some others to the gardens while a separate group tours the on-site museum. When we finish, we return to the small plaza in front of the castle.
While we wait for the stragglers to join us, I decide to take a picture of the four ladies and Larry in front of a statue of a horseman. As I snap the photo, a burst of wind strikes us, and Rose's pink feathered hat goes flying. I take off running after the ball of pink fluff as it bounces along the cobblestone. Dodging past members of our group, I shriek as I trip and skid across the ground.
People immediately surround me, and one man—a retired doctor by his account—pushes the others aside to offerassistance. After a cursory examination, the doctor declares that my wrist, although sore and already bruising, isn't broken. I'm being helped to my feet when one of the women in our group starts yelling at Jerry.
"You tripped her on purpose. I saw you." The woman turns to her husband, our guide, and several others gathered around her. "I was watching the hat as it blew along the ground, and I swear I saw him purposely stick his foot out."
"I did no such thing," Jerry huffs.
The burly man takes several steps forward. "That was the last straw, bub. Now, I'm gonna hurt you!"
Elita, Jerry's wife, and a few others rush to get between Jerry and the burly man.
"Hold on. I was standing next to Jerry, and I didn't see him do a thing," another man calls out as he steps forward.
The woman who claimed Jerry tripped me scolds him. "Of course you'd say that. You're one of his buddies."
Elita desperately tries to calm everyone down.
Embarrassed and hanging my head, I walk away, my wrist sore and throbbing. The more distance between Jerry and me, the better because I'm dying to rip him to shreds and give him a piece of my mind—providing he did trip me. I sit on one of the benches nearby, soon joined by Larry and the four ladies.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. Somebody should strangle that man." Iris's face suddenly brightens. "I have an idea. Maybe one of us should push him over the side of the boat."
Rose's eyes glisten. "I will if you will."
Dahlia scowls at them. "I'm sure the captain and the cruise line will handle this." She pauses, her stony expression changing to one of amusement. "If not, maybe I'll help you push him overboard."
There's dead silence as the five of us stare at Dahlia. Then I laugh, picturing the four ladies hog-tying Jerry and shoving him over the rail.
Elita calms the group down, I suck up my anger and embarrassment, and we drive in an odd silence back to Vienna.
Once back on the ship, I go to my cabin, and soon after, there's a knock on my door. I open it to discover Beckett Edwards and a middle-aged salt-and-pepper-haired man standing there.
"Good evening, Miss Walker. This is the ship's doctor—Dr. Crowley. May we come in?" Beckett says.
"Of course." I stand back to let them enter, the three of us squished together by my bathroom door.
"I understand from your tour guide and several guests there was an incident this afternoon. I'd like Dr. Crowley to look at your wrist. Would you mind taking a seat on the bed?" Beckett waves his hand toward the middle of the cabin.
The doctor examines my wrist once I'm seated. "Hmm, there's some swelling and bruising. Can you move your fingers and hand?"
"It's pretty tender, but I can move it okay." I flex my fingers, ball up my hand, and swivel my wrist as I make a face.
Beckett leans against the dresser and furrows his brow. "Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
