by Ciji Ware
THAT WINTER IN VENICE. Copyright 2015 by Ciji Ware.
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The characters and events, real locations and real persons portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity is not intended.
Cover design 2015 by The Killion Group, Inc.
Cover and colophon design by Kim Killion.
Photo credit: Jim Zuckerman www.jimzuckerman.com
Formatting A Thirsty Mind Book Design
ISBN: 978-0-9889408-4-0 — ebook editions;
Additional Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.
1. Women’s fiction 2. Costume Design. 3. Costume Designers 4. New Orleans Mardi Gras celebrations 5. Venetian Carnival celebrations, Venice Italy. 6. Climate Change. 7. Rising Waters 8. Urban flooding. 9. Vanishing wetlands and barrier islands 10. Environmental journalism. 11. 21st century—Contemporary Fiction. 12. Romantic Fiction.
e-Book Edition © October, 2015; Print Edition © October 2015
Published by Lion’s Paw Publishing, a division of Life Events Media LLC, 1001 Bridgeway, Ste. J-224, Sausalito, CA 94965.
Life Events Library and the Lion’s Paw Publishing colophon are registered trademarks of Life Events Media LLC. All rights reserved.
For information contact: www.cijiware.com
PRAISE for Ciji Ware’s Historical and Contemporary Fiction
“Ware once again proves she can weave fact and fiction to create an entertaining and harmonious whole.” Publishers Weekly
“Vibrant and exiting...” Literary Times
“A story so fascinating, it should come with a warning—do not start unless you want to be up all night.” Romantic Times
“A mesmerizing blend of sizzling romance, love, and honor... Ciji Ware has written an unforgettable tale.” The Burton Report
“A romantic tale of intrigue... a compelling story line and fascinating characters.” The Natchez Democrat
“Ingenious, entertaining and utterly romantic... A terrific read.” JANE HELLER, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
“I read straight through...” MARY JO PUTNEY, New York Times bestselling author
“Oozes magic and romance... I loved it!” BARBARA FREETHY, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Fiction at its finest... beautifully written.” Libby’s Library News
Also by CIJI WARE
Historical Novels
Island of the Swans
Wicked Company
A Race to Splendor
“Time-Slip” Historical Novels
A Cottage by the Sea
Midnight on Julia Street
A Light on the Veranda
Contemporary Novels
That Summer in Cornwall
That Autumn in Edinburgh
That Winter in Venice
That Spring in Paris — coming early 2017
Contemporary Novellas
Ring of Truth: “The Ring of Kerry Hannigan”
Nonfiction
Rightsizing Your Life
Joint Custody After Divorce
THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED TO:
CHERYL POPP
Journalist, event producer, and my intrepid traveling companion to Venice during Carnival
and
CAROL KAVALARIS
Interior architect, entrepreneur, CEO, and my favorite consultant on leaky palazzos
and also to
VENICE, ITALY and NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Sister cities in so many ways, matchless, beloved, and eternal—let us pray...
Table of Contents
Reviews
Titles
Antonelli Family Tree
Durand Family Tree
Henry James quote
Prayer for Venice
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Note/Acknowledgments
Sample: That Summer in Cornwall
Sample: That Autumn in Edinburgh
Sample: Midnight on Julia Street
About the Author
SERENA ANTONELLI
JACK DURAND
The only way to care for Venice as she deserves it is to give her a chance to touch you often—to linger and remain and return.
Henry James, Italian Hours
Venice, Italy November 4, 1966
A PRAYER FOR VENICE
Life giving water, death-dealing flow,
the acqua alta seeps past ancient pilings on reed-wrapped
islands where five-hundred-year-old palazzos wheeze and
groan, clinging to foundations that sink with each day’s tides...
Beauty and sorrow, courage and corruption swirl through
her canals like the Adriatic Sea, bringing to La Serenissima
the rotting waste of careless souls—and the last, desperate
chance for a clean lease on life in the sad, salty cycle of this
water-ringed city.
Listen to the rush of the tide sweeping into the Venice Lagoon.
Before it’s too late, listen... listen...
or the next six-foot wall of water will drown
the Queen of the Seas...
— Anonymous
PROLOGUE
Memo to: John Reynolds, Managing Editor, Times-Picayune
From: Jack Durand, Senior Environmental Reporter
Re: Global Rising Waters Conference
Venice, Italy, January 3-10
John:
As I prepare to cover the conference, these parallels between New Orleans and Venice, Italy leap out at me.
To wit, both cities have:
* World-renown annual Mardi Gras/Carnival celebrations
* Frequent Hurricanes/Acqua Alta
* Wetlands and barrier islands—damaged and/or disappearing
* Serious threats of rising water drowning both cities within 50-100 years
* Gigantic flood containment projects: levees, canals/mobile gates
* History of engineering decisions influenced by “special interests”
* Significant water traffic and commerce in two key national seaports causing widespread environmental destruction
* Historic health threats: plague/yellow fever
* Significant crime and reputations for crooked police officers
* History of high-level governmental corruption and graft (both city Mayors recently indicted for nefarious deeds)
* Major cathedrals/basilicas: St. Marks/St Louis
; * Catholicism as a leading religious and cultural factor
* Unique boats: gondolas/pirogues
* Love of music: opera/jazz
* Famous musicians: Vivaldi/Armstrong, etc.
* Noteworthy cuisines: i.e. Gumbo/Pasta
* Tourist meccas threatened by overwhelming numbers of visitors
* Similar “Let the Good Times Roll” revelry lifestyles
* Bottom line: Irreplaceable cultures...
So what do you think as we approach the 10th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina? Do we have more than just a conference about rising waters and climate change here? I’m reachable by text or email. Due back in the office January 11th.
Cheers,
Jack
(If Dr. Lauren Hilbert should call, please tell her I’m on assignment overseas. Thanks).
CHAPTER 1
Three days after New Year’s Eve and a month after Jack Durand’s thirty-ninth birthday, the seasoned newspaper reporter glanced up at the display board in the main terminal of the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. He scanned the departure listings, looking for Delta’s 4 p.m. flight to JFK where he would connect with Air France to Paris and then fly on to Venice for the 5th Annual Global Rising Waters Conference. Was it possible this was his fifth time covering this same story?
His sister Marielle, who’d volunteered to drive him out from town, pointed down a long corridor.
“Delta’s on Concourse D, isn’t it? I’m pretty sure that’s where all their flights leave.”
“Yep... that’s it. D. I better get a move on.”
“You’ve got a few minutes more,” Marielle protested, and then turned her head at the sound of laughter. “Look at all those people taking selfies over there,” she exclaimed, pointing toward a cluster of new arrivals jostling each other in front of a larger-than-life statue of New Orleans’ favorite trumpet player for whom the airport was named. The molded figure forever blowing his fiberglass horn stood sentry in front of a colorful mural depicting other musicians parading down a street. “Those tourists have been here for less than five minutes and already I bet they’re posting on Facebook,” Marielle declared.
The gaiety and celebration of the visitors, along with the revelers painted on the wall to Jack’s right had an unnerving, surreal quality compared to the searing memories of Hurricane Katrina that he stashed away in the farthest corner of his brain. Merely walking into the airport conjured up the sight of aged and dying people on stretchers littering this very floor for which the terminal had been the last stop on a horrific exodus from a drowning city a decade earlier.
Think about something else...
Every time he entered these walls, now, he felt as if the storm victims featured in the gut-wrenching stories he’d reported from this place had become ghosts that would never completely fade from his consciousness. He took several deep breaths and fought against an on-rush of haunting images of that terrible time.
Given his mood this day and the events of the past week concerning a certain lady doctor, he wondered why he even bothered to drag himself across land and sea to yet another rising waters conference. Whatever resolutions and findings-of-facts that resulted from the meeting this year would undoubtedly be dismissed by the Climate Deniers and ignored by the politicos and policy makers, to say nothing of his alleged ladylove who pointedly changed the subject whenever anybody mentioned Katrina or global warming. If only he could simply head for Venice, Louisiana, down near the mouth of the Mississippi, and spend the next week fishing—alone.
Fat chance of that anytime soon...
Breaking into his gloomy reverie, he searched the terminal for the nearest “pre-check” TSA line, a status he’d earned, thanks to all the business traveling he’d done in the last ten years as a “wetlands expert”—whatever that meant these days, he thought, fighting a pessimism he found difficult to contain at times. Sure enough, he spotted the battery of screening machines that all travelers had endured since 9/11.
“Well, kiddo,” Jack said, giving Marielle a hug with his free arm while balancing his computer bag on his opposite shoulder, “you take good care, y’hear? And thanks for the lift to the airport.”
“Glad to do it. It was great trapping you in my car for forty minutes so we could catch up a bit... but you still didn’t answer my question about Lauren.”
“Gotta go, sweetheart,” Jack replied with a shake of his head. “That’s a discussion for another day.”
His thirty-seven-year-old sister cast him a sharp look.
“Listen, Jack... you can’t avoid figuring this out much longer. You’re pushing forty, for pity’s sake! If she’s not the right one for you, you gotta—”
But suddenly Marielle stopped needling him, and instead, pointed excitedly to a knot of people standing nearby.
“Oh, glory...”
“What?” Jack asked, instantly wary of the direction the conversation with his sister had been headed.
“Look who’s right over there!” his sister exclaimed. “Serena Antonelli! We used to be great friends, but I haven’t seen her for the longest time. And it looks like every single member of her family is with her.” Marielle smiled at her brother. “Have you ever met her?”
“Don’t think so,” he replied, glancing at his watch.
“She and I were at Tulane together. We even lived in the same dorm, but I hardly ever saw her after freshman year because I pledged my sorority and she practically slept in the Theater Department. She’s really nice, though.”
Jack had hardly known that Tulane had a theater department, given that he spent every waking hour at the engineering school studying hydrology whose intricacies took every brain cell he possessed to master.
“I guess she didn’t get very far as a movie star in Hollywood,” he noted dryly, hitching his computer bag higher on his shoulder and preparing to take his leave.
Marielle frowned at him. “Serena’s a costume designer, not an actress, and she’s done very well for herself, Mr. Big Shot,” she retorted. “I heard that she worked in Las Vegas doing costumes for that glitzy Marco Leone show out there before she eventually came back to New Orleans after Katrina to help out her family. I’ve been meaning to drop by Antonelli Costumes a million times, but just never made it that far down Canal Street.”
“Is the company still in the CBD?” he asked, referring to the Central Business District where a number of banks and other commercial enterprises were headquartered. Katrina had wiped out many smaller firms there that never returned to the city.
“Yeah, they’re still headquartered there. A couple of friends of mine have had costumes made by them for Mardi Gras since the storm, but I heard their family business has been on the skids.”
Jack’s gaze shifted fifteen feet to Marielle’s right and was arrested by the vision of a tall, willowy woman with lustrous dark brown hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail fastened with a black ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her long legs were clad in classically cut navy trousers, a modern version of Katharine Hepburn in an old Spencer Tracy movie. She sported a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater and a heavy navy anorak with fur trim around the hood that she’d slung over her arm. Everything about her was chic and understated, Jack thought with a surprising blaze of interest that he quickly tamped down.
“Man, she’s nearly as tall as I am,” he noted. “From the winter clothing she’s got on, it looks as if she’s headed to Alaska.”
“New York is my guess. Somebody told me that she got a Master’s degree in costume design at Yale,” Marielle said over her shoulder, taking a few strides toward her former classmate. “Maybe she’s got a job doing costumes on Broadway!”
Before Jack could stop her, his sister called out, “Serena!” across the space she was traversing. “Serena Antonelli! It’s me! Marielle Durand... well, Marielle Claiborne, now!” She waved enthusiastically at her school friend to draw her attention.
“Wow... Marielle! Hi!” Serena replied as Marielle reached her
side. “Married, huh? Congratulations! Do you still live in New Orleans?”
That was the question everyone asked if they hadn’t seen each other in a while. A hundred thousand or so had never returned to the city after August of 2005, creating a diaspora in the wake of Hurricane Katrina that stretched across America and beyond.
“Yeah, we still live here. I married a veterinarian that I met rescuing pets during the storm. Ever meet Doctor Phil... Claiborne, that is?”
“No, but that’s wonderful! What part of town are you in?”
“We built a new house on one of those reclaimed lots in Lakeview we got for a steal. It was the only way we’d ever own a place, that’s for sure.” She gave Serena a hug. “Imagine! You and I finally running into each other after all this time!”
Jack observed a startled, pained expression flash across the face of Marielle’s friend, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, the young woman embraced his sister in return.
Serena turned to introduce Marielle to the various people encircling her, including several dark-haired, thirty-somethings who shared her Italian-American good looks and were probably her siblings, along with a man and a woman in their sixties whom Jack assumed were Serena’s parents. They apparently had all come to bid Ms. Antonelli farewell, Italian family style.
Jack remained where he was, checking his cellphone for emails, while Marielle chatted with the Antonellis for a few minutes. When he didn’t approach, she beckoned her brother to come join her. Jack forced a polite smile, waved, and shook his head in the negative. He pointed to the line snaking through TSA. As usual, he couldn’t shake the gloom of simply being in this airport again and didn’t feel like being sociable. However, Marielle refused to take no for an answer. She sprinted to his side and virtually dragged him over to the group while she made effusive introductions every step of the way.
“Meet my famously elusive brother, Jack Durand,” she began. “Jack, this is Serena Antonelli... her little sister Flavia who I can’t believe is as tall as we are, now. And this is Nicholas, her brother, and his partner, Gus LeMoyne, and...” Marielle paused for breath, “this is Mr. and Mrs. Cosimo Antonelli.”