That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  Serena said with unabashed admiration, “I love watching Corlis McCullough do her political interviews more than even seeing her anchor the nightly news—and she’s terrific at that, too. In fact, I think the work they both do is fantastic! I’d say they’re the closest thing New Orleans has to a genuine Power Couple these days.”

  Jack laughed while Serena disclosed she’d designed a costume for the good-looking reporter soon after returning from graduate school.

  “My first ‘celebrity’ client in New Orleans,” she added jokingly, “but I only saw Ms. McCullough briefly at the final fitting. She wouldn’t remember me, I don’t think.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell them you called them a Power Couple. Corlis, especially, will be pleased. She hailed from LA, originally, where I guess Power Couples are a dime a dozen,” Jack added, his lips quirking.

  He signaled for the waiter and then asked Serena if she’d like a coffee. He ordered two decafs since they both hoped to sleep on the plane. Then he scrutinized her closely.

  “You have a Masters from Yale in costume design and run a costume company with your brother. Why are you taking more training in the dead of winter in a city where the acqua alta will probably be up to your kneecaps the entire time you’re there?”

  Serena felt a surge of rising excitement as she described the work of supremely talented costume designer, Allegra Benedetti. The woman’s exotic creations were known the world over, along with the work of Francesco Briggi, who specialized in historically accurate attire for museum exhibitions. Both costumers also made exotic apparel for wealthy clients attending exclusive events during Carnival season.

  “What these designers produce is so far above what we’re used to during Mardi Gras,” she enthused. “You can see it in their designs, the craftsmanship, and their attention to every detail—not only in the Venetian Carnival end of the business—but, in Allegra Benedetti’s case, on the retail side where she sells modern day, high-end women’s clothing accessories.”

  “Like what?”

  Serena was surprised he was interested, but she couldn’t help voicing her delight in Allegra’s accomplishments.

  “She designs and manufactures beautiful brocade shoes, capes, modern gowns. Her work is glorious! If I can raise the level of what we do at Antonelli’s, maybe we can lure back some of the Mardi Gras business we’ve lost to China by the sheer beauty of what I hope to create after absorbing what I can in Venice. I’ve already gotten a few of the important Krewes to come back to us this season with orders,” she enthused, alluding to some sixty social clubs that sponsored individual parades in the annual run-up to Fat Tuesday itself. “I hope, with what I learn working with Allegra, I can really make our custom products something to be proud of—and profitable.”

  “So your brother Nick is holding the fort in New Orleans this Mardi Gras?”

  Serena shot him a guilty look.

  “Yes and believe me, that took a lot of persuasion to get his blessing for this little junket of mine.” She paused and then revealed, “My brother’s gay, and his partner, Gustave LeMoyne, was the one who actually persuaded him my going was a good idea.” Serena offered a wry smile and then added, “Gus is a huge asset to our business, whatever my father thinks.”

  “They were all at the airport with you, weren’t they?” Jack asked. Serena nodded. “It looked to me as if LeMoyne was one of the family.”

  “Well, to me he is. My father? Not so much.” She leaned back in her chair and regarded Jack closely. “But now I want to know more about you. You said this is the fifth time you’ve gone to Venice for this conference. What’s your mission this time?”

  Jack tilted his head to one side and gave a small shrug.

  “The gathering has truly become international,” he explained. “I hope, one more time, to try to light a fire under everyone there who has some say-so over restoring wetlands and barrier islands in their particular region. Without the coastal areas around the world getting serious about doing this work, the planet’s in big trouble.”

  “So you must know Venice pretty well by now.”

  “I know its geography and can find my way around without too much trouble, but my Italian is of the ‘ordering in restaurants’ variety, which can be a serious handicap.”

  “And I, on the other hand, have never been to Venice, but I speak Italian reasonably well—or so said my late Nonna, who taught me. So, if you and I hang out together at all, we’ve got La Serenissima nailed!” she said with a laugh.

  When Jack fell silent, Serena suddenly wondered if he assumed she was angling for a rendezvous when they got to Venice and could have bitten her tongue. But then he sought her gaze and asked her in a surprisingly somber tone of voice, “What’s your mission while you’re there, Serena? Other than playing acolyte to Ms. Benedetti?”

  Serena raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment.

  “My mission,” she pronounced quietly, “is to absorb every bit of beauty I can find in Venice and their Carnevale and bring it all back to New Orleans. With certain exceptions, Mardi Gras in America has become tawdry and increasingly commercialized, yet its roots reach back to the Italian Renaissance, five hundred years ago. You want to restore the wetlands? I want to restore Mardi Gras.”

  “Bravo!” he said, and Serena couldn’t quite tell if he were teasing her.

  “Well,” she said with a depreciative laugh, “my mission—next to yours—sounds pretty frivolous in the light of the threats of climate change to everything that matters in this world. I think saving New Orleans from disappearing like a southern Atlantis might be a more worthy goal.”

  “You know something, Ms. Antonelli?” he said, his furrowed brow smoothing out and his lips curving into a slight smile. “Maybe I need a little more frivolity and celebration in my life. I feel as if I’ve been living in a pretty dark tunnel since our city nearly drowned.”

  She leaned against the table’s edge and saw that his fingers were clenched as they curled around his coffee cup.

  “Look, I wasn’t there when Katrina happened,” she reminded him softly, “but I think I truly understand what you mean. Once I got home from the Northeast, I experienced the so-called Road to Recovery and lived through most of the storm’s aftermath. Our government failed us in nearly every respect... and as far as I’m concerned, that leaves me feeling... very depressed at times... very untethered.”

  Serena was barely aware of the clatter of dishes and the sounds of travelers’ voices that surrounded them. Riveting her to her seat was Jack’s look of both empathy and vulnerability. She had an unexpected impulse to tell him about her grandmother’s heart attack at the height of the storm and the drowning of her brother and his pregnant wife when the canal walls broke the Monday afterward. She was positive he’d understand how it had haunted her every single day since, but Jack had let go of his coffee and had completely engulfed her right hand in his. It was warm from holding his cup... and comforting.

  “‘Untethered’...” Jack murmured. “That’s exactly how I feel sometimes. That one word perfectly describes everything since the storm. Are you sure you’re not a writer?” Then, to break the spell of their locked glances, he released her hand and looked for their waiter while Serena cast a peek at her watch on her wrist.

  “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed, retrieving her hands from his. “Look at the time! We’ve been talking here for two hours!”

  “Waiter!” Jack called loudly and leapt from his chair, digging in his wallet for his credit card.

  Serena, likewise, jumped to her feet and opened her purse to fish for her share of the money they owed.

  “My treat,” he said hastily, shoving his card at their server without even glancing at the bill. “It’s that southern gentleman thing again.”

  “Well thank yew,” she said with a laugh, scrambling into her coat.

  They would have to head for their Air France flight at a dead run if they were to make it on board before the doors closed on them both.

 
; CHAPTER 4

  Twice in a single day, Serena’s assigned seat went to another passenger— but this time, so had Jack’s. There wasn’t a soul in the departure lounge except a trim young man standing behind the Air France desk.

  “I’m sorry, but we gave your seats to the standbys,” he said as the last stragglers were just disappearing down the narrow gangway. The gate agent’s hand was poised over his computer. “I was just about to declare the flight closed.”

  “Oh, no!” Serena moaned under her breath.

  Jack swiftly placed his and Serena’s passports, plus his frequent flyer and Global Entry IDs on the counter next to their two defunct boarding passes.

  “So sorry we were delayed,” he apologized. “Isn’t there anything you could do to get us on this flight?”

  The gate agent glanced down and studied the documents before him.

  “Ah... you are both from Nouvelle Orleans?” he asked, his slight French accent telling them Air France often hired their own nationals, even in New York. He smiled when he looked up at Jack. “And you are Monsieur Durand... from a French-American family there, yes?”

  “Creole. Yes, originally from France, many generations ago.”

  “Ah... perhaps your family came with Sieur d'Iberville?”

  Jack laughed at the reference to the French Canadian explorer who was the first to discover the mouth of the Mississippi.

  “Ah, you know your history. But no, not that long ago. The Durands came from France in the mid-nineteenth century. The ties, however, are still very strong, as you may imagine.” Then, he added for good measure, “That’s why I always fly Air France to Europe when I can.”

  Serena remained silent, figuring Jack was laying it on as thick as he dared to get them onto the flight before the gate officially closed.

  The agent swiftly typed on his computer keyboard.

  “Ah... très bien!”

  Serena’s spirits lifted a notch.

  “There’s hope?” Jack asked politely.

  Serena admired his cool, calm approach to solving their problem. If it had been she trying to sort out this mess, she feared she would have begun to scream in frustration if they didn’t get on this flight. However, Jack merely kept smiling at the gate manager, so she tried to do the same.

  “Not only hope... better than that. Voilà! First Class!” announced the attendant, punching a key that began to spit new boarding passes out of the printer below his desk.

  “Oh... wow...” Serena murmured.

  The gate agent gave them both a cheery smile.

  “Yes, you two are certainly in luck. The plane is very full but...” He pointed to Jack’s documents. “Since you are such a frequent traveler with us on our Boing 777... I will upgrade you both at no charge.” He smiled beneficently at both of them. “This plane has a tiny First Class but the holidays, c’est fini, and the section is practically empty tonight. Here you go,” he said, pushing the boarding passes across his desk. “I hope you both have a very good flight.”

  “We will, now,” Jack said. “Much appreciated, monsieur.”

  Serena murmured her thank yous while Jack, both their boarding passes in hand, lunged for the door that would lead them to their overnight flight to Paris and on to Venice. Their section was in the front of the plane. Only one other traveler was in “La Premiere” with seats that folded flat for sleeping and cushions swathed in the finest French linens. When Jack and Serena had divested themselves of their coats, sweaters, and other burdens, they looked at each other in sheer relief. Not only were they on the flight, but also traveling in grand style.

  Serena suddenly held up four fingers.

  “What?” asked Jack. “Four... what?”

  “This serendipity thing is getting kinda scary, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean... the fact we’re on the same flight? We were always scheduled on the same flight. Just at the back of the plane.”

  “That, yes, but think about it.” She held up her index finger. “One, we were both going to Venice the same day. Two, despite two different seat assignments, we ended up sitting together from New Orleans to New York. Then—three—”

  “We were both booked on the Air France flight to Venice, via Paris,” supplied Jack. “So, what’s number four?”

  “And four, we both nearly missed this flight but both were put into First Class, even though I didn’t have the same fire power that you did with Air France!”

  “So you’re thinking that there may be some old-fashioned New Orleans voodoo at work, here?” She could see that Jack was trying not to smile.

  “Maybe. Who knows?” she replied with a grin and a shrug.

  “Well, voodoo or not,” Jack replied, “if they hadn’t found a seat for you, I wouldn’t have boarded the plane.”

  Serena looked at him with surprise.

  “Really?”

  Jack leaned forward, eye-to-eye, and smiled, “Really.”

  “You are a southern gentleman,” she teased.

  “Maybe. But I must confess, I didn’t really think it would come to that. Not making the plane, I mean. There’s almost always room in First or Business Class on these night flights, and if you treat the attendants nicely and don’t throw a fit, they generally won’t leave you stranded.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she replied, laughing as she put on her seatbelt for takeoff.

  Once the giant plane reached cruising altitude and passengers were allowed up from their seats, Serena announced, “And now I’m going into the bathroom and take off this sweater. I am roasting!”

  “And may I suggest you take off your rubber boots while you’re at it.”

  “Good suggestion. I wouldn’t want to get Mississippi mud on these swell sheets,” Serena replied, smiling. “I think they’re made by Porthault and have about a thousand threads per square inch.”

  “I expect you know your fabrics.”

  “That I do.”

  Serena made her way up the aisle as the flight attendants brought extra pillows and blankets to the anointed.

  Jack watched his traveling companion’s retreating back and wondered how Lauren Hilbert would have reacted if her seat had been given away and it looked as if she wouldn’t make her flight?

  Actually, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  By the time Serena returned to her sleeper seat and stowed her stray articles of clothing, Jack was nowhere to be seen. A flight attendant paused and told her that he’d left word to join him in the small buffet bar in the middle of the business section behind them. Nearly all the passengers in that area of the cabin were already in their tilt-back seats—eyeshades on, earplugs in—with the lights lowered.

  Serena found Jack sitting on a bar stool, nursing a shot of bourbon, straight up.

  “I don’t know about you, but that wasn’t decaf they served me at the airport,” he said.

  “I feel pretty wired myself,” Serena agreed, “considering the day I had trying to herd my family to the airport on time.” She surveyed the array of tiny liquor bottles on display. “Do you suppose there’s an Amaretto in this mini bar?” Spotting what she was looking for, she exclaimed, “Ah ha! Yay! Disaronno,” noting one of the most highly regarded brands and pouring its contents into another liqueur glass.

  Jack cocked his head to one side and asked, “So what I want to know, is: what were you doing in Las Vegas, of all places, after your graduation from Tulane and before you went to grad school at Yale? My sister said you lived in Nevada for a few years.”

  “Is this an interview?”

  Jack took a sip of his bourbon.

  “Sort of, I guess. It’s a long flight and if neither of us is sleepy, they’ll be plenty of time for you to ask me questions, too.” He held his glass up in a small salute. “It’s an occupational hazard, I guess, but I’m actually interested. You chose the arts. How did that take you to Vegas?”

  Serena sketched a brief description of her three-year stint as costume mistress with Cirque de Roma, a lavis
h show starring the celebrated singer, Marco Leone.

  “You sure do stick with the Italians, don’t you?” he kidded her.

  “Marco was Italian-American, like I am, several generations down.”

  “But, isn’t he the famous crooner who had a heart attack on stage and died during his show?”

  “They got him offstage and he died in his dressing room.”

  “Is that why you came back to New Orleans? The show closed?”

  An extended silence stretched between them. Serena ducked her head and stared at her drink. Despite her best efforts to blink hard, her eyes were brimming and a single drop of moisture had spilled down her cheek.

  Following a long pause Jack asked quietly, “Why the tears?”

  Serena fought to control her voice.

  “Because... Marco died in my arms.”

  “That must have been terrible for you.”

  “It was.”

  “Had you... become good friends?”

  Serena took a sip from her glass and then made a very uncharacteristic decision.

  “Very tactfully put, Mr. Durand. We were more than friends. We’d been having an affair for two years,” she said, glancing up to study Jack’s expression at her revelation. “Marco’s wife, Denise—who he’d been estranged from in Beverly Hills for a decade—appeared the next day to claim his riches and, of course, I was forbidden to attend the funeral.”

  She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. Jack handed her a cocktail napkin stamped Air France. Serena nodded her thanks.

  “I left Las Vegas twenty-four hours later before the press got wind of anything.” She blew her nose, adding, “So, since you’re the media you’ll know what I mean when I say... everything I just stupidly told you is off the record, okay?”

  “Totally.”

  “My family doesn’t even know.” She heaved a small sigh and nodded at the empty barstools. “It must be this sense I have at this altitude that we’re suspended in time and space, or something. Promise me you won’t repeat what I’ve just told you to anyone?”