by Ciji Ware
“You have my word. I’m a reporter, remember?” he replied, chucking her lightly under her chin. “I don’t burn my sources.”
She crumpled her cocktail napkin into her fist. “Thank you.” She glanced around the hushed cabin. “Maybe I should go back to my seat, now.”
She couldn’t believe what she’d just revealed to Jack Durand, of all people, but the low lights in the cabin as they hurtled through the night sky created a strange sense both of familiarity and intimacy.
Well, she thought, after all this time, perhaps it was a healthy sign that she’d told someone.
Jack put a restraining hand on her forearm.
“Don’t leave. Better to cry up here, than in our section up front. You don’t want to wake any snoring, rich people.”
She laughed through a watery smile. He squeezed her hand.
“Tell me what happened after that. Then you went to Yale? Vegas to New Haven. That must have been quite a culture shock.”
“Boy, was it ever,” she said, and took a gulp of her drink. “I had met Allegra by then. She had come to Las Vegas for a month to see about the possibility of producing a show that would utilize her design work... a kind of Venetian Cirque du Soleil with Italian Carnival as its theme. It never came to anything, but because I could speak Italian, I worked closely with her while she was there, demonstrating to her how our own show was produced, costumed, and mounted on stage. As I said, she is a brilliant artist,” Serena said fervently, “and we worked together extremely well while she was in Nevada. She was very complimentary when she saw the work I had done for Marco’s show. She urged me to get some advance training in costume design and then come see her. Six months before Marco died, I had come to the obvious conclusion that our little duet was hopeless.”
“How old were you then?”
“Not quite twenty-four. He was thirty years older, to say nothing of being the kind of Catholic who wouldn’t consider divorce, though he had no qualms about having an affair, of course.”
“Do you suppose you... were looking for ‘Daddy’?”
Serena shot him a frown.
“You practice psychology as well as journalism, do you?”
“No. Just hazarding a layman’s guess.”
“I was looking for plain, old, love, and someone to say I had talent—which, by the way, I didn’t hear much of from my father-the-costumer.” Serena shook her head. “But, maybe your diagnosis was correct, as a matter of fact. Marco gave me both affection and encouragement in what I do for a living, but at least I was smart enough to know—even in my early twenties—that the relationship couldn’t last. I told no one that I’d applied to Yale’s three-year graduate program in advanced costume design. When he died so suddenly, I had some place to go.”
“And since then? No new older men in your life?”
“Boy, are you nosy!” Serena responded, secretly pleased he was interested enough to ask. “No older men. No younger men, either. In fact, I’d given up dating all together when I came back to New Orleans after the storm. Everything at Antonelli’s was a shambles, literally. The workshop and sales office at our place in the CBD... our own house... the family... our staff... it was one, big disaster, just like Katrina. I’ve only had time to focus on getting the business on an even keel and trying to... well... elevate it to a higher artistic level, if you don’t think I’m being too grandiose about it all.”
“No,” Jack shook his head. “I can see how serious you are about what you do.”
“My other job when I came home was...”
Serena paused and took another sip of her Amaretto.
“What? What else did you take on those slender shoulders of yours?”
Jack’s voice was warm and soothing. It almost felt to Serena as if he were a priest, not a shrink or a journalist, and they were in a confessional at 33,000 feet, though Lord knew how long it had been since she’d been in a real one.
“One of the main things I had to do when I got back to New Orleans after grad school was to offer support to my grieving parents and siblings in the wake of my grandmother’s death and... of my eldest brother, Cosimo’s death, too. You see, he and his new bride drowned when the Seventeenth Street Canal—”
“I know,” Jack intervened quietly. “I work for a newspaper, remember? Your grandmother, brother and sister-in-law were some of the most prominent non-African Americans to die in the storm.”
“Nonna Serena was an old lady. It was sad, but not surprising. A lot of elderly people couldn’t take the trauma, but Cosimo Antonelli, the Fifth, was the Baby Jesus in my parents’ eyes,” Serena said without rancor. “And they also lost little Cosimo the Sixth, since my sister-in-law was five months pregnant. My parents’ grief was so terrible, the rest of us felt they would have sacrificed the remaining three kids, just to save Coz.”
“C’mon, Serena.”
“No, truly,” she said, tears welling again in her eyes. “I’m not being overly dramatic. It was pretty horrendous for everyone and we haven’t totally recovered, even now. And we’re just one family’s story after the storm... but it was a doozy.”
Jack stared into his empty glass.
“Those failing canals and levees played no favorites,” he said. He looked up but avoided her questioning gaze, adding, “Their collapse caused misery and suffering in everyone’s lives in New Orleans that day, whether a person lived or died. There isn’t one citizen in our city who survived the storm who hasn’t been affected, one way or another.”
Serena noticed an odd, remoteness come over her companion. It was as if his thoughts had traveled back a couple of thousand miles to the city built in a swamp.
“Yep. Everyone has a story to tell,” Serena commented finally.
“And the wounds still fester. I know,” Jack murmured, still staring into space.
After a long pause, Serena tried to catch his glance.
“Okay. You promised. What about you? What did you do after Tulane? How’d you go from an electronic calculator to a trench coat?”
Jack put his hands in his lap and offered a brief description of his aborted career in hydraulic engineering.
“The minute I got my first engineering job, thanks to my Daddy’s pulling strings, I knew I hated it. But I did love learning about the water surrounding us and the wetlands and barrier islands, and the habitat that environment provided all our native plant and animal life. I could see how the dredging policies that had been practiced over the last eighty years were destroying the place.”
“But how did you make the switch to journalism?” she persisted.
“I touted my lowly credentials as a water guy to get a job at a local paper in the Lake Charles area where I started my long career ruffling the feathers of the Powers-That-Be in Louisiana about how we’re going to end up with one, big flood plain pretty soon. I got to know all the experts in both science and engineering. I’ve been trying ever since to persuade anyone who will listen that it makes economic sense to restore the wetlands and barrier islands first as a way of preventing the kind of huge storm surge the city experienced during Katrina... and, by the way, Venice, too, in years past.”
“How’s it going for you?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink and feeling the warmth of the Amaretto prompting her to put forth questions she normally wouldn’t dream of asking. “Getting the Powers-That-Be to pay attention to you, I mean?”
He looked up from his glass.
“Not. Very. Well.”
“Ah. That bad, huh?” Serena impulsively asked, “Well, then, let’s talk about a more pleasant subject. What about your love life? How’s that going?”
The expression on Jack’s face telegraphed his genuine shock she’d asked such a direct question, though he certainly hadn’t hesitated to ask her about personal matters.
“I would be no southern gentleman if I revealed much on that subject,” he said lightly.
“Oh, c’mon, Jack. Don’t be coy. You haven’t been a priest all these years, have you?”
She didn’t see his answer coming.
“Her name is Lauren,” Jack said. “Lauren Hilbert.”
“Oh.”
“Her family’s from the Garden District and—”
Serena interrupted. “She was a big deal in her sorority and a cheerleader, right?”
Jack nodded affirmatively while she tried her best to subdue a jumble of emotions, starting with her reaction that Jack Durand had a girlfriend back home, and continuing on to the startling sensation of Jack’s comforting hand on hers earlier that evening. Serena raised a finger as if to remind herself of something.
“And, she was Queen of Cork one year, wasn’t she? Antonelli’s made her a costume. I was still in grad school, but I heard about it.”
Nick had told her she had been a complete pain in the ass.
“Yep, that’s Lauren, Queen of the May,” Jack said, and Serena thought she detected a slight edge in his tone. “She was a nurse at Charity Hospital during Katrina and—”
“Oh, God!” Serena interrupted again. “It was horrendous there, wasn’t it?”
“A nightmare,” Jack concurred. “She finally got out by helicopter accompanying some survivors stranded on the roof and then flew with them on to Houston. After the storm, she got into med school, there. She’s a doctor, now... or almost. She’ll finish her residency soon and hopes to practice in NOLA.”
Jack stared down at his empty glass and Serena hoped he’d fill it up again—but he didn’t.
“So now that we’ve had an even exchange of information,” he said, “I think it’s probably time we headed for our swanky bunks.” He stood, signaling he was prepared to return to the front of the plane, “Sleepy? I am. I think that shot of bourbon did the trick. I’m going to head back.”
Serena felt as if a curtain had fallen and the show was over. She had been dismissed. It felt all too familiar. Why was she always immediately drawn to the guys who were already spoken for? How dumb to think someone handsome and accomplished like Jack Durand didn’t have a serious woman in his life. His attitude of indifference toward her at the New Orleans Airport had told the real story, but the further they got away from their hometown, the more she ignored her original instincts about the man. Even worse, she knew the signs: Marco used to shower her with attention and then withdraw suddenly, like Jack just had, when he felt she was asking too many questions or making any sort of demand.
Stop beating yourself up, Serena. You didn’t misinterpret everything that’s happened with the guy on this trip... he likes you.
First Jack plied her with personal questions and smothered her two hands with his own on several occasions. Then, in the next second, he shut down.
He’s the one who’s mixed up, not you! Lauren what’s-her-name is welcome to him, Serena thought. From here on out, she intended to stick to what she’d told Jack earlier: she’d sworn off any relationship except the one she had with her sketchbook!
“You go ahead,” she said pleasantly to his retreating back. Jack halted and turned around as if he’d expected her to follow him. She lifted her glass, indicating she still had a few last drops of Amaretto to finish. “I’ll follow along in a minute.”
She took her time in the minuscule bathroom to brush her teeth and don a pair of black cotton leggings and a long-sleeved, black T-shirt. As with all but a few of his fellow passengers, Jack appeared fast asleep by the time she slipped between the luxurious sheets of her flattened seat and turned off the pin-point light overhead.
Tomorrow, she’d smile at the good-looking, quixotic reporter and be “light and polite,” just as she’d learned in her Al-Anon meetings during the year her mother struggled to get sober.
No more serendipity. No more Jack Durand kicking up dust. Just Venice ahead.
And she couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER 5
Jack’s eyes were closed but he remained awake. His mind was reviewing every second since the moment he’d met the woman now lying in the sleeper seat a foot away from him.
He certainly could make no claim, even in jest, to being a southern gentleman. He’d behaved abominably just now, egging on Serena Antonelli to trust him with a secret he was certain she’d told no one else. Then, like a jerk, he’d shut her out completely because of his own problems that included Dr. Lauren Hilbert—but certainly weren’t exclusive to the woman who was supposedly his girlfriend.
No, Jack... this feels very old, doesn’t it? Keeping the fairer sex at arm’s length when there could be a move toward something real.
For a few moments, he forced himself to concentrate on the hum of the mighty jet engines hurtling Serena and him through starry skies toward Paris.
What would happen when they changed planes at De Gaulle for Venice? Would he see her in her namesake city, once they left the Marco Polo Airport? He thought of all he had to do at the conference and wished he hadn’t agreed to be a speaker. In fact, he wished, now, he’d given the entire trip a miss.
Damn it all!
Who could have predicted this?
He liked Serena Antonelli. He liked her looks, her frankness. He liked her passion for her profession... her wanting to constantly improve on her skills. He’d been deeply affected by her instinctive compassion for the job he’d had to do and the terrible things he’d seen covering one of the worst natural disasters in the country’s history. She seemed to know him, though she really didn’t know him at all, of course.
And what was it about those melting brown eyes of hers? Hypnotic eyes like no others he’d ever seen. Eyes that saw right through him.
Blessedly, the sounds of the droning engines and his meandering thoughts began to pull him down, down, into the dark of a fitful sleep.
Jack inched along in the line to get his passport stamped by Immigration officials at the Marco Polo Airport on the mainland, opposite the water-ringed city of Venice. From the moment Serena had opened those mesmerizing eyes of hers, his seat companion had exhibited a polite but distant demeanor, saying very little during breakfast as the Air France plane began its descent into Paris. Once in transit at De Gaulle for their connecting flight, he had lost sight of her as the various lines swallowed up each of them and, as expected, eventually funneled them onto their final flight and into sections on opposite sides of the cabin.
Now that he was on Italian soil in the biting cold, Jack looked for her to emerge from arrivals. Water from the canal nearby sheened the pavement in ripples that flowed in concert with the wakes trailing behind boats passing in the vicinity. A feeling of mild elation took hold when he spotted Serena’s slender figure pulling two large wheeled bags through the automatic doors.
He approached at a fast pace before she could slip away.
“The Alilaguna boat stop is about an eight minute walk from here,” he announced, steam coming out of his mouth due to the chilly air surrounding them. “Or we can hire a water taxi.”
“Allegra says they charge a fortune. She said I should get on the regular orange line and get off at...” Serena consulted a note on her cellphone’s screen, “... at the ‘Rialto Mercato,’ the stop before the Rialto Bridge.”
“I can take the same one,” Jack said quickly, at the very least wishing to make amends for his standoffish behavior on board their night flight. “C’mon, follow me. My conference is being held at the Laguna Palace in an industrial section of Venice, not far from here. Then the boat will eventually take you where you want to go. Here, let me grab one of those bags for you.”
Serena gave a slight shake of her head.
“No. Thank you. I’m fine.”
Jack halted.
“Look Serena... I owe you an apology for the way I—”
Before he could finish his sentence, she interrupted with a faint grin.
“On second thought, here, take this one... it’s the heaviest.”
Serena pulled the drawstrings tight on her fur-trimmed hooded jacket and put her gloved hand on the handle of her remaining suitcase. She fell in step beside him, the w
heels on their various bags carving parallel tracks in the thin layer of slushy snow.
Serena offered a modest wave when Jack disembarked less than ten minutes later from the ferry that plied the waters between the airport and the various vaporetti stops throughout the city of Venice.
“Maybe we can try to grab dinner one night this week,” he called from the gangway, but since he hadn’t asked for her cell number, nor did he know where she was staying, Serena seriously doubted his offer was very sincere.
Just as well, Signorina Antonelli... just as well.
She had the sudden thought that perhaps Jack had become distant and detached for having harshly judged her relationship with Marco Leone. He seemed a more accepting person than that, but maybe she had misjudged him?
She turned toward the bow as the boat pulled away from the Laguna Palace dock and lifted her chin into a cold breeze that bit her cheeks and made her eyes water.
No excuses for the guy... and no second-guessing by you. It is what it is.
Both the skies and canals of Venice were cast this afternoon in heather gray, but Serena’s spirits couldn’t help but improve at her first glimpses of the baroque buildings lining both sides of the water. Even in the mist that was laden with shimmering snow, she hungrily absorbed the plaster facades in muted colors of ochre, sage green, lemon, and terra cotta, most of which were festooned with lacey, ivory-hued stone balconies and loggias on the upper floors.
And the water... everywhere! It splashed against the boat’s stout hull and surged in wavelets toward the buildings on both sides as the sturdy vessel glided down the canal, setting off a wake that fanned out behind them.
It wasn’t that difficult to push thoughts of Jack Durand to the back of her mind when she considered how much she was bound to learn in her two months living here and working with Allegra in the lead-up to this year’s Venetian carnival season.
Even so, as the Alilaguna plied its way from stop to stop, she was surprised to realize that the newspaper reporter had been the first man in a few years to ignite even the slightest spark of interest in her breast. Yes, he had a serious girlfriend, but she couldn’t deny that she and Jack had connected on some deep level en route to Italy. Perhaps this was the proof she’d been secretly hoping for that there were intriguing, smart, sexy, suitable men out there in the world? Who knew when she might meet one who was actually eligible—and not in the slightest elusive?