That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  And thus, the underlings—who know better—fail to blow the whistle on their unethical bosses and, tragically, under-engineered projects get built despite so-called “public safe-guards” that politicians claim are in place.

  The “minor foot soldiers” in the tale of the New Orleans’ canals collapsing might very well include the likes of Jacques and Vincent Durand, his elderly uncles whose earlier careers were enmeshed with projects designed to strengthen the city’s defenses against storm-driven rising water.

  The very waters that crashed through the walls and swept away Serena’s family...

  Jack leaned back in his chair and drew a shaky breath, his mind racing toward the many lines of inquiry he’d have to conduct back home, none of them pleasant. Then, instead of contacting Serena about where he wanted to take her to dinner that evening, he texted her that he had to work late.

  He spent the rest of the evening making further Internet searches to refresh his memory about the details of the Nagin corruption trial that a colleague had covered for his newspaper. Then, he scrolled through scores of pages of local accounts, as well as national publications that chronicled a cast of dirty American scoundrels who had robbed private and governmental recovery funds for their own, personal use. Finally, he ran another probe on the web about state and federal post-Katrina efforts initiated by several Blue Ribbon panels to understand exactly what had caused the colossal failures of levees and canals, and why, in the minds of some experts, the recently rebuilt structures still had deficiencies.

  The parallels with Venice are so obvious, he thought, with a rising sense of anger and dismay. Without a doubt, some local, regional, and federal officials, along with their lowly lieutenants in both countries, had blood on their hands.

  Jack typed in a new search term that pulled up documents specifically relating to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ structures that had collapsed in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. After twenty more minutes clicking through a number of reports, he knew unequivocally that there was no dodging the issue.

  How could he, in good conscience, write this story about criticisms of Italian attempts to stem coastal flooding without sitting down with his uncle, retired Army Corps engineer Jacques Durand, to press him for an unvarnished account of the history of repairs and “design adjustments” made in 1982 on the 17th Street and London canals? After all, these catastrophic failures to stem Katrina’s storm surge had wiped out major sections of Lakeview, the same suburb where Serena’s brother, wife, and unborn nephew had drowned.

  As for Uncle Vincent, Jack had long described him to his friends as a good ole’ boy that had enjoyed many a delicious free lunch with his fellow levee board members. He and his cronies were famous for skipping—or giving short-shrift—to scheduled inspections of the levees they supposedly oversaw in favor of another glass of bourbon and branch water on the house. Jack couldn’t in good conscience file a story on the threat of another catastrophe back home without grilling the elder Durand about his role in the way levee board business was conducted prior to 2005.

  Given the amount of digging these assignments were going to require to meet his editor’s deadline, there was no ducking this. He’d better head back to New Orleans on the double. Maurizio had the palazzo project well in hand, and once the best sealant and cover coating were decided upon, his team could effect a “fix,” if only a temporary one.

  Unbidden, a vision of the good-looking Stefano Fabrini leapt to the front of Jack’s raft of gloomy thoughts. He had caught the handsome Italian casting increasingly warm, interested glances in Serena’s direction whenever she came to the palazzo. Fabrini would also be at the ball, no doubt. If Jack weren’t in attendance, the lothario would probably even offer to escort the visiting American, if given half the chance.

  But surely, what Jack and Serena had begun in Venice would make the transition back home, wouldn’t it?

  Jack stared at his computer screen, overcome by a sudden stab of fear. If his uncles Jacques or Vincent had played a role in the sorry saga of how the two canals had caved in and swept away Cosimo Antonelli V’s family, there would be no future with Serena—the issue of his relationship with Lauren Hilbert notwithstanding.

  Jack remembered all too clearly holding Serena sobbing in his arms after she’d seen the aerial views of her brother’s neighborhood inundated by water. How could she give her heart or ally herself to a man whose family members might be a direct, or even indirect, cause of the worst tragedy her own family had ever endured?

  Jack stared, unseeing, at a diagram of the two canals bordering Lakeview, Louisiana that he’d pulled up on his laptop, full screen.

  Before—or if—he could ever propose to Serena that they spend a lifetime together, first he had to uncover two truths: what did his uncles know, and when did they know it?

  It was long after midnight when Jack used Serena’s second key to slip upstairs, unseen, to the Canaletto room at her lodgings. He stood quietly beside the gold colored brocade coverlet folded neatly at the bottom of the bed and gazed down at her dark, shoulder-length hair fanned across the pillow. Her hand was curled, childlike, under her chin. A small frown furrowed her forehead above arched eyebrows and lids that disguised the liquid brown irises that so beguiled him.

  From her steady breathing, he sensed the extent of her exhaustion from working fourteen-hour-days at the atelier assisting with some fifty costumes Allegra had designed for the ball since the first of the year. Her deep sleep was also occasioned by her other job: toiling at the main office, helping her mentor with anything and everything connected with producing the grand event that was fast approaching.

  And then there had been his nights spent with her, here, in this beautiful, silk-draped bedroom, exploring not only their bodies, but also craving to truly know one another, heart and soul.

  Jack was grateful that the moment for the two of them to discuss in specific detail what he intended to do about Lauren Hilbert and what might develop between them after that had never seemed to present itself. Given what had developed in front of his computer screen this day, he’d felt compelled to book an earlier flight back to New Orleans. Gazing down at Serena, now, he despaired of finding a way to tell her about the role his uncles may have played so long ago, a chain of possible events that had risen before him, tonight, like long-dead corpses floating in a canal.

  In the thirty-six hours before he would board Air France’s flight out of Marco Polo Airport, he still had a couple of interviews to complete about the sins of the Mayor of Venice. Then he would leave Venice—and Serena—to fly home to face Lauren.

  ... And God knows what else, he reflected, a feeling of dread burrowing deep inside his chest.

  He took in the sight of the woman he knew, now, he loved deeply. How could he possibly say goodbye without warning her what might lie ahead? Yet, he shouldn’t tell anyone about his suspicions until he was sure of his facts, or risk unfairly slandering members of his own family. And if the worst happened: his uncles became part of the story he was assigned to tell for his newspaper, journalistic ethics would forbid him revealing, prior to publication, the source of his explosive information to anyone, including the woman he wanted to make his wife.

  Serena’s peaceful, sleeping form and the potent combination of her beauty, humor and kindness that he’d observed in her everyday actions only served to depress him further. There had never been anyone like this woman in his entire life, he thought as a sense of despair swept over him.

  That’s why I could never commit to marriage with Lauren or anyone else, for God’s sake! Somehow I knew to wait for this.

  Serena Antonelli had a flair not only for exquisite costume design and the management of the atelier, but also an amazing talent for friendship with Allegra, her co-workers—and him—to say nothing of the way she stirred both sexual and emotional sensations in him that he’d never before felt.

  You are one in a million, my darling Serena, he thought, shocked to feel moisture fill his eyes.


  The damnable problem was... he knew, now, with absolute certainty that he wanted what she wanted! For the first time in his life he could see himself with a wife and children and a future that they’d both glimpsed during this time in Venice.

  But, given what you learned tonight, that’s a long, long way off, pal...

  If—for whatever reason—he couldn’t step up to the plate with a woman like her, wasn’t it better that he just go home and let things gently taper off, as they had so often in his life? He knew without question that what the two of them had been experiencing in Venice could certainly end in a life-long commitment.

  But what if Jacques and Vincent...

  He’d begun to think in circles. It all came back to the truth that if either of his uncles had contributed to the deaths of Serena’s brother and his wife, he, Jack, would have to let her go.

  Serena stirred and burrowed more deeply under the covers. Jack wanted nothing more than to crawl in beside her... knowing she would awake and fiercely pull him to her.

  Steeling himself to remain where he was, he was paralyzed by the thought that if he simply dropped off the radar once Serena returned to their hometown—and because of the journalistic constraints surrounding his job—didn’t tell her why he’d had to take such an action, he would be wounding her far more grievously than anything Marco Leone had ever done to her.

  Even so, until he could chase down all the facts that potentially linked his investigations in Venice with past events in New Orleans, it was probably kinder, and the better of two lousy choices, to take a quiet step back now, while he still could. As Lauren had only made too plain: a woman in her thirties had a biological clock ticking so loud, a man Jack’s age could hear it in his sleep. There was no doubt in his mind he would officially break it off with Lauren as soon as he saw her again, but the mere thought of pulling a disappearing act on Serena—even if it turned out to be an act of mercy—was abhorrent.

  But face it, Jack! You don’t have any choice at this point.

  He continued to gaze at Serena, grateful she was spared the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. He would think of a non-confrontational way to make an exit. He would figure out how to leave her in Venice without promising a future together until he could be sure they could even have one.

  Jack felt moisture fill his eyes again, knowing his only way to let her down gently was simply to play the elusive role he was famous for—and which she was bound to believe. Hopefully, she’d eventually surmise that if he’d broken it off with her, it certainly wasn’t because of anything she’d done wrong. Actually, he hadn’t done anything wrong, either, but that wouldn’t matter, would it? It was a classic case of “bound by circumstances,” but she certainly would never trust him again.

  God, what a mess!

  Jack did a silent about-face and retreated down the stairs, slipping out the front door of Ca’Arco Antico as a light dusting of snow once more began to fall, with a promise of more to come.

  Serena awoke the next morning, surprised to see that the covers on the other side of her bed were smooth and obviously not slept in. She glanced at the door to the bathroom. It remained open. The shower wasn’t running, nor was the light on.

  Jack had never showed up.

  More than a little puzzled and then concerned, she grabbed for her cellphone that was charging on the other side of the room. The little red dot told her there was a text message.

  Worked late. Solid day of interviews ahead.

  T-P deadline dictates early flight Tuesday.

  6:30 at the Danieli tonight, okay?

  Serena stepped out of her rubber boots in the ladies cloak room and slipped on a pair of sexy little sling-back heels she’d brought with her in her leather tote. Checking her heavy coat, gloves, and cashmere scarf with the waiting attendant, she reentered the spectacular lobby of the Danieli Hotel, marveling at the soaring, cream-colored ceilings studded with gilt entablature.

  A broad staircase with crimson carpeting flowed down from the base of a series of arches on the floor above. A couple of masked, costumed figures in Italian Renaissance attire the color of red wine gazed down at her from the balcony, just two representatives of the legions of revelers bedecked in all manner of historical regalia that appeared without warning everywhere in Venice during the run-up to Fat Tuesday.

  In the lobby itself, waist-high stone columns scattered around the massive public space held four-feet-high displays of flowers fanning out from carved stone vases that appeared to be from Roman times. She quickly located the elevator that whisked her up to the Danieli’s famed Ristorante Terrazza, its floors also blanketed in the same crimson carpet as the hotel’s lobby, but on this level were spectacular views of the Grand Canal in every direction.

  Jack was already seated at an intimate table-for-two that was clad in creamy linen and overlooked a broad window and the snow-covered terrace outside. The gray, chilly waters of the canal were barely visible through the early evening gloom.

  In fact, it seemed strange to Serena to be eating at such an early hour. Jack’s terse text mid-afternoon explaining that he’d have to get up at four in order to catch his early morning flight back to New Orleans had signaled something was afoot. In a later message, he’d also apologized for not being able to come to her lodgings “due to deadlines, etc.” She was unsettled by his uncharacteristic behavior and felt as if she needed to don some sort of emotional armor—but for what?

  Before she took the chair that the waiter had pulled back for her, she placed her hand on Jack’s to prevent him having to stand up from the table. Then she leaned down and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Buona sera, Giovanni. I definitely like your choice of a place to bid a fond farewell,” she said by way of greeting, sensing her eyebrow had arched of its own accord.

  Jack glanced at her with an odd expression, and then quickly looked down at the menu she’d seen him studying as she crossed the restaurant to his table in this quiet corner. Without further comment, he waited for her to be seated and engaged their server, who spoke excellent English, in a long discussion of the chef’s specials that evening.

  Serena silently watched both men, instantly wary that an inexplicable distance had bloomed between her dinner companion and herself. When the server nodded in her direction, in rapid Italian she placed her dinner order for orecchiette con amorini, a traditional dish of tiny caps of pasta they both loved. Then she asked for a bottle of Prosecco to be brought to the table immediately. The waiter nodded and made his exit.

  A brief silence ensued. Then, Serena spoke up before Jack could.

  “Okay. What’s up?” she asked without preamble. “You didn’t warm my bed last night and you booked the earliest flight you could to get out of here tomorrow morning. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you actually flinched when I kissed you just now. Why?”

  At that inopportune moment, the sommelier arrived and placed two flutes on the table. Both diners fell silent as the server stepped forward proffering a frosty bottle from which he poured them each a glass of Italian “champagne.” To Serena, the click of the bottle being stowed in a silver ice bucket near Jack’s side sounded thunderous. A few more seconds ticked by. She remained silent.

  “Cheers,” Jack said, finally, raising his glass.

  “Not really,” Serena replied, not lifting hers.

  She waited, her glass on the table.

  “My editor—” he began.

  She held up her hand to silence him.

  “Let’s just not do this,” she said, measuring out each word. “Let’s not talk about work deadlines ‘and etcetera,’ okay? Just give it to me straight, Jack. Something’s going on with you. What is it?”

  She could see he was taken aback by her blunt assessment of the atmosphere between them.

  “I should have known,” he said, toying with his silver knife next to a gold-encrusted dinner plate, “that I couldn’t make this easy for either of us.”

  “Make what easy?”
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br />   “Saying goodbye.”

  “Why should it be hard, unless it really is goodbye—and why would that be?”

  When the silence grew between them again, she waited, but Jack continued to stare at his knife.

  “So what’s the problem here?” she pressed. “This is feeling very weird... as if my time is up and Jack Durand is heading for the exit.” Jack shot her a look that was unreadable. “You’re not shifting into your legendary Mr. Elusive mode, are you?”

  Serena could tell by his hunched shoulders that he was a very unhappy man—but why?

  “I realize that’s been my reputation,” he allowed, “but this time it feels... it felt... totally different.”

  “Well? Is it different this time or not, Jack?”

  She saw him suppress a sigh.

  “We can’t avoid the truth, Serena, which is that I never made a clean break with Lauren—”

  “Well... make it!” she interrupted. “A clean break. But what you’re telling me is old news. There’s something else going on, Jack. What is it?”

  He shifted his weight in his chair and she could practically see the wheels going around in his head as he searched for an answer he thought would satisfy her.

  “I guess...” he said on a long breath, “I guess I... I do need some time to work through all... this. Time and space to figure everything out.”

  “To figure out what, Jack? How you feel about me? I know how I feel about you. Nothing complicated on this side of the table.”

  He began to stroke the silver knife with his right, index finger.

  “You think it’s that simple?” he challenged her. “You surprise me a bit, Serena, considering what you’ve been through before. Don’t you think you could use a break to evaluate our time here in Venice? After all, it’s only been—”

  “What an absolute crock!” she exclaimed, fighting to subdue a wave of woe that could easily result in her beginning to wail in the middle of the Danieli Hotel dining room. “Always hedging your bets, are you, Jack?”