by Ciji Ware
“Oh, yes!” she insisted, and Serena saw her eyes were moist. “If not for the miracle they wrought, we very well might have been prevented from even opening our doors last night.”
“Those southern boys were pretty amazing, weren’t they?” Serena said, suddenly filled with a sense of pride for what the shock troops from New Orleans and their Italian counterparts had accomplished in the nick of time.
“Well,” Allegra said, giving Serena’s hand a squeeze, “I hope I can persuade you all to come to Venice for a few weeks every year when the weather isn’t so horrendous.”
“I’ve loved experiencing Carnevale,” she assured her employer, “but I, for one, would definitely like to visit you sometime when it’s not so cold.”
Allegra threw her head back and laughed louder than Serena had ever heard her.
“By all means, cara. I want one day to take you to the Lido where, I assure you, there are genuine sunbathers there in July and August. Now, go on with you!”
King and Corlis were already sitting in the sleek water taxi’s luxurious cabin when Serena raced out of the broad front entrance of the palazzo to join Jack. He stood waiting on the dock with an anxious expression visible, now, that he was without his long-nosed mask. A gentle snow had started again, around two a.m. and continued to fall throughout the night. Serena immediately slowed down to tread carefully in her narrow-skirted ball gown along the slippery gangway where six inches of drifts had been swept to each side.
“Thanks for waiting,” she said, her breath coming out in little cloudbursts.
“I got your text just before we’d figured you couldn’t get free and we were about to pull away. Quick, get inside,” he urged, offering her a hand into the boat. “Corlis says it’s nice and warm in there.”
Serena hiked up her gown beneath her long cloak and gingerly stepped on deck with a second steadying hand from the captain. She ducked her head to join the Duvallons in the enclosed section of the boat, followed by Jack, who flopped down on the seat beside her and immediately threw his mask on the leather seat. Everyone else quickly followed suit.
“At last,” Jack breathed. “Whoever decided everybody in the press corps had to wear these long-nosed numbers was a sadist.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Serena said, smiling. “As you could see tonight, that style of mask is very popular generally. And for you nosy reporters,” she teased him, “those long beaks and your caftan uniform serve as early-warning signals to guests who may be attending with women who are not their wives. The naughty ones can quickly make themselves scarce if they see one of you heading their way.”
“Clever,” Corlis chortled. “I hope they never decree in New Orleans that media folks all have to wear the same type of boring old costume during Mardi Gras!”
King leaned his bewigged head against the bulwark and let out a long breath.
“Man, do these Venetians know how to party,” he said tiredly, closing his eyes. “Maybe it’s just jet-lag, but I think they even put the Krewe of Cork to shame.”
“What you saw tonight were mostly Texans and rich Europeans,” Jack commented dryly. “I bet there weren’t fifty Venetians in the entire palazzo who’d paid for their tickets.”
Serena shook her head affirmatively. “It’s kind of like our Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The locals have their own parties in private homes, and celebrate Fat Tuesday among themselves more than taking part in the show for the tourists you saw tonight.”
“Ah... but what fun to be a tourist in Venice!” Corlis exclaimed. “What a spectacle... and these costumes!” she said, patting her silk skirt that was heavily encrusted with silver and gold beading. “I wouldn’t have missed this night for anything.”
“It was all pretty gorgeous, wasn’t it?” Serena murmured. Now that she had sat down for the first time in hours she was suddenly fighting off a crushing wave of fatigue. Like her cousin King, she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Jack leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “Now, no falling asleep, y’hear? We’ve got omelets and toasted ciabatta waiting for us at the pensione, and then...”
Serena’s eyes flew open. Jack hadn’t finished his sentence. He didn’t need to.
To Serena’s surprise, their foursome didn’t immediately repair to the dining room at the Pensione Accademia.
“Before we eat those omelets, I gotta ditch these duds,” King said, having returned from the front desk where he handed Corlis the key to their room. He turned with a slight smile tugging his lips. “And look what the management has produced,” he announced to Jack. “Your very own room. Somebody unexpectedly checked out last night.”
“My editor will kill me if I put this on my expense account,” Jack protested.
“In case you didn’t notice, you’ve also been working for the New Orleans Preservation Alliance during the last twenty-four hours,” King said gruffly. “We have funds set aside for just such emergencies.”
“Hey, King, that’s bullshit! I can’t just—”
“Yes you can, darlin’,” Corlis intervened in her faux southern drawl. “And besides, King and I want some privacy in this gorgeous place, don’t we, sugar? Kinda a second honeymoon.”
“You betcha!” King said, grinning now. To the astonished Serena he added, “As a matter of fact... I think I’m too bushed to do anything but dive under those downy bedspreads they’ve got up there in our room. How ‘bout you, darling?” he asked his wife. “Shall we cancel those omelets? We can call the kitchen from upstairs.”
“Excellent idea,” Corlis replied. She stuck out one brocade-clad foot from beneath the hem of her gown. “My feet in these eighteenth century high heels are killing me.”
During their exchange, Serena felt her face flush to the roots of her scalp. Jack now had his own room in the hotel, a fact that greatly unnerved her. Earlier, she’d been so sure he was as glad to see her as she was to see him, but the worm of doubt that he hadn’t disclosed the entire reason for his leaving Venice so abruptly last time had begun to burrow once again into her consciousness. By the time Corlis and King had disappeared up the marble staircase leading off the lobby, she felt an awkward pause bloom between Jack and her as they stood uncertainly near the hotel’s front door.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Not for omelets.”
Ignoring his obvious inference, she glanced toward the entrance.
“Well, if we’re not going to eat, I guess I should—”
“Come upstairs with me,” he interrupted. “That’s what you should do. Come to the room King and Corlis just arranged for us.” He grasped her two gloved hands in his. “Please, Serena. I know you’re exhausted. So am I, but I just want us to be together tonight.”
“And tomorrow night?” she asked, daring him to meet her steady glance.
Jack paused and Serena suddenly realized she was holding her breath.
“I want that too. And the night after that... and the night after that.”
“And when we both get back to New Orleans?” she challenged him.
“If you only knew how much I want you permanently in my bed on Julia Street,” he said in a low voice, “you wouldn’t even ask that question.”
“And in your life, Jack? Do you want that, too?”
“Especially that.”
Serena saw in his glance a peculiar sadness she couldn’t quite fathom. In the next moment, Jack almost seemed to sway on his feet, the hem of his caftan brushing the floor in small ripples.
“You are about to drop, too,” she said softly.
“Thirty-six hours without much sleep and some physically hard labor that this scribe definitely isn’t used to have taken their toil, I think.”
“Same here. Okay, then. It’s safe to go upstairs.”
Jack cast her a look saying he wasn’t thrilled with her last comment as she took his velvet-clad arm, but nevertheless, he appeared grateful for her steadying presence. As if she were leading a patient back to his hospital
room, she slowly guided him upstairs. Clearly, they were both too physically and emotionally spent to do anything but fall into bed and go unconscious. She’d confront her doubts tomorrow.
“I just want to sleep beside you,” he mumbled, reaching for the stair railing, “even if I’m on top of the covers and you’re underneath, like our first time at Ca’Arco Antico.”
“I want to be beside you, too, Giovanni,” she admitted. Once they reached the upper floor, she glanced at the number on his door key and pointed ten feet down the hall. “C’mon, here’s our room. We can decide who sleeps where, once we’re inside.”
“Serena?”
“Hmmm?”
“It’s eleven-thirty. Aren’t you due back at the palazzo at noon?”
“Huh? Mmmm... oh, God! Yes!”
In the next moment, Serena struggled to sit upright in the huge bed with its gold leaf headboard and blood red brocade drapes cascading from a large, carved wood and gilt circlet, affixed near the ceiling.
“Oh, no!” she moaned. “I don’t even remember going to sleep!”
“Me, neither,” Jack grumbled. He pointed to their grand surroundings. “What a waste!”
Serena agreed with a rueful laugh. Her Seas of Venice gown was draped over a matching red silk sofa where she’d left it on the far side of the enormous room when Jack had helped her out of its tightly boned bodice. Seconds later, she’d literally fallen into bed and, within minutes, slipped into a sleep of the dead, as apparently had Jack.
She threw her legs over the side of the mattress and then suddenly realized she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on. Neither did her bedmate, although their stark nakedness obviously hadn’t led to romance.
“Oh, hell! What am I going to put on?” she demanded. “I can’t go back to the palazzo to help with the load-out wearing that!” she wailed, pointing to the exquisite creation she and Allegra both considered so precious.
Jack reached for the bedside phone and asked to be put through to King and Corlis’ room. Fortunately, the pair hadn’t yet gone down to a late breakfast and within minutes, a hotel staff member delivered a pair of jeans, a turtleneck sweater, and a jacket that Corlis willingly loaned her.
Meanwhile, Serena had jumped in the shower for less than five minutes. She then scrambled into her borrowed clothing, blessing the fates that she’d worn flat shoes underneath her ball gown that was currently wrapped in the woolen cloak she had worn the previous night.
“Here, eat this Power Bar,” Jack insisted, shoving some sustenance into the hand not holding the bulky clothing. “It’s left over from the plane. And I see you don’t have your purse with you, so here are some Euros for the vaporetto.”
“Thanks,” she replied hurriedly. “You and Corlis are lifesavers. They’ll be coffee at the palazzo, I’m praying.”
Serena turned to leave.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked quickly.
She halted halfway to the wide, mahogany door studded with impressive brass hinges and shining hardware.
“I hope so,” she answered, turning abruptly to face him. “It depends on when we finish getting all the equipment out and everything back to various warehouses. When do you have to leave Venice?”
“Tomorrow. Early. And my story about stemming the leaks and contrasting Il Ballo di Carnevale with similar Mardi Gras celebrations like the Rex Ball is due later today.” He gave a short laugh. “I guess we’ll both be busy for the next eight hours.”
“Can’t you get the paper to let you stay a bit longer?”
Before Jack could relate the strict orders he’d received from his editor, Serena waved her hand in resignation and bolted for the door. She was late already.
Jack called out to her, “I’ll text you where to meet the Duvallons and me tonight, okay?”
Serena turned, her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll make a reservation at Antiche Carampane, and I’ll meet you there if I possibly can,” she suggested in a rush. “Nine o’clock okay? I know it’s late if you’re flying out tomorrow, but it’ll give me the best chance of joining you all. Remember, it’s near Campo San Polo? It’s real Venetian. King and Corlis will love it.”
“And afterward, let’s go to your place, yes?” Jack said, crossing the large room to stand beside her near the door. “I can’t let King pay for a second night here. This is the Bridal Suite.”
Then, before Serena could say another word, he bent down and kissed her with such thoroughness, she thought she could very easily faint from lack of oxygen. Her pulse beating wildly, she nearly gave in and led him back to their magnificent red brocade bed—which was exactly where she longed to be.
“Oh... Serena,” Jack groaned. “This is killing me!”
“Believe me... it’s killing me too.” Then, the thought of poor Allegra facing the mess they’d left at the palazzo floated through her consciousness. Driven by guilt that she was seriously late, she whispered, “See you tonight, let us pray,” and then forced herself to pull away.
Before either of them could say or do anything else, she ran down the stairs and out the front door of the elegant Pensione Accademia, making a beeline for the vaporetto that had just pulled into its stop.
Ten hours later, Jack sensed that both he and Serena were running on pure adrenaline. The pair had parted company with King and Corlis at the edge of Campo San Polo after an incredible Venetian meal highlighted by a plate of il fritto misto di pesce con le moeche—a mixed seafood stir-fry with little soft shell crabs that twice every year changed the actual shape of their shells.
“I totally forgot to ask you,” Serena said as they hooked arms to avoid slipping on the icy steps of a bridge they had to cross to get to Serena’s lodgings just off nearby Calle del Forno, “Did you get your story in today?”
“Somehow I managed to, despite the distraction of that gorgeous bed in our room that kept reminding me of what we missed last night,” he said with a rueful laugh. “But, yeah. I made my deadline before I had to check out of the place. Force of habit, I guess. And were you and Allegra able to empty out all your gear from the palazzo in time for the next guys to set up for another event?” Serena offered a weary nod. “And by the way,” he asked, “why didn’t that group take some responsibility for the water filling up the lower floors of that place these last few weeks?”
Serena grimaced. “The head of that outfit happens to be related to the palazzo’s absentee owners and figured that Allegra should be the one to fix things since her event came first. Apparently, problems with high water flooding the lower floors there happen nearly every year.”
“Nice,” Jack said grimly, adding, “You two have sure been under a tremendous amount of pressure. Won’t it be good to get back to New Orleans?”
Serena glanced around at the star-filled sky, now that the latest storm had blown through. The stone and plaster buildings flanking them on both sides were bathed in shades of gold and gloom cast by the streetlights dotting their path. There was a hush that seemed to enfold them in a magical net of silence as they made their way down the shuttered, deserted streets. She halted and stretched out one arm to embrace the scene.
“Can you hear the stillness?” she murmured. “No cars. Everyone tucked in their beds. Hardly any water traffic at this hour. And even though it’s so cold, do you feel how the air is light and fresh? I’m going to miss Venice.”
“How long will you stay?” Jack asked, and he fought a sudden sense of uneasiness prompted by what might happen while they were apart.
“I’ll be home in ten days. That was my original arrangement with Allegra. Two months working for her through Carnevale and cleanup. It’s been incredible, but I’m sure I’ll be ready to go home by then.”
“So when can I meet you at the airport?” he demanded, determined not to let anything mar the miracle that he was standing inches away from her. He leaned down, pulled her scarf away from her neck, and kissed the hollow of her throat. Her scent was of the shampoo she used, lemon tinged and fresh smelling. He coul
d feel the tense lines around his mouth relaxing as he pressed his lips against her cool skin. Pulling back, he said, “I want to know exactly when I’ll see you next.”
Even if it’s after my story runs, I want a date on the calendar...
Man, was he a different guy from what he had been two months ago, he thought with a sense of bemusement that bordered on the ridiculous.
By this time, they had turned into Calle del Forno and had only another few feet until they turned right and reached the door of her lodgings at Ca’Arco Antico. It was after midnight and all was quiet in the courtyard.
“At some point, I suppose,” Serena replied lightly, fishing for her key to the front door, “we’ll have to talk about what happens when I get back to New Orleans.”
He had a sudden wave of anxiety wash over him. Was she going to send him away, postponing any reunion until she knew about what he’d been keeping from her? He couldn’t blame her, really, but his gut clenched even so.
When the door opened, she turned, smiled at him from the depths of her smoky eyes, and pointed her index finger skyward.
“Upstairs, first, Signor Giovanni. Chat later.”
More relieved than he had ever felt in his life, Jack had barely entered the hotel’s minuscule, silent lobby before he took her in his arms.
“Finally...” he breathed his relief into her fragrant hair, its scent neutralizing any cautionary thoughts that had plagued him earlier.
“Finally,” she repeated, and clung to him.
Her nearness was intoxicating and neither of them could ignore the stirring in his groin.
Serena leaned back in his arms, uncertainty suddenly tingeing her gaze.
“Jack...” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “I want to be with you so much tonight. In my bed. But I also want you to know that I can tell you are still holding something back. I just hope it’s only about journalist ethics, and not something that’s personal—something that I should know.”
Jack felt as if a stake had been run clean through his solar plexus. She was such a smart, intuitive woman and read him so well, he thought with an inward sigh.